Free The Few by Nadia Dalbuono

old sweat and cigarettes and something else — Scamarcio couldn’t be sure what —fear perhaps, maybe from the guys, maybe from the perps. Filippi was at a desk by a window that overlooked a courtyard boasting a cluster of healthy palms and an orange tree. It was a nice view, better than Scamarcio’s. If Filippi were to turn in his seat for a rest from his paperwork, he could enjoy his coffee looking out at that view. Scamarcio felt envious for a moment.
    â€˜OK, so what’s all this about?’
    Filippi looked up from his paperwork and motioned Scamarcio to the chair opposite.
    â€˜Strange thing, given how much you’ve been sniffing around.’
    He opened one of his desk drawers to the right, and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Scamarcio saw a single piece of paper inside.
    â€˜Take a look — it arrived an hour ago.’
    Scamarcio took it from him, and turned it in the shaft of sunlight from the window. Only one side had been written on. The words were scratchy and hard to read, and the spelling looked off. ‘If you are looking into the murrder of Arthur the rentboy you mite care to look again at the “suecide” of Geppo the bookie.’ It ended there, with no date and no name.
    â€˜Where’s the envelope?’
    Filippi pulled out another evidence bag from the drawer with an envelope inside, and handed it over.
    It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular — just the Trastevere station. It bore a Rome postmark and had been sent on Saturday, the day after Arthur’s death. Scamarcio glanced up. Filippi was leaning back in his chair, a pencil stuffed behind his ear. He looked like something out of a 1970s cop show. ‘So what am I to make of that? You mind telling me what the fuck’s going on?’
    Scamarcio rearranged himself more comfortably, and tried to stay relaxed. ‘Like I told you: I’m doing a favour for a friend, nothing more.’
    â€˜Which friend?’
    â€˜Can’t say.’
    â€˜So why am I being told to investigate the suicide of some two-bit bookie?’
    â€˜No idea. How should I know?’
    Filippi leant forward in his chair, rested his forearms on the desk, and studied him. ‘OK, this is how I see it. It seems odd to me, to say the least, that you’ve been snooping around this thing — a case that’s got fuck-all to do with you — and now I get sent this.’ He leant back, and crossed his arms behind his head. ‘Something doesn’t add up, wouldn’t you agree?’
    Scamarcio rubbed at a knot in his neck, and eased an elbow onto the arm of his chair. ‘What can I tell you? I’m as much in the dark as you are.’
    He surveyed the untidy piles of paperwork covering Filippi’s desk; it seemed like the guy had quite a backlog. ‘You know anything about this Geppo, then?’
    Filippi sighed, tired of it all already. ‘Never heard of him. I need to ask around on the street, consult the low-life. Then, if that draws a blank, I’ll be onto Vice, see if he’s somewhere else in this cesspit of a city.’
    Scamarcio fell silent. Nothing came to mind; it was all just a blank.
    â€˜But if you’re holding out on me, Scamarcio, I’ll make trouble for you. We’re colleagues — it shouldn’t work like this.’
    Scamarcio came to, sensing it was time to cut it short. ‘You have my word: I know nothing of any Geppo. But I can ask around, if you like. You want me to ask around?’
    Filippi waved a hand, as though he already knew it would come to nothing. ‘Ask around — ask that friend of yours. I don’t need this extra shit right now.’
    â€˜Geppo the bookie? Is he some kind of major player?’
    â€˜I don’t think so, but we’d need to check with Vice. They haven’t heard of him down in Trastevere, anyway.’
    â€˜Well, that doesn’t mean anything,’ said the