Vipers (11 page)

Modo stretched out his legs.

“That's the point. I know that's how you see things; and it's what makes you seem like a character who's just walked out of one of those gothic novels from a hundred years ago. But you also know that the main force driving mankind is emotion, and that in the end emotions are nothing but a fancy word for the blood that pumps through our veins and fans the flames of our desires. We're animals, my friend, and we should never forget it. In spite of the church, which does its best to persuade us that we're purely spirit, or our lovely current ruler, who sees us as lines of numbers on a sheet of paper.”

Ricciardi considered the matter.

“So, in your opinion the bordello is a place of emancipation, is that right? And these girls who work there, don't you think about them? About their dreams, their hopes? The fact that they have to go along with who knows what perversions, however violent?”

Modo turned serious.

“The girls are there of their own free will. No one forces them into it, and I believe that freedom to choose what kind of life you'll live is also a mark of civilization. Believe me, they're safer in there, under constant medical supervision, with a minimal security detail and decent sanitary conditions, than they would be on the street. Plenty of times I've seen some drunk who'd stepped over the line being given the bum's rush; I've even helped toss them out myself. What do you think, that I'm the kind of guy who takes advantage of poor defenseless girls?”

Ricciardi shook his head vigorously.

“No, no, Bruno. I know who you are and the way you think, of course. But the fact remains that this girl, Viper, was killed while she was working. And that one of her clients often dabbled in violent little games.”

“Yes, I know that there are people like that. But believe me, there are more people who want to be hit than the ones who don't. And in any case experienced girls, and Viper certainly was one, know how to keep the situation under control. But will you let me eat now, or are you hoping that your ramblings will make me lose my appetite?”

They caught a waiter's eye and ordered.

Modo snorted in annoyance.

“The fact that we aren't free to eat meat this week oppresses me. I respect Catholics, why shouldn't they respect me? A nice sizzling steak is off the menu during all of damned Lent, including the bone that I would have given to my little four-legged friend over there.”

Ricciardi, who as usual had ordered a couple of puff pastries and an espresso, shrugged.

“Oh, come on, you'll find something to eat. And your friend won't mind eating those scraps, just this once; maybe they'll remind him of his youth, when he had to paw through the trash for his dinner.”

In the meantime the doctor was listing for the waiter the dishes he'd selected in the absence of his beloved steak: macaroni timbale, grilled snapper with anchovies and capers, and strawberries.

“And a bottle of white wine, which you'll open here at the table before our eyes, otherwise I know you'll water it down.”

The waiter, an impeccably groomed little man, whose few remaining hairs were slathered in brilliantine, glared at him in an offended manner and strutted away.

Ricciardi said:

“Well then, Bruno, what do you have to say about the autopsy?”

“Nothing like a dead body to stimulate the appetite, eh? Well, there's nothing new with respect to what we'd already guessed. Her nose was broken without trauma, due to the pressure applied to the pillow, and not from a violent blow. The murderer gripped Viper's body between his or her legs, and at some point must also have placed his or her knee on her chest because a few of the ribs were cracked. The whole thing didn't last long; perhaps the murderer caught the girl by surprise and she never even had a chance to take a deep breath. There are no traces on her hands, I'll confirm that she could only have tried to push the pillow away from her face.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“No. Viper was in excellent health, she was twenty-five years old and looked even younger. And for what it's worth, she was beautiful even when she was dead.”

Ricciardi remembered the sinuous body sprawled out on the unmade bed.

“And her beauty was the cause of her downfall. Listen, Bruno, she didn't have . . . I mean, there weren't any traces of . . .”

Modo burst out laughing, scattering bits of macaroni all over the tablecloth.

“Do you realize that you can't even bring yourself to utter the words? How old are you anyway, eighty? And in any case, it's a silly question, sorry, if you remember what this girl did for a living. Still, even a silly question can have an unexpected answer: no, Viper hadn't had sexual intercourse recently, neither vaginal nor anal. At least not in the past several hours.”

Ricciardi shot a quick glance around the room, to make sure nobody else had heard those words.

“Considering that they'd just opened, that might not be so strange after all. Viper had only had time for one customer, possibly two at the most. And with both of the regular clients that she had, apparently, she didn't always have complete intercourse. So we're back where we started from.”

Modo stopped chewing, and stared at something just over Ricciardi's shoulder. His face took on a glow of boundless admiration, and he said:

“Speaking of beauty, take a look at that spectacular sight!”

Ricciardi turned: stepping out of a car through a passenger door held open by a uniformed chauffeur, was Livia.

T
oward the upper end of the Via San Nicola da Tolentino, as the buildings became more scattered, the wind could be felt more keenly. Maione walked, holding his hat to his head with one hand, to keep it from flying off to join the flocks of swallows sketching enigmatic paths across the sky.

The brigadier, dripping with sweat, wondered what mysterious factors had caused the person who knew most about everything that happened in this city—a veritable spider at the center of a vast web, as he'd always pictured Bambinella to himself—to live in such an isolated location. It struck him as a glaring contrast.

For that matter, it was actually better this way: the possibility that he'd be spotted, which would spell trouble in several ways—an embarrassment to Maione and the loss of his chief source of confidential information—diminished considerably in that far-flung section of the Spanish Quarter, behind Corso Vittorio Emanuele, hidden in the lush greenery of Vomero.

The spider at the center of her web opened the door and stood waiting for him at the top of the stairs, leaning fetchingly over the railing of the external loggia and walkway.

“Well, well, what a lovely surprise! My favorite admirer comes running to see me on the first day of spring: the most romantic thing in the world? Now, if we were in a movie on the silver screen, you can just imagine the background music that the pianist would be playing!”

Huffing and puffing as he came up the last flight of stairs, Maione retorted:

“If you ask me, you found an apartment on the top floor specifically to make sure I'd be so out of breath I wouldn't have the strength to kick you downstairs. Now I ask you, wasn't the practically sheer climb enough, without the stairs to top it off?”

Bambinella burst out with a loud laugh that sounded like a whinny:

“Oh right, I'd completely forgotten, Brigadie': next time you should warn me so I can make sure you find me stretched out nude on the ground floor, so that everyone will know how much we love each other.”

The brigadier hauled off and delivered a straight-armed slap at the
femminiello
,
 
who dodged it easily.

“Ah, how nice, I love it when you take it from conversation to physical contact. Come in, Brigadie', make yourself right at home, and I'll brew up a pot of ersatz coffee. How are you?”

Maione collapsed into a bamboo chair, evidence of Bambinella's passion for anything Chinese, whether authentic or imitation. The lightly built chair groaned miserably under his weight.

“Ah, look, Bambine', in theory we'd be fine; but no such luck, the minute the holidays roll around something always happens and we have to run all over the place. My family never seems to have a chance to enjoy a festival in blessed peace.”

The
femminiello
turned from the waist, as she briskly took down demitasses and espresso spoons from the drying rack.

“Oh, you're talking about the murder of Viper, aren't you?
Mamma mia
, I'm horrified by what happened!”

Maione spread his arms wide.

“Of course you would know all about it already. For that matter, it happened on your territory, no?”

“Not exactly, Commissa', as you know. I work for myself, all the times that I tried working in a place like that, things didn't really go very well. Not that they don't want girls like me, don't get me wrong: in fact, it's one more treat on offer for their clientele and, if I do say so myself, I'm famous. You ought to know that there's one thing I do, in a way that . . .”

Maione raised his voice:

“For the love of Christ, Bambine', don't you dare try telling me about the things you do! I don't want to know, and I don't even want to imagine them, because my imagination is all too powerful already. Just cut it out, and promise me you'll never talk about it again, because if you do I'll walk out of here right now!”

Bambinella whinnied again.

“Brigadie', the last thing I wanted was to upset you. I understand that I'll end up in your dreams and then normal life will no longer be enough: what do you think, that I don't know how men become helplessly obsessed with me?”

“There's no obsession here, if anything a healthy disgust, if you want to be exact. But please, continue. What were you saying, about that place?”

“That it's not really the right place for me, you see. They have a clientele that's just too normal, people who aren't interested in trying anything new. But quite a few of my girlfriends work there, people I met . . . in other circumstances, so to speak, and that's why I know all about the situation in there. That's all there is.”

Holding the cup in both hands, she started across the room toward the brigadier, swiveling her hips as she walked. The black silk kimono dotted with a red flowered pattern parted to reveal a pair of long legs sheathed in flesh-colored stockings, while a lace negligee was visible at the chest, beneath a pair of broad shoulders. The long face, with its sharp features, was embellished by a pair of large brown eyes, limpid, expressive, and heavily mascaraed.

“You caught me unprepared, Brigadie', I was just in the middle of putting on my face. Business doesn't really get started, up here, until later during the holidays. You have no idea how badly people get the urge to do something fun during Holy Week. It must be a contrast with all the penitence that the parish priest tells everyone to do.”

Maione retorted ironically:

“And in the end, they come up to your place to do their penitence.”

“In fact. So, Brigadie', if it wasn't love that brought you all the way up here, what is it that you need?”

The policeman took a sip of the drink that was in the demitasse, and grimaced, disgusted.

“
Mamma mia
, this ersatz coffee is just foul . . . You know why I'm here, I need information. Both the commissario and I think that the madame of the brothel, Yvonne, and one of the girls, a certain Bianca Palumbo aka Lily, are telling us less than what they know. Maybe you know something that could help us understand the reason we're getting this impression, that's all.”

Bambinella assumed a pensive expression.

“Ah, you're talking about a couple of interesting individuals, Yvonne and Lily. I don't know them well, because they've always been at Il Paradiso and like I told you, I've never had much to do with that place. Still, I have picked up a tidbit or two about them, though only secondhand.”

“Like what?”

The
femminiello
put both her hands, with their long red nails, over her mouth and sat, concentrating.

“All right then, from what I've heard out and about, it's not smooth sailing at that bordello. Madame Yvonne is having difficulties paying her suppliers, that's something I heard from a client of mine who's a fishmonger and that's the reason—the fact that he wasn't paid what he was owed for his supplies—he asked me to serve him free of charge. Well, I told him, I said: hey,
guaglio'
, what do you take me for, an office of the Fascist charity organization, the
beneficenza fascista
? But he begged and pleaded until finally I . . .”

Maione leaned forward, as if to stand up.

“No, Bambine', if you're going to start rambling then I'd rather go. Today I just can't bring myself to listen to the story of your life.”

“Why, what dreadful manners you have, Brigadie', if a girl can't talk to her friends about the hardships life throws her way! In any case, this boyfriend of mine told me that Madame Yvonne saw him personally, something she'd never done before, to ask him if he could wait a few days, that maybe she could fix the problem. And he heard that all the tradesmen are facing the same situation, except for the one from Vomero who sells her fruit, Peppe 'a Frusta, who doesn't want money on account of Viper. But that's a whole different matter.”

“Wait a minute, first let's finish talking about Madame. So you're saying they don't have enough money. And that's odd because from what I understand they're running at full capacity.”

Bambinella agreed:

“Yes, Brigadie', as far as that goes, no question. It's one of the most famous brothels in all Naples. But there's Madame's son, you met him, practically a mental defective who loves to play cards, and she takes care of his gambling debts because if word gets out that he doesn't pay what he loses at the tables, someone's bound to kill him. She already lost her husband that way, stabbed in the gut outside a tavern in Vasto years ago, and she doesn't want her son to meet the same ugly end. Which brings us back to that earlier question, the most important one: did you know that Peppe 'a Frusta, the fruit vendor with the fleet of carts from Vomero, asked Viper to marry him?”