The man stepped aside. “Welcome to Caffe’ del Gambero,” he said in a deep voice.
Nodding, Antonio stepped in.
He entered a dimly lit, large room with a dozen round tables spread about the floor. Half the tables were occupied by male customers of various ages, drinking and talking or playing cards. The free tables were covered with empty bottles and used glasses. The only women on the floor were the waitresses, who were busy serving and cleaning. On the right side of the room was the bar counter, lined up with stools and more men drinking and talking. The smoke was thick, the air heavy with the smell of tobacco and wine. Behind the counter were two waitresses and a mature woman—thin, short, and draped in a tight and revealing green dress. Her features were not clearly visible in the soft light and through the curtain of smoke, but Antonio knew she was Francesca Barone. He walked up to her and said, “Good evening. Are you the owner of this establishment?”
She looked at Antonio with suspicious eyes. “Have we met?” She adjusted her curly black hair, which hung loose on her shoulders. Her makeup was heavy, failing nonetheless to hide the signs of aging: deep wrinkles framed her mouth, and two vertical lines engraved a frown.
“Maybe,” Antonio replied. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Aren’t we all,” she said, placing an empty glass in front of Antonio. “Wine?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what this man looks like,” Antonio went on, “but I was told he’s a regular here.”
“Why would I want to give you information?”
“Because I’m the Chief of Police,” Antonio whispered. “I tend to remember who helps me and who doesn’t.”
She paled and said nothing as she poured herself whiskey.
“Who’s he?” she murmured when her glass was full.
He spoke slowly, in a deep voice. “Ivano Bo.”
“The baker?”
He nodded. “Is he here tonight?”
She pointed a finger at a table in the far corner. “There. Curly black hair. What did he do? I don’t like customers who make trouble.”
“I only need to ask him a couple of questions. At what time did he arrive?”
She pondered a moment. “Half an hour ago, more or less.”
“Thank you,” Antonio said. He started towards Ivano Bo’s table, but then turned around. “Miss Barone, you wouldn’t happen to have a sample of his handwriting by any chance? Card scores, checks …”
“It will cost you …” Francesca teased.
“You have no idea how much it will cost you if you don’t cooperate. I hear you hire very young girls. And exploit them.”
Francesca’s facial expression turned glacial. “Fine,” she grumbled, rummaging under the counter. “I have a payment note from his bank. He wrote the amount and signed it. That’s how he pays his tab.” She handed Antonio a document.
Antonio looked at the payment note intently. The characters were straight, with long t’s and l’s that towered over the other letters like trees above grass, and the a’s and o’s were tiny. Ivano’s handwriting was in no way close to the one in the threatening letters. He gave the note back. “You can put it away. It’s not telling me anything.”
“Would you accept a drink now?” Francesca asked. “It’s on the house.”
“I’m on duty,” Antonio said.
“You are so serious, Chief,” Francesca said. “You should come back when you are off duty.” She leaned over the counter till her breasts brushed the front of Antonio’s coat. She grazed his cheek with the back of her hand. “I’ll be glad to show you I’m not as bad as you think.”
Antonio didn’t budge. He said, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Francesca retracted her hand in a hurry. A murderous look lingered in her eyes.
Ignoring it, Antonio walked towards the table where Ivano was playing cards with three older men.
“Mister Bo?” he asked.
“Yes?” Ivano said without lifting his eyes from the cards.
He was dressed in casual clothes, wrinkled slacks and a shirt with the collar open. At once Antonio noticed that he was Corrado’s portrait, thirty years younger. Same curly hair, black instead of gray, same pointed nose. At some point Ivano looked up, and Antonio caught a glimpse of two intense dark eyes, sparkling at once with gentleness and strength. The man, Antonio thought, exuded passion. He could see how a young girl could fall into his arms at a snap of his fingers.
“I am Antonio Sobrero, Chief of Police. I need to ask you some questions.”
Ivano didn’t stand up. “What did I do? Playing cards