Free The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri

The voice of the woman who answered sounded like a parody of an African in a dubbed film.
    â€œHallo? Who dare? Who you callin’ dare?”
    Where did the Cardamones find these housekeepers?
    â€œIs Signora Ingrid there?”
    â€œYa, but who callin?”
    â€œThis is Salvo Montalbano.”
    â€œYou wait dare.”
    Ingrid’s voice, on the other hand, was the very same as the voice the Italian dubber had given to Greta Garbo, who was herself Swedish.
    â€œCiao, Salvo. How are you? Long time no see.”
    â€œI need your help, Ingrid. Are you free tonight?”
    â€œActually, no. But if it’s really important I can drop everything.”
    â€œIt’s important.”
    â€œTell me where and when.”
    â€œNine o’clock tonight, at the Marinella Bar.”
    Â 
 
For Montalbano, the press conference proved, as of course he knew it would, to be a long, painful embarrassment. Anti-Mafia Vice-Commissioner De Dominicis came from Palermo and sat on the Montelusa police commissioner’s right. Imperious gestures and angry glances prevailed upon Montalbano, who had wanted to remain in the audience, to sit on his superior’s left. Behind him, standing, were Fazio, Germanà, Gallo, and Galluzzo. The commissioner spoke first and began by naming the man they had arrested, the number one of the number twos: Gaetano Bennici, known as “Tano the Greek,” wanted for multiple murders and long a fugitive from justice. It was a literal bombshell. The journalists, who were there in great numbers—there were even four TV cameras—jumped out of their chairs and started talking to one another, making such a racket that the commissioner had difficulty reestablishing silence. He stated that credit for the arrest went to Inspector Montalbano who, with the assistance of his men—and here he named and introduced them one by one—had been able to exploit a golden opportunity with skill and courage. Then De Dominicis spoke, explaining Tano the Greek’s role within his criminal organization, certainly a prominent one, though not of the utmost prominence. As the Anti-Mafia Vice-Commissioner sat back down, Montalbano realized he was being thrown to the dogs.
    The questions came in rapid-fire bursts, worse than a Kalishnikov. Had there been a gunfight? Was Tano alone? Were any law enforcement personnel injured? What did Tano say when they handcuffed him? Had he been sleeping or awake? Was there a woman with him? A dog? Was it true he took drugs? How many murders had he committed? How was he dressed? Was he naked? Was it true he rooted for the Milan soccer team? Did he have a photo of Ornella Muti on his person? Could the inspector explain a little better the golden opportunity the commissioner had alluded to?
    Montalbano struggled to answer the questions as best he could, seeming to understand less and less what he was saying.
    It’s a good thing the TV’s here, he thought. That way, at least, I can watch and make some sense of the bullshit I’ve been telling them.
    And just to make things even harder, there were the adoring eyes of Corporal Anna Ferrara, staring at him from the crowd.
    Nicolò Zito, newsman from the Free Channel and a true friend, tried to rescue him from the quicksand in which he was drowning.
    â€œInspector, with your permission,” said Zito. “You said you met Tano on your way back from Fiacca, where you’d been invited to eat a tabisca with friends. Is that correct?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat is a tabisca ?”
    They’d eaten tabisca many times together. Zito was simply tossing him a life preserver. Montalbano seized it. Suddenly confident and precise, the inspector went into a detailed description of that extraordinary, multiflavored pizza.

7
    In the alternately desperate, stammering, hesitant, bewildered, flabbergasted, lost but always wild-eyed man framed pitilessly in the foreground by the Free