The Dance of the Seagull by Andrea Camilleri Read Free Book Online

fed him?
    Whatever the case, that phone call from his friend and Free Channel newsman had seemed a little strange to him, no doubt about it.

    When he got to the wharf, a few trawlers were already moored in front of the storehouses and unloading their hauls. The floodlights for illuminating the area of activity were all turned on. One could see, in the distance, at the mouth of the harbor, the navigation lights of the other trawlers coming in.
    A veritable babble of shouts, curses, and commands could be heard above the din of the boats’ diesel motors, the trucks’ engines, and the continual rumble of the freezers.
    In the small spaces between one storehouse and the next, which were narrow alleyways of sorts, the inspector discovered a great hubbub of makeshift fish stands, with crates of fish being sold by the crew members of the trawlers themselves. And it wasn’t the rejects they were selling, but the share due each member of each boat. The buyers, after a sort of tug-of-war of bargaining, would then load the crates onto scooters or three-wheeled Ape pickups and drive off. They must have been restaurant owners or employees, who were thus assured not only of having fresh fish, but of paying half of what they would have paid at the town market.
    Montalbano remembered the trawler owner who had come to the station. What was his name? Ah, yes, Rizzica. He had to be around there somewhere.
    He stopped a municipal police officer he saw carrying a crate of fish. It had to have been the guy’s payoff for closing an eye to the makeshift market in the alleyway.
    “I’m Inspector Montalbano, and I’d like to know—”
    The cop turned visibly pale.
    “I paid for this fish! I swear!” he said, voice quavering.
    “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”
    “So what do you want, then?”
    “I want to know where I can find Signor Rizzica.”
    “You can find Rizzica in one of his warehouses.”
    “And which ones are they?”
    “Numbers three, four, and the last one.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Glad to be of service!” said the officer, clearly relieved and practically running away, terrified that Montalbano might change his mind and demand that he explain how he came by that crate of fish.
    In front of the open door of warehouse number three was the same Ford van as that morning. Montalbano went inside and immediately saw Rizzica, who was talking with an air of concern to a man in overalls.
    The moment he saw Montalbano, however, he came towards him, hand held out.
    “Let’s go outside,” he said.
    Apparently he didn’t want to talk in the presence of the man in overalls. They stopped in a sort of arch to one side of the wharf that smelled of shit and piss old and new, which was why there wasn’t anyone in the vicinity.
    “Did you come by because of my complaint?”
    “No. Did you file a formal complaint with Inspector Augello?”
    “No, sir, not formally. But it’s still a complaint.”
    “Have your boats come in?”
    “No, there’s another hour and a half to go.”
    “And the one that’s always late, the . . . what was its name?”
    “The
Maria Concetta
? No, today’s its day off. But tonight it would be better if they were all late.”
    “Why?”
    “Because one of my warehouses has been out of order since yesterday. The refrigeration system is down. You have no idea how much money it’s cost me. I had to throw all the fish back into the sea. The electrician says they’ll have to order a replacement part from Palermo. An’ just to rub it in, the two boats coming in now are full of fish; they had a really good haul today. I’m going to have to get the third warehouse up and running, the one I usually use only for—”
    “But didn’t you say you had five trawlers?”
    “Yessir.”
    “How come you’ve only got two out?”
    “I have ’em working in shifts, Inspector. Three go out, and two rest. An’ vice versa.”
    “I see.”
    “Listen, I have to go back inside. But about that thing I mentioned to