Free Three-Card Monte by Marco Malvaldi, Howard Curtis

having finished anchoring his bike, the blue K-Way rubbed his hands and came into the bar.
    â€œHi,” he said, removing his hood. He wasn’t a policeman. Massimo also knew all of them. But there was something vaguely familiar about him. While Massimo was trying to think where the hell he could have seen this guy, if he really had seen him, the man took off the K-Way and Massimo’s doubts vanished. With that creased orange T-shirt, the potential customer could only be the loquacious and friendly Professor A. C. J. Snijders.
    â€œA
lungo
, please. And . . . do you have croissants?”
    â€œThey’re just coming out. You did say a
lungo
?” Tiziana asked, not because she hadn’t heard him but because she hadn’t heard anybody order a
lungo
since 2002, when her employer had made an extremely pedantic as well as unrequested speech to an improvident Piedmontese tourist about the inherent barbarity of drinking coffee that was too diluted. Making a show of having understood, the tourist had then ordered a
ristretto
and a glass of mineral water, poured the coffee into the glass, and immediately knocked it back in one go before leaving without paying.
    â€œYes, please. And three croissants.”
    â€œGod help us!” Ampelio said, leaning forward on his stick. “Haven’t you been home yet today?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œDon’t pay any attention to him,” Massimo said in the hope of reasserting that the bar was his. “This three-legged old man was wondering if they were all for you. You know, people here don’t mind their own business even if you kill them.”
    â€œOh, I get it,” Snijders replied, completely unfazed. “Yes, they’re for me. I need to have a good breakfast. I was thinking of visiting Pisa and not stopping for lunch. It’s a tourist city. That means it’s expensive.”
    â€œAnd how are you getting to Pisa?” Pilade asked.
    â€œWith that,” Snijders replied, pointing to the bike. “I hired it at the hotel.”
    â€œAll the way to Pisa by bike?” Tiziana asked incredulously. “In this rain?”
    â€œWhy not? I’m not made of sugar.”
    â€œAmazing!” Ampelio said approvingly, clearly satisfied to see that, in this era of vices and perversions like traveling by car, someone still used a bicycle as a means to move around. “It’s not even six miles, and flat all the way. You’ll be there in half an hour.”
    â€œHalf an hour. Yes, that’s easy. Thank you,” Snijders said, taking the first croissant. “I hope to see at least the square and the cemetery this morning. This afternoon I have to go back to the conference.”
    â€œOh, have you come from the conference?” Ampelio asked with a knowing air. “The one where that Japanese man was killed?”
    It’s not possible. I don’t believe it. An hour has gone by. One hour. I found out about this business an hour ago, and I swore to Fusco that I wouldn’t say anything. Now my grandfather’s passing the news across the Iron Curtain. I give up.
    â€œKilled, that’s right,” Snijders replied, then thought for a moment. “I mean, no. Not that man. He died, yes. But it was an accident.”
    â€œIn the newspaper it’s an accident,” Ampelio replied. “Taccini’s fiancée said it was an accident too, when she became pregnant while he was a soldier in Greece. I have to say, some accidents happen if you make them happen.”
    â€œNo, excuse me, I think you’re mistaken,” Snijders tried to argue, probably wondering all the while who Taccini was. “It was an accident. The poor old man hit his head.”
    â€œOh, yes,” Massimo said bitterly, trying to dilute his dismay in his beloved iced tea, “it’s always the wrong old man who bangs his head.”
    â€œWhat the gentleman means,” Del Tacca cut