Day of the Dead by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Read Free Book Online

up any more than you do. It’s just that I can’t stand the idea of never even knowing how he died, that’s all. A child that young shouldn’t be tossed out like some old clothes. We need to give him a first and last name, and the doctor needs to give him a cause of death; at least that way we’ll be burying a person, not a thing.”
    Maione smiled.
    â€œI understand what you’re trying to say. As someone who’s lost a son, I know what it means never to see your child come home again. And even if we never talk about it, when Lucia and I look at the children that are left, we always think of Luca, and we’ll think about him forever: I know it, and she knows it. And now that the Day of the Dead is almost here, we think about him even more. This rain, this neverending rain, it gets into your bones and makes you feel even sadder . . . And now the office is starting up, too; it’s become a living hell!”
    â€œWhy? What’s happened?”
    Maione spread his arms wide.
    â€œOh right, I always forget that you never talk with a soul in here but me. And you’re smart not to, believe me. Well, as you know, Mussolini’s coming to town on November 3, and Garzo’s going out of his mind. He’s been saying that if anything goes wrong, he’ll send us all to work as prison guards at Poggioreale; he’s been arranging and rearranging the furniture in his office, over and over again; he’s been having the stairs mopped several times a day; he sent both the automobiles to the garage for an overhaul, on the off chance that Mussolini wants to go for a drive; he looks at his mustache in the mirror constantly—and he thinks no one notices, but everyone’s laughing behind his back. In short, a disaster!”
    Ricciardi shook his head.
    â€œHow can people be such idiots? So Mussolini’s coming; so what? Leaving aside the fact that he won’t even end up visiting headquarters, what difference does it make anyway? Won’t people go on dying, won’t the same horrible things keep happening, out in the streets?”
    Maione pounded a fist into the flat of his hand.
    â€œThat’s exactly the point, Commissa’: no, they won’t. That is to say, that idiot Garzo is telling everyone that things have to function smoothly in this city, that there can’t be any unrest or crime; that this is the ideal Fascist city, where all citizens live in peace and tranquility. In other words, we can’t have any unsolved crimes or investigations under way, at least until Thunder Jaw, the
Mascellone
, heads back to Rome, and we’ll thank God when he leaves.”
    Ricciardi gave him a dirty look.
    â€œIf he thinks that we’re going to start covering things up or wasting time that we could be using to solve cases just so he can pretend that all’s well, then he’s really lost his mind. You can even send your friend Ponte to tell him: we’re not going to stop doing our work, Mussolini or no Mussolini.”
    Maione burst out laughing.
    â€œFucking hell—my friend Ponte: I’d drop him down a manhole and let him drown in the sewer, that two-faced rat! True, lately he’s been Garzo’s main victim, and it serves him right; if you could see him running back and forth, he’s even more ridiculous than usual . . . Anyway, I knew you’d say that. I was thinking, though: working as a guard at Poggioreale can’t be much worse than staying here, right?”

VIII
    From the autopsy room in the hospital, Dr. Modo could hear the rain beating down on the roof and the windows. The overhead lamps illuminated the marble tables; it was finally evening after a long, difficult day. The wards were filled with every disease imaginable; he asked himself how people survived in the hygienic conditions that prevailed in most of the city.
    The rain made matters worse: lungs, throats, and bones all absorbed the dampness like sponges and