“Right away!” Italo stepped away from the little group.

“I don’t think this is at all standard operating procedure,” the warden complained.

“Martinelli, let me just say this, I don’t give a merry fuck!”

“So you’re certain that this isn’t a heart attack?” asked Dr. Crocitti.

The judge looked him right in the eye. “I’ll bet both my testicles that this was a murder.”

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT, BUT IN THE STREET IN THE TRIESTE neighborhood, you’d say it was five in the afternoon from the traffic and the hustle and bustle. Paoletto Buglioni was standing in front of Hysteria, keeping an eye on the line of young people waiting to gain admission to the discotheque. Arms crossed, dressed in black, not a hair on his head, with a ferocious glare and several days’ growth of whiskers on his face, he stood a good foot taller than any of the would-be clientele. His biceps looked as if they were about to rip the sleeves of his jacket asunder any second. As soon as the young people shouting and brandishing plastic cups brimming over with who knows what alcoholic potion reached the double doors and caught sight of that brooding giant, they fell silent and waited, suddenly docile and well behaved, for the bouncer to accord them entrance to the club. Rocco and Brizio stood leaning against the metal roller shutters of an antiques dealer, watching Buglioni from a distance of thirty feet or so. Paoletto looked up and noticed them. He nodded to Brizio, and Brizio nodded back. “He’ll be right over,” Brizio muttered to Rocco. Not two minutes later, another bouncer emerged from inside the discotheque, shorter but even more muscular than Paoletto. This bouncer was black, with dyed-blond hair and a pair of sunglasses. Buglioni leaned down and spoke into his ear, the other bouncer nodded, and then the giant stepped away from the line of impatient young people and strode decisively over to the deputy chief and his friend.

“Hey, Brizio!” At the sound of Paoletto’s voice, Rocco barely managed to keep himself from bursting into laughter. It was a good octave higher than La Callas’s voice, but it was also faint and weak. It seemed like the voice of a particularly innocent young girl.

“Ciao, Paolè . . . So do you know Rocco?” Brizio said.

Paoletto nodded but didn’t extend his hand to the deputy chief. “So does someone have it in for you?” he asked.

“Who told you that?” Rocco asked.

The bouncer looked off to one side, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and lit one with a movement that he’d surely seen some actor or other use once. “It’s just that people are talking about it . . .”

“You’re the one who told Stefania . . . but who told you? What else do you know?” Brizio asked him.

“Beats me. You know how it is, Brizio.”

“No, how is it?” Brizio retorted.