Black Run by Antonio Manzini Read Free Book Online Page B

lack of consideration was all his superior officer could offer him.
    â€œAside from your double shift, is there anything important you need to tell me?” asked the deputy police chief.
    â€œThe chief of police has already called three times this morning. He needs to speak to the press.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œFirst he wants to hear from you.”
    Rocco nodded and turned away, leaving Deruta there; still, the officer chased after him on his dainty feet. To watch the heft of his 225 pounds bounce along on his size 7½ men’s shoes, you’d expect him to roll headlong across the floor at any moment. “The chief of police isn’t in town, Dottore. There’s no point in you going up to see him. You’ll have to call him.”
    Rocco stopped and turned to look at Officer Deruta. “I see. Well, now, listen to me and listen good. Two things. First of all, start getting some exercise and put yourself on a diet. Second: later on, I’ve got an important job for you.” He furrowed his brow and looked Deruta in the eye. “Very important. Can I rely on you? Do you feel up to it?”
    Deruta’s eyes opened wide and became even bigger than usual. “Certainly, Dottore!” he said, and flashed him a bright, thirty-two-tooth smile. Actually, a twenty-four-tooth smile, because there were several gaps. “Certainly, Dottor Schiavone. You can trust me blindly!”
    â€œWhy don’t you find yourself a dentist!”
    â€œYou think?” asked Deruta, covering his mouth with one hand. “Do you know how much they cost? On my salary?”
    â€œTell your wife to give you the money.”

    â€œThat money goes to my daughter, who’s studying in Perugia to be a veterinarian.”
    â€œAh. I get it. You’re training your own family doctor. Good thinking!” and he finally walked into his office, slamming the door behind him and blocking out the baffled face of the officer, who stood there, still chewing over what the deputy police chief had meant by his last comment.
    In his long-ago high school days, Rocco had read that some philosopher, possibly Hegel, had described the newspaper as “the realist’s morning prayer.” But his version of the realist’s morning prayer was to roll a fat joint to put his mind at peace with the world and the fact that he’d been forced to live all this distance from Rome for the past four months. And the knowledge that there was no way to get back there.
    Not that he had anything against Aosta. Quite the opposite. It was a lovely city, and the people were all nice and polite. But it wouldn’t have been any different if they’d stationed him in Salerno, or Mantua, or Venice. The end result would be the same. It wasn’t a matter of the destination. What he missed above all was his native city, his existential stomping grounds, his home base.
    He pulled the key out from under the framed photograph of Marina on his desk and pulled open the top drawer on the right. Inside sat a wooden box with a dozen handsome fatties, all ready to go. He lit one and, as he twisted the key shut in the drawer lock, took a long, generous drag that went straight to his lungs.
    Funny how this small everyday gesture helped to soothe his brain. With the third puff, he gained a sense of lucidity and started planning out his day.

    First thing: call the chief of police.
    Then the hospital.
    And then Nora.
    He laid the half-smoked joint down in his ashtray. He was just reaching out for the receiver when the phone started to ring.
    â€œPronto, sì?”
    â€œCorsi speaking!”
    It was the police chief.
    â€œAh, Dottore, I was just about to call you.”
    â€œThat’s what you always say.”
    â€œBut this time it’s the truth.”
    â€œThen you’re saying all the other times you were lying to me?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAll right, Schiavone, go ahead.”
    â€œWe still