Free The Terra-Cotta Dog by Andrea Camilleri Page A

Channel’s videocamera, Montalbano scarcely recognized himself under the storm of questions from vile snake-in-the-grass journalists. And the part where he’d explained how tabisca was made—the part in which he came off best—had been cut out. Maybe it wasn’t strictly in keeping with the principal subject, the capture of Tano the Greek.
    The eggplant Parmesan his housekeeper had left for him in the oven suddenly tasted flavorless. But that was impossible, it couldn’t be right. It must have been some sort of psychological effect from seeing himself look like such a stupid shit on television.
    All at once he felt like crying, like throwing himself down on his bed and wrapping himself up in the sheet like a mummy.
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“Inspector Montalbano? This is Luciano Acquasanta from the newspaper Il Mezzogiorno. Would you be so kind as to grant me an interview?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI won’t waste your time, I promise.”
    â€œNo.”
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“Is this Inspector Montalbano? Spingardi here, Attilio Spingardi, from the RAI office in Palermo. We’re putting together a roundtable to discuss—”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAt least let me finish!”
    â€œNo.”
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“Darling? It’s Livia. How are you feeling?”
    â€œFine. Why?”
    â€œI just saw you on TV.”
    â€œOh, Christ! You mean they showed that all over Italy?”
    â€œI think so. But it was very brief, you know.”
    â€œCould you hear what I was saying?”
    â€œNo, one could only hear the commentator speaking. But I could clearly see your face, and that’s what got me worried. You were yellow as a lemon.”
    â€œIt was even in color?”
    â€œOf course it was in color. You kept putting your hand over your eyes and rubbing your forehead.”
    â€œI had a headache and the lights were bothering me.”
    â€œAre you better now?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œInspector Montalbano? My name is Stefania Quattrini, from the magazine Essere Donna. We’d like to do a telephone interview with you. Could you remain on the line?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt’ll only take a few seconds.”
    â€œNo.”
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“Do I have the honor of actually speaking with the famous Inspector Montalbano who holds press conferences?”
    â€œDon’t break my balls.”
    â€œNo, don’t worry about your balls, we won’t break them. It’s your ass we’re after.”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œIt’s your death, that’s who.You’re not gonna wiggle out of this one so easy, you lousy fucking actor. Who’d you think you were fooling with that little song and dance you put on with your pal Tano? You’re gonna pay for trying to fuck with us.”
    â€œHello? Hello?”
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The line had gone dead. But Montalbano didn’t have a chance to take in those threatening words and mull them over, because he realized that the insistent noise he’d been hearing for some time amid the flurry of phone calls was the doorbell ringing. For some reason he was convinced it must be a journalist more clever than the rest who’d decided to show up at his house. Exasperated, he ran to the entrance and without opening, yelled:
    â€œWho the hell is it?”
    â€œIt’s the commissioner.”
    What could he want from him, at home, at that hour, without even having called to alert him? He released the bolt with a swat of the hand and yanked the door wide open.
    â€œHello, come on in, make yourself comfortable,” he said, standing aside to let him in.
    â€œWe haven’t got any time. Get yourself in order, I’ll wait for you in the car.”
    He turned around and walked away. Passing in front of the large mirror on the armoire, Montalbano realized what the commissioner had meant by “Get yourself in order.” He was completely naked.
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The car had none of the usual