be fair, you don't look dangerous."
She reciprocates, but with style, my smile.
"What about the famous meeting with the chat people at the pub instead?" Let's see if you know anything about the famous dream woman.
"Which unfortunately you'll have to ask others: I never went there. After the threats, it would never have crossed my mind to see Roberto again. However, you can ask Patrizia, aka Carmilla in chat. She was there for sure, since she had an unrequited crush on Roberto."
Dear Roberto, you should have settled for a normal woman instead of getting involved in this whole mess.
"Do you have any way to contact her?"
"I could try to arrange an outing somewhere quiet, where you could ask her all the questions you want, obviously without going into too much detail." Wake the girl up.
"Great! So, I'm just waiting for you to tell me when."
Would right away be too soon?
"Let's do it later in the week, as soon as I have a night off and can arrange a babysitter for Elisa." I'll wait.
"One last question."
I stare into her eyes searching for an honest answer.
"Why did you decide to help me now despite the threats?"
Be careful not to lie to me...
"Because I feel guilty with Roberto and I would like to help him; because I know that you will be the one to expose yourself, thus limiting the risks; because I often think back to when I needed help and no one wanted to give it to me; and because I would like to close the accounts with my past for good. Is that enough motivation for you?"
I suppose so, but let's just say I want to trust.
"Has anyone ever told you you're a piece of work?" I chant.
"Why, did you ever doubt otherwise?"
A shiny Miss Toothpaste smile lights up on her face.
Chapter 5
The Notary
I walk down the long corridor of the hospital, look around, and notice a strange commotion. I reach room twenty-three hoping to cross the threshold and finally see my lifelong friend and not the surrogate he has become. It occurs to me that twenty-three is supposed to be a lucky number, but as soon as I come face to face with the reality of Sara's face I abandon any idea of applied numerology. She is sitting in a chair looking at her brother, searching for a reason.
She doesn't notice me come in. Actually, no one notices me, not even Roberto, whose gaze seems to go right through me. His expression is different from last time: he has a hint of a smile on his face, almost an imperceptible grin that makes me uneasy.
Gently, I step back and knock softly on the door. No reaction. Perhaps I had better bring along some stadium horns. I try again more vigorously and this time add voice support.
"Hi, am I disturbing?"
"David! Hi."
Sara gets up from her chair and walks over to me. I greet her.
"Is there any news?"
I approach Roberto.
"He seems to be getting better...at least physically."
It's the brain part that concerns me.
"I notice that at least the pallor of his face is gone."
Before you could hardly tell it from the sheet.
"The doctors say the latest test results are normal, despite still not explaining either what might have happened or the psychological trauma."
"But you still haven't spoken or said anything meaningful, to get a clue as to what happened?"
"Nothing. The last time he talked...you remember that, right?"
Right, after the snort, I expected a lick too.
"How about you? Got any news?"
Yeah, your brother's probably a Satanist and fused his brain with some drug.
"Nothing particularly interesting. Right now I'm trying to get in touch with someone he was dating recently. I'll probably talk to him later this week and hopefully something useful will come out."
"Okay, thanks anyway for the time being."
Thankfully he doesn't seem to be demanding much from me
As I head for the exit I give in to the temptation of a vending machine coffee. I know it won't live up to the smell, but it's an irrepressible call.
I rummage through my jeans pocket looking for the last tenner I need. I notice from the window overlooking the street that the sirens are really there: those of several police patrol cars. A trance of excited people starts running wildly, followed by journalists with cameras and microphones.
"What the hell?"
I remain stuck in the doorway with coffee in my hand and an infinite number of questions hanging in the air. Across from me, nurses mumble conjecture. Trotting along, hands in her scrubs, another orderly approaches and agitatedly addresses the small group.
"Looks like they found him!"
"Who? The two porters? The ones who were missing?"
"Yes, it seems those poor wretches were murdered!"
"Killed dead? Oh, Jesus!"
"What a time, even at the hospital you can't be safe anymore."
Sounds like my grandmother, but she's right.
The next day the news appears in all the newspapers, I read it with curiosity while devouring a croissant with honey in the office. It's strange how, just because you were there at the time of the event, it can be exhilarating to read a story like that in the paper, no matter how tragic it is.
It would seem that the two porters had literally been torn to pieces!
With growing disgust, I put the coffee cup on Roberto's desk and slide away the crumbs of the brioche anchored to the shirt. A slight halo of coffee is added to the grime, which by now has become attached to the desk.
"Yikes!"
I realize I've soiled a file. I grab it on the fly and start waving it around, hoping to rid it of the unwanted stain. I wonder what it was. I read sideways.
"Mancini Practice." It says in red: Gold treatment.
I wonder if Roberto will have completed it before the crisis? And how come it's Gold? We usually only award it to very important personalities: politicians, high prelates... and everyone, invariably, wants the honour in front. I think it's time to do some deeper checks on the client. I'm afraid that the De Carli lawyer's
