Free My Mother-in-Law Drinks by Anthony Shugaar, Diego De Silva Page B

“I wanted to leave your feet untied, for all the good it’ll do you.” Having said this, he hit him in the head with the butt of the pistol.
    Matrix didn’t even cry out. He made a standing broad jump to the floor, kicking his legs out in front of him pitiably like a fresh victim in a movie when the killer fires one last gunshot just for effect before turning to go; then, moaning, he scraped the soles of his shoes over the floor tiles, following the stations of the pain as it wended its way through his body and smearing his footwear with the yogurt previously spilled.
    That was truly nasty.
    A smirk appeared on the lips of Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo that made him look both pleased and nauseated at the same time, a twofold expression that lingered awhile on his face.
    At this point, I decided it was time to leave.
    Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo turned to Matteo the deli counterman, who was now looking at him with openmouthed bafflement.
    â€œMatte’, I need you to do me a favor. Go over to the household goods section and get a roll of packing tape, the brown kind; then come back here and tape this guy’s ankles together.”
    Matteo the deli counterman, whether more upset or disgusted by what he’d seen I couldn’t say, shook his head no.
    â€œYou’d better listen to me,” the engineer admonished him. “Because if you don’t do as I tell you, and if you’re not back within ten seconds, I’m going to shoot him. And it will be your fault.”
    It was at that exact moment that I gave up my plan to hightail it, out of the vague yet compelling need to make myself useful in some way. As if I’d suddenly been overcome by an undefined sense of responsibility, which led me to believe that I was the only person there capable of fending off the worst outcome. Me, of all people.
    â€œGo on, Matte’,” I advised, but in a tone of voice that smacked more of “Listen to me” than “You’re free to choose.”
    The guy tried to argue once or twice, then in the end he gave in.
    Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo picked up the remote control again, aimed it at the monitors, and pressed some buttons. A second later he spoke and his voice was broadcast over the loudspeakers, perfectly synchronized with the live images onscreen.
    â€œThanks for your collaboration, Counselor Malinconico.”
    Hearing my name so publicly proclaimed threw me off-balance.
    I looked up the aisle. There was no one now.
    â€œI’d like it if you’d stay, too, now that the trial’s about to start.”
    â€œ
Trial?
” I asked.
    Matrix straightened his neck. I can guess that this was an unsettling world for him to hear; something like “audit” for a well-paid professional.
    â€œDo you know who this gentleman is?” Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo asked me, ignoring my question.
    I looked Matrix up and down. As if I hadn’t already seen more than enough of him.
    â€œNo, I don’t know who he is.”
    â€œStrange,” he replied, sounding a little disappointed.
    It’s not like the guy was so famous that I was bound to recognize him.
    â€œThen I’ll tell you another name,” he added, pausing before laying down his ace in the hole. “Massimiliano Sesti Orfeo. Given the line of work he’s in, you must have heard of him.”
    I looked at the floor, muttering that name, which rang no bells whatsoever, as a wave of embarrassment from my failure to answer him took possession of my limbs.
    Considering me to be a full-fledged criminal lawyer, Engineer Romolo Sesti Orfeo must have thought that all it would take was an eloquently stated hint for me to reconstruct the whole chain of events automatically, but that name, aside from the fact that it coincided with 50 percent of the engineer’s own, didn’t mean a fucking thing to me.
    Obviously at that point in the episode the last thing I wanted to do was make the