Free The Age of Doubt by Andrea Camilleri

been drinking a lot, and he went up to the car, unbuttoned his trousers, and pissed on it.”
    “What, is the guy crazy? And were there carabinieri inside the car?”
    “Yup.”
    “And what happened?”
    “Well, as they were arresting him, he managed to punch one of the carabinieri.”
    Montalbano started cursing again.
    “What should we do?” Fazio asked.
    “What can we do? We can’t very well phone the carabinieri and tell them to let him go because I need him! Listen, try and make friends with Ricca. It’s the only move we can make at this point.”

    He and Laura had agreed the previous evening that she would call him at the office around seven o’clock, but it was now almost eight and he still hadn’t heard from her. Since this time he’d had her give him her cell phone number, after a bit of mental tug-of-war with himself, he called her up.
    “Montalbano here.”
    “I recognized your voice.”
    She’d said it without any enthusiasm at all.
    “Did you forget that you—”
    “No, I didn’t forget.”
    Damn, was she ever expansive!
    “Too busy?”
    “No.”
    “So then why didn’t you—”
    “I’d decided not to call you.”
    “Oh.”
    Silence fell.
    And suddenly Montalbano was gripped by a hysterical fear that they’d been cut off. It was idiotic, but he could do nothing about it. Whenever he thought he’d lost his telephone connection, he went into a terrible panic, like a child abandoned in a starship adrift in space.
    “Hello! Hello!” he started yelling.
    “Don’t shout! I’m here!” she said.
    “Can you explain to me why—”
    “Not over the telephone.”
    “Try.”
    “I said no.”
    “Well then let’s meet, if you don’t mind! There’s also something I have to ask you about the
Vanna
.”
    Another pause.
    This time, however, Montalbano heard her breathing.
    “Do you want to have dinner together?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “But not at your house.”
    “All right. We can go wherever you like.”
    “Then let’s go to that restaurant in Montereale you mentioned to me.”
    “All right. Let’s do this: you come here to the station, and we can take my car to—”
    “No. Just tell me how to get to this restaurant. We can meet there. But give me about an hour; I still need to change.”
    What had got into Laura? Why had her mood changed so drastically? He couldn’t figure it out.

    About ten minutes later, the phone rang.
    “Ahh Chief Chief! Ahh Chief!”
    Bad sign. Whenever Catarella intoned these lamentations, it meant that Mister C’mishner, as he reverently called him, was on the line.
    “Does the commissioner want me?” Montalbano asked.
    “Yessir, Chief! An’ iss rilly urgint!”
    “Tell him I’m not in my office.”
    The commissioner was likely to tell him to come to Montelusa, which would make him miss his appointment with Laura.
    “
Matre santa
, Chief!” Catarella wailed.
    “What’s wrong with you?”
    “Wha’ss wrong izzat when I gotta tella lie to hizzoner the c’mishner, iss like I’m c’mittin’ a mortal sin!”
    “So just go and confess!”
    Forty-five minutes later, he was about to get up and leave when Fazio came in.
    “Chief, I have a very good friend who’s a carabiniere, and I took the liberty of—”
    “What did you do?”
    “I asked him what they planned to do with Shaikiri.”
    “And how did you explain your interest in him?”
    “I told him he was a friend of mine and that whenever he drank he lost his head, and I apologized for him.”
    “And what did the guy say?”
    “They released him at five o’clock this afternoon. He was charged with assault and resisting arrest. What should I do? Go look for him at Giacomino’s tavern?”
    “Go there at once and forget about Ricca.”

    He’d already stood up when the phone rang. To answer or not to answer? That was the question. Prudence suggested that it was best not to answer, but since he had given Laura this very number, he thought it might be her saying she had changed