The Four Corners of Palermo Read Online Free

named Salvo who wants to talk to you.”
    “
Grazie
, put him through …
 Ciao
, Salvo, I’m glad to hear your voice.”
    “I’ve been calling you for half an hour. The line was busy the whole time.”
    “It was an important interview; I’m trying to pin something down up north.”
    “Okay, well, I just wanted to tell you that even though it’s seven-thirty in the evening, if you like, I’d be glad to buy you an espresso. At the usual place.”
    “I’m on my way.”
    I said a hasty goodnight to my colleagues, hopped on my Vespa, and headed toward police headquarters. The usual bar. Salvo was already there, sitting at a table inside. He was aboutto start the night shift in a squad car. He actually needed that cup of coffee.
    “Are you still interested in that story about what happened on Piazza Scaffa?”
    “Damn straight I’m interested.”
    “We’ve learned a few things: First of all, the two guys who shot at each other are Marinello and Totuccio Spataro, second cousins. And it seems to have been over a question of family honor.”
    “In the sense that one of the two of them seems to have fucked the other one’s girlfriend?”
    “No. In the sense that Marinello went to pick oranges in the wrong fruit orchard.”
    “He took someone to bed he shouldn’t have?”
    “Worse: he’s dating a civilian. The daughter of a civil servant who works on the aqueduct, a guy by the surname of Corona. Good citizens, and she’s a good
picciotta
. But it still goes against the rules. You can only date
picciotte
from your own circles: these are matters of security, and only blood ties are acceptable. They told him so, but he wouldn’t listen. It came in one ear, it went out the other.”
    “So they shot him.”
    “They shot each other. He and Totuccio, the super-killer. And you know who died? Neither one. Funny story, isn’t it?”
    I thanked him and did my best to pay for the two espressos, but Salvo shot the barista a murderous glance: “It’s a question of territorial rights, big guy.”
    I went home. I got changed. And I rushed over to Roberto’s place: he was a fellow journalist who covered schools and unions; he lived alone in his parents’ house. His parents had just moved back to their hometown, a village in the Agrigentoprovince, where they were farming full-time, growing olives and grapes. Roberto, inebriated by the independence and square footage of the place he now lived in, had invited all his friends over to watch Italy versus Cameroon, a crucial match in the elimination rounds of the 1982 World Cup, being held in Spain.
    The goalkeeper was a certain N’Kono, who, over the years had become an international legend. On the table, which was covered with a plastic tablecloth, sat several cardboard trays of
sfincione
—Sicily’s distinctive pizza, with its scent of tomato and onions
—arancini
rice balls, and a couple of bottles of “black” Pachino wine, a red so dark that the light doesn’t show through. The black-and-white television set had been moved to the middle of the room, creating a fairly persuasive bleachers effect: chairs of three different varieties—plastic chairs, baroque-style wooden chairs that belonged to his mother, and wicker chairs that had belonged to his grandmother—were arranged in rows. We cheerfully took our seats. I thought nothing of Marinello, of Totuccio, or even of the guy by the name of Corona. I focused completely on the goalkeeper N’Kono, who I thought was the only new character to emerge that day.
    The following morning I called an old classmate from elementary school, an employee of the city administration’s personnel office, and asked him if he could discreetly dig up a little background on this guy named Corona who worked on the aqueduct. Just a few hours later he called me back from his home.
    “Arcangelo Corona, age fifty-one, born in Palermo, employed by AMAP, the water company. He is the point man for relations with private Sicilian suppliers.