Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

”
    “I didn’t know you read it.”
    “Once in a while.” He grabbed the Corriere from under my arm. “When did you hear?” He opened the paper.
    “Got a call this morning. You?”
    “Middle of the night.” He had his head in the paper so I walked him down the street while he read. At the door to the pizzeria he looked up, grunted and tucked the paper under his arm. “You still write about wine?”
    “Once in a while.” I pushed in ahead of him. A short, flabby little man in black stepped up with menus and a tired smile. “Table for two,” I said.
    “In the back,” said Sarge. The waiter led the way in past red and white checkered tables with plastic flowers to a spot right next to the restroom. There was nobody else around.
    “So,” he said as we settled in. “I recommend the pizza.” He floated a grin, pleased with himself and his sparkling Swiss wit.
    I opened a menu and studied it for a while. Nothing had changed. I hated Swiss pizza. Chocolate they could handle, and mechanical watches, but not pizza.
    “I’ll have a Napoli,” I said. It was hard to get a Napoli wrong, unless the crust came out black, the dough half-cooked or the pizza-man forgot to rinse the capers. “New phone number, Sarge. You got a new job?”
    He nodded. “BGSB.”
    I drew a blank.
    He filled it in. “ Banca del Gran San Bernardo . It’s a bank.”
    “Ahh, right.” Like it had just slipped my mind. “Bean counter to banker in under five years. Not bad.”
    “I do all right.” He didn’t want to talk about it.
    I pushed on. “So, Sarge. How you been? Boys all right? The wife?”
    “All good. Renata’s a sweetheart.” There was something going on behind his eyes. “And you? How’s the writing business?”
    “Good,” I said. “The Swiss pay on time.”
    He snorted, contemptuous. “Italy—how long do they make you wait these days, three months?”
    “Six, if you’re lucky. Sometimes a year.”
    A grunt. “What about that food mag in New York, what’s it called, Whine & Dine ?”
    I gave him a sour smile. “It’s called Slow Food, Italian Style .” 
    “Nice,” he said. “Must be good for a few free meals.”
    I narrowed my eyes. It sharpened the focus on his face. “I never tell them who I am. And I pay full price for everything I eat.”
    “Sure, Pete. So what’s in it for you?”
    “I like good food,” I said. “All there is to it.”
    “I believe you.” Not.
    I surrendered. “OK, Sarge. If the food’s any good, I write the place up. If it’s truly great, I write a rave review and wait till I get my hands on a copy. Then I go back.”
    “With the magazine.”
    I nodded. “I leave it open on the table, help the waiter discover who wrote the review—“
    “ Et voilà!” He gave a soft laugh. “ The chef comes out, all smiles, and the meal is on the house.”
    “And the wine,” I said. “Don’t forget the free wine.”
    “You do know how to milk the cow.”
    “Nice metaphor, Sarge. Swiss?”
    A scowl. The waiter waddled up, pen in hand. Sarge did the honors, looked up and said, “Wine?”
    “Whatever you like.”
    He ordered a local Ticino Merlot, slapped a pack of cigarettes on the table, lit up and smoked in silence for a while. Then he popped a forefinger from his fist, raised it to the side of his head, cocked his thumb, and fired. “Boom!” he said. “Shot in the head.” Blue smoke curled up from the cigarette.
    “Is that how he did it? He didn’t suck the muzzle?”
    Sarge colored and muttered something I didn’t get.
    “What?” I cupped a hand behind my ear.
    He turned up the volume and said, “I don’t know. It’s just how I picture it.”
    “OK. So let’s say it’s suicide. Any idea why?”
    He let the question sit for a while, decided he had nothing to say.
    “Off the record,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
    “Long story, Pete. Some other time.”
    The waiter was back, flashed a sour look at the cigarette, said nothing. He presented the bottle of