Back to Bologna

39

Tony Speranza woke up feeling like hell. Actually, he woke up feeling like hell every morning, but as he could never remember much about the day before, still less the days before that, this always came as a surprise.

He shuddered out of bed and padded through to the kitchen, where he cracked a bottle of Budweiser before proceeding to the living room and unmuting the TV, which had been on all night. A post-breakfast talk show for bored housewives was in progress, some hermetically groomed babe in a power suit. When Tony’s eyes finally focused, he saw that a title in the corner of the screen identified her as Delia Anselmi, personal assistant to the famous star branded as Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta.

‘Romano’s new concept is just awesome,’ she was gushing. ‘To think that he’s actually been working in disguise at an ordinary neighbourhood trattoria, doing research for this fabulous new series. Returning to his roots, as he put it to me last night, Stella. And I want you to know that he was weeping!’

The buxom, genetically modified presenter beamed.

‘That’s just great, Delia! I want you both to know that we’re all weeping too, but we’re weeping tears of joy.’

‘Thanks for sharing, Stella! I’m really moved, and I just know that Romano will be too. I can’t of course disclose the location of the restaurant where Romano decided to go “back to the rock face”, as he put it to me. That would compromise the integrity and authenticity of the whole experience, but it’s also for legal reasons following Romano’s heroic and decisive intervention in the dramatic arrest of Lorenzo Curti’s assassin last night. But we will shortly be filming him there, fly-on-the-wall style, and the resulting series, Real Work , will be shown…’

‘…exclusively on this channel,’ the presenter put in.

‘…early in the autumn. I just know that this is a break-through concept that is going to entirely change the whole way we look at…’

Tony Speranza hit the mute button and shambled over to his phone. No messages from the Amadori family, despite the turn of the screw he had administered the day before by calling the Questura and shopping Vincenzo as Edgardo Ugo’s attacker. Of course, they might not have been told yet. The police were so inefficient. He returned to the kitchen, swapped the Bud for a Jack Daniels and then shambled back to collapse in front of the TV, surfing to a twenty-four-hour news channel which was showing footage of some botoxed presenter heavy-lipping a huge microphone as if it were a phallus. ‘Supercop from Rome Cracks Curti Case’ read the title. Tony’s hand darted for the remote control.

‘…can confirm that Vincenzo Amadori is in custody. He will face charges later today in regard to the murder of Lorenzo Curti and also the shooting of Professor Edgardo Ugo. Forensic tests indicate that the weapon used in both crimes is that which was in possession of the accused at the time of his arrest late last night by a crack team of Polizia di Statooperatives under the leadership of Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen. At a news conference earlier this morning, Dottor Zen and the officer in charge of the investigation, Commissario Salvatore Brunetti, stated that…’

He pushed the mute button again and glumly watched footage of two men, one in police uniform, the other in a suit and overcoat, addressing a group of journalists. Fuck, he thought. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. So much for his pension plan.

Then he had an idea.

It was about eleven o’clock when Tony Speranza arrived at the Questura. A blanket of cold, hard smog enveloped the entire city. Tony was wearing a powder-blue suit with a dark blue shirt and tie and black brogues. He was neat, clean, shaved and relatively sober, and didn’t care who knew it. He was everything the well-dressed private detective ought to be. He was calling for one million euros.

Tony stated his business to the sergeant at the desk, who asked him to wait and then made a number of whispered phone calls. About five minutes later, two armed officers in uniform approached the desk.

The sergeant said tonelessly, ‘Commissario Brunetti will see you now, Signor Speranza.’

The two officers escorted him up the wide staircase to the first floor. Neither spoke nor looked at him, but he was pleased-proud, even-of their presence. It proved that he was finally being taken seriously, with the respect that he deserved.

Having traversed a lateral corridor, he was ushered into a large office. There were two men present. Tony recognised them as the pair he had seen earlier on the TV news report. Better and better! He was going straight to the top!

The shorter of the men looked at him, but did not invite him to sit down.

‘We understand that you have come to claim the reward offered by the Curti family for information leading to the arrest of the killer,’ he said.

‘Correct.’

‘As it happens, the person we believe to be the killer is already under arrest. On what basis are you therefore claiming the reward?’

Tony had rehearsed this scene many times on the way in and had his answer ready.

‘Your case against Vincenzo Amadori rests on the fact that at the time of his arrest he was holding the gun used to shoot not only Curti but also Professor Edgardo Ugo. That is merely circumstantial evidence. I, on the other hand, have definitive proof that Amadori was indeed in the place and at the time that Ugo was shot. On the basis of the information that I possess, there can be no doubt that he will be convicted of that crime. But since the same weapon was used in both incidents, and was in his possession, it follows that he must have shot Curti too. It will be an open and shut case.’

The taller man now spoke.

‘Just what is the nature of this information, Signor Speranza?’

Tony laughed lightly to indicate that he hadn’t been born yesterday.

‘I would naturally only be prepared to disclose its full extent once the payment of the reward has been agreed by the Curti family. But I can reveal that it involves electronic surveillance techniques with a logged computer record and will stand up in court.’

He smiled at the two officials.

‘We’re talking the information age equivalent of blood on the hands.’

The taller man glanced at the uniformed officers, who had remained in the room, one to either side of Speranza.

‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘Take him down to the cellars and sweat it out of him. The works, okay? I want every detail by three at the latest. Including the stuff he’s forgotten he knew.’

The uniforms moved in and grasped Speranza by either arm in the manner known to pulp fiction as ‘vice-like’. It did indeed feel very vicious.

‘But…but…but…’ Tony spluttered.

The official smiled enigmatically.

‘The criminal always makes one fatal mistake,’ he said. ‘You came here demanding a reward on the basis of having proof that the person who murdered Lorenzo Curti also shot Edgardo Ugo with the same gun.’

‘But it’s true!’

The other man nodded.

‘It’s certainly true. What you overlooked, however, is that it’s your gun.’

Tony looked at him in complete bewilderment.

‘Mine? But how can you know that?’

‘Ah, that might well have taken some considerable time. The weapon had almost certainly been acquired on the black market, and was not officially registered. Fortunately, however, we were in possession of a clue that eventually led us, after a sleepless night and much profound cogitation that tested our professional skills as never before, to the irrefutable truth.’

Tony laughed bravely.

‘You’re bluffing! What clue?’

‘Your name is engraved on the barrel, signore,’ said Aurelio Zen.