Badassi had spent the entire day in front of piles of documents and headshots spread in small piles on the desk. The piles reminded him of the rudimentary sculptures he used to make when he was going to the beach with his mom. Three grey marbled stones on top of each other and the magic was created.
Cangemini entered slowly with a grave face.
“Cange’, what’s the matter? It’s either your birthday or your mother in law is back in town.
“Worse. My feet are killing me. Elvira said that she is fed up with me. I have to be present, more athletic and be less pastasciutta* oriented. She wants a dancer next to her, not a koala. You know, I am hairy…”
Badassi smiled and nodded like an old wise guy. “Elvira is a good wife. She means well and for a good detective like you dancing is not difficult. Follow her steps.”
The phone rang before Cangemini could reply what he felt was an appropriate comment coming from an outraged man whose evening siesta had been interrupted.
“Hello, Badassi speaking.”
“Tristano, is it you? Charles, here. Charles Carini. Do you remember me? Second grade, Mrs. Spedini. We used to call her Spiedini for her bony legs and those horrible onion-colored skirts…” “A permanent memory, my dear Charles. How are you?”
“Not too great, Tristano. I just killed my neighbor.”
* Italian word for pasta
Translated from the original Italian
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