SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 8:50 P.M.

AT THIS TIME of the evening on a Saturday, Via di Bravetta was clogged with cars full of people from Corviale determined to celebrate Saturday night anywhere that was not Corviale. The house in front of him was done in yellow stucco that looked like dried vomit, but behind him a stretch of undeveloped fields still glittering from the rain an hour before rolled down to the Portuense area and gave the illusion of grassy slopes stretching all the way to the mountains behind. Blume pressed the intercom button next to the name Pernazzo.

“Pernazzo?”

“Yes?”

“Angelo Pernazzo?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“Police.”

The pause that followed was long enough to make Blume press the intercom button again.

“I’m still here, fuck it,” said the voice.

“Did you hear me? I said police.”

“OK.”

The buzzer sounded, and the lock to the front door clicked open. Blume held it open with his foot and pressed the buzzer for a third time.

“What!”

“Which floor?”

“Third.”

“OK. On my way.”

Blume took the elevator and stepped out onto a narrow landing with three chocolate-brown doors, each of which had a brass plaque showing two different surnames. The plaque on the middle door looked new. The first name was T. Vercetti and the second F. Pernazzo. Below the doorbell was a paper tag covered in adhesive tape. This displayed only the name A. Pernazzo. Blume hooked his fingernail under the tag and eased it back to see what name had been there originally. S. Pernazzo. He flattened the new tag back into place and rang the bell.

Blume thought he must look tired, but the person who opened the door was evidently in a worse state. He looked as if he had been dipped in nicotine, then rolled in clay. His small nose twitched slightly. It was slightly upturned, a bit pink, the sort that plastic surgeons put on so many women.

He jerked the door open, then retreated into his apartment, leaving the door ajar.

Blume tensed for a brief moment, ready to parry, but Pernazzo turned around and entered the last door on the left.

Blume followed Pernazzo down a short corridor, past a kitchen in which he glimpsed a table covered with a plastic cloth, on which sat an open tin of butter beans, a glistening fork, a torn piece of bread smeared with something brown. He walked into a small living room. The marble composite floor was so sticky that it snatched at the soles of his shoes so that each step was accompanied by a short clack of release as his feet broke free.

The shutters were down, closing off the remaining few minutes of evening light. The main source of illumination in the room was a large computer screen in the corner. The picture on the screen showed a detailed fantasy landscape as seen from above. Blume was fascinated by the level of detail. There seemed to be hundreds of characters doing battle below.

Pernazzo pointed at the screen, revealing a woman’s silver bracelet on his arm. He indicated the level he had reached and asked, “You into World of Warcraft?”

“Me? No,” said Blume. “I’m an adult.”

He moved away from the computer and sat on a chesterfield sofa that smelled of yeast and dust. A Mars Bar wrapper lay on the floor at his feet.

Pernazzo picked up a pair of balled-up mauve socks from the floor.

Blume could smell them from where he sat. Pernazzo bent down and put them on, then straightened up and asked, “What’s this about?”

“You were detained at an illegal dog fight. Remember?” said Blume.

“That? Is that what this is about?”

“Why? Is there something else it should be about?”

“No. It’s just it was a while ago, you know. And it was the Carabinieri, not the police.” Pernazzo licked chapped lips.

Blume settled into the brown velvet chesterfield. He thought he could smell fish from his left. He brought his hand up to his nose to block the smell, then turned his gesture into a yawn, which became real.

“You are tired,” said Pernazzo settling into a plastic-covered club chair opposite Blume. “I never am.”

“No?”

“If you sleep, you lose,” said Pernazzo. “I follow the Uberman sleep schedule. It maximizes my REM sleep and minimizes non-REM sleep, which is just a waste of time.”

“I see,” said Blume, and yawned again.

“What you have to do is take six twenty-minute hyper-sleeps, every four hours. When you close your eyes, you go straight into REM, skipping four unnecessary phases. It’s called polyphasic sleeping.”

“And you do this?”

“Yeah, it’s raised my productivity.”

Foul air seemed to be seeping up from inside the brown cushions. Blume leaned forward. A gray Champion backpack sat beside Pernazzo’s computer desk.

“You work in computers,” said Blume.

“I write scripts for Web sites. Some of the companies I work for are big names, but I am paid fuck all, and the work’s never regular. No stable income. You think that’s fair?”

Blume had no opinions on the matter.

“Nobody pays for quality, either. I do quality work. High intelligence doesn’t pay.”

“Depends on your unit of measurement,” said Blume.

“Euros,” said Pernazzo. “I did day trading for a while. Naturally, I was good at it, but you can’t do much with the Italian stock market. The MIBTEL gained, what, five percent over the year? In the same period, the Dow Jones Industrial was up twenty-three percent.”

“You lost money?”

“Of course I did. You can’t make money in this fucked-up country.”

“So you started gambling.”

“I have always gambled, as you put it. Usually I win.”

Pernazzo seemed to have sunk down into the chair so that its arms were higher than his.

“So you’re a winner. Tell me, is this house yours?”

“Of course it is.”

“Did you buy it?”

“No. It used to be my mother’s. She died a few months ago.”

Blume ignored the opportunity to express his condolences. “And your father?”

“He abandoned my mother before I was born. Makes me a bastard.”

“I see. Your mother’s name was?”

“What? You don’t believe I had a mother? Her name was Serena.”

“Serena Pernazzo. You took her surname,” said Blume.

“Yes. This was her house. Now it’s mine because she’s dead.”

“What did she die of?”

“Old age.”

“Is that what is says on the death certificate?”

“The death certificate says she died of heart failure.”

“Where did she die?”

“In her room.”

“In this house? Mind if I take a look?”

Pernazzo sprang out of his chair. “Of course I mind. What’s this got to do with dog fighting? Have you got a search warrant?”

“No. Do you think I need one?”

Pernazzo went over to his computer, moved the gray backpack toward the wall, and started shutting down programs, turning his back on Blume.

“If you’re not going to ask me any more questions about the dog fight, then I have no reason to speak to you.”

“You’re very nervous.”

“That’s your fault.”

“So, have you given up on illegal dog fighting?”

“Yes.”

“You’re only saying that because I used the word illegal. Have you thought about looking for help for your gambling problem?”

“I don’t have a gambling problem. I usually win.”

“So you have plenty of money?”

“Enough.”

“But not enough to afford you own house until your mother died.”

“That’s because I only play small amounts.” Pernazzo’s voice went up. “I am not a dupe. I read systems. I studied form for horses, but there are many other factors, which I couldn’t know about. Dog races have better odds. Ask anyone. Anyhow, it’s all fixed.”

“So why play if it’s fixed?”

Pernazzo looked at Blume as if he were an idiot. “Because if you learn how they’re fixing it, then you bet the same way.”

“That’s what you did?”

“For a while, but then they notice, and you have to stop. Those Neapolitans that run the greyhound races in Valle Aurelia, they don’t like people winning.”

“So you moved from greyhounds to illegal dog fights,” said Blume. “Doesn’t look to me like you’re much good at any of this.”

“That’s because you know nothing about it!” Pernazzo writhed with frustration in his chair at Blume’s stupidity. “I study tactics. I was learning Alleva’s system. It was just a question of time.”

“Ah, so you know Alleva. What about his helper and enforcer, Massoni? Ever heard of him?”

“I might know the name,” Pernazzo said to the screen.

“Angelo, turn around. It’s rude to talk to people like that. Did your mother teach you nothing?”

Pernazzo twisted around in his seat.

“It looks to me like you could do with more REM sleep,” said Blume.

“I’m fine.”

“Your eyes are moving rapidly now,” said Blume. “Did you owe Alleva money?”

“I did once,” said Pernazzo. “But I paid him.”

“Just once. Where did you pay him?”

“Not him. That guy you mentioned. I can’t remember his name.”

Blume looked at Pernazzo’s feet. They were both pointed directly toward the door. A fat yellow toenail protruded through a hole in one of his socks.

“Massoni.”

“Yes, him,” said Pernazzo “Did Massoni come here?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“When?”

“A year ago. I can’t remember.”

“Was your mother alive then?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t she alarmed?”

“She never even saw him. I deal with my own shit.”

“Earlier on I was talking to a man called Dandini. Do you know him?”

“No.” Pernazzo shook his head.

“He is troubled by his gambling. I think you should be, too.”

“Well I’m not.”

“OK. What’s in that bag?”

“What bag?”

“The one at your feet.”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Can I look?”

“No. No, you cannot. I’m not sure I even have to answer your questions.”

“Why can’t I look?”

Pernazzo picked up the bag, tossed it to him. Even as he caught it, Blume realized it was empty.

“OK, I won’t look if it annoys you. Angelo, I’m very thirsty. Can I trouble you for a glass of water?”

For a moment, Pernazzo seemed to freeze. He jerked out of his chair and sat down again. Then he picked up the gray backpack and carried it out of the living room.

“I’ll just take my personal belongings away,” he said. “You’re not allowed to look at anything, you know.”

“I know the rules,” said Blume.

As soon as Angelo had left, he stood up, went over to the computer desk. He saw a silver dollar, and picked it up, turned it over in his hand.

Nineteen seventy-six. He had been in—what—last year of grade school?

First year of junior high? He called tails, tossed it, got tails. Sitting next to the mouse were two empty plastic tubs of a yellow crème dessert. Three black curled half-moon fingernail tops sat on top of an open page of a programming manual.

Angelo came back into the room with a glass of water. He scanned his desk, Blume’s hands, and then his face.

“You were spying into my computer.”

“Great graphics,” said Blume. “That’s one of those online fantasy games, isn’t it? I’ve heard of them. Are you any good?”

“I am one of the best. Possibly the best in the country, certainly in Rome,” said Pernazzo.

“You ever been out of Rome?”

“Sure.”

“Ever been to the States?”

“No.”

“I see you have a silver dollar.”

Pernazzo said nothing.

“So you’re good at this game?”

“One of the best. Level seventy.”

“Really? And how many levels are there?”

“Sixty.”

“If there are sixty levels . . . ,” began Blume.

“Sixty levels for most people. But when you reach the top, there is a higher plane.”

“Sounds very frustrating,” said Blume.

Pernazzo handed him a glass. It was greasy around the rims, and caked with lime scale inside.

“I can’t drink from this,” said Blume. “It’s filthy.”

“Do as you fucking please.”

“Very well, I’ll do it myself,” said Blume and walked quickly out of the living room into the kitchen.

Blume placed the glass on top of a pile of unwashed dishes and pizza cartons. He opened a food cupboard and peered inside. Potato chips, Pavesi chocolate drop biscuits, Rice Krispies, UHT milk cartons, Nutella, pasta in the shape of wagon wheels, Knorr mixes, and a single jar of Skippy peanut butter.

Pernazzo appeared in the doorway behind him, panting a little.

“I see you have peanut butter,” said Blume.

Pernazzo pulled a piece of kitchen towel from beneath a toaster, dislodging a shower of crumbs. He wiped the side of his mouth with the towel, balled it up, put it on the counter.

“So?”

“Where did you get it?”

“Supermarket, I suppose.”

“Really? You see, I like peanut butter, but it’s hard to find in this city.

Not as hard as it was once, but still. Which supermarket?”

“I can’t remember.”

“A local one?”

“I can’t remember, OK?”

“OK. Do you get the supermarket to deliver? Some supermarkets, they put your shopping in a cardboard box, bring it to your house. Ever hear of that?”

“No.”

“You never heard of it? I think they all do it now.”

“Well, I never heard of it.”

“There’s nothing clean in here, Pernazzo. Can’t you afford a maid?”

“I’m not interested.”

“Do you have a girlfriend, Angelo?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Blume looked again at the peanut butter. “You know what?” he said.

“That has a bar code on it. Now that could be useful.” He picked up the jar, which had no top. It was slippery in his hand. “Mind if I borrow this?”

“Of course I mind,” said Pernazzo.

“You’re right, of course,” said Blume. “I have no right to deprive you of food.” He ripped the label off the jar and pocketed it.

“You can’t do that!” Pernazzo’s voice rose to a squeak.

“I just did,” said Blume. “I’m interested in seeing if this came from a certain supermarket. That can’t worry you, can it?”

“Chain of evidence!” said Pernazzo. “You can’t just—you need other police in here, search warrants. You have to log evidence.”

“You’ve been watching too much television, Pernazzo. And this is just personal curiosity on my part. I don’t see why you should be so worried.”

Pernazzo seemed to have entered a sort of trance. “You can’t use that type of barcode for the exchange of information keyed to a unique identifier without referential integrity.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t quite following you there,” said Blume. “What I want to find out is whether this label got beeped through a checkout at a certain supermarket. If you want, you can have the label back afterwards.”

Pernazzo opened his eyes wide, like Blume used to do when trying not to sleep in the classroom.

“Angelo, your whole setup here. You know what it says to me? It says loser.”

“Well, you’re wrong. You’re the loser.”

“How much money did you lose to Alleva?”

“Who says I even lost? Maybe I won.”

“You said you lost. You said it yourself. You paid off a debt to Massoni last year.”

Pernazzo brought a finger up to touch what seemed like a very faint moustache. “You always lose at the beginning. That’s how it works. Then you get better at it. You get knowledge, skills, weapons, you move up. Eventually you become the best there is.”

“Maybe in your games. Not in real life, Angelo. You never win gambling with criminals.”

“That’s just where you’re wrong. I have it hacked. I know how it’s done.”

“How the dog fights are done?”

Pernazzo touched his nose, licked his lips, scratched his crotch. “It’s valuable knowledge.”

“I won’t tell,” said Blume. “Promise. Let’s go back into the living room, and you tell me about it.”

Blume had been breathing shallowly while in the kitchen, which was worse than the living room. He was lusting after the idea of drawing a deep breath of air as soon as he got out of the building. When they returned to the living room, he remained standing. Christ, he needed to get out of there.

“So tell me. How have you hacked it to make such a success of your gambling?”

“I know their underdog trick.”

“The underdog trick. How does that work?”

Pernazzo moved away from Blume and stood by the shuttered window. It was dark outside now. The storm rumbled in the background.

“It works like this,” said Pernazzo. “They get the meanest animal, some big as fuck Rottweiler, stick him in a cage with other dogs. They give the dogs water, but don’t feed them for about three days. Any longer than that, the animals lose strength permanently. Then they throw in a hunk of meat. Total frenzy. The meanest dog fights the others, wins. But every time he tries to eat, the others set on him again. Any time one of them tries to get the meat, the others go for him. You following?”

“Yes.”

“But sometimes there is a dog that doesn’t attack. He hangs back, lets the others do the fighting, and when the top dog is defending his place, he sneaks in and grabs a small piece of meat. A nibble, retreat, a nibble, retreat. That dog became the hidden champion. The underdog.”

“I get it. So they create the underdog, then get people to bet against it?”

“They build up a bit of a record for the champion big dog, the Rottweiler or what ever, get the clueless punters to lay bets on him, and he wins a few fights. Then one day, they bring out the underdog, which they’ve been training to be really fucking mean. They file his teeth, too. Make them real sharp. So now it’s mean as well as clever, pumped full of hormones, fed on raw meat, milk. No grains. Throw him in against some big dog, clean up on the fight. Except next time, I’ll have my money on the underdog.”

“Angelo, did you just make up that bullshit?”

“It’s not bullshit!” Pernazzo’s voice became shrill.

“You didn’t make it up, then?”

“No!”

“OK, so who told you? Who explained the underdog strategy to you?”

Pernazzo brought a pink hand up to his mouth and nibbled at a fingernail. Blume repeated his question.

“I don’t have to tell you my sources.”

“No, you don’t have to tell me, because I know. Only two people could have told you that. Alleva, who, by the way, was a con man before he became a dog man, or else his helper, Massoni, whose name you couldn’t remember. I wonder how much they were going to take you for? You are a loser, Angelo,” said Blume. “And you are a lousy liar, too. You have been in close contact with Massoni and Alleva. Close enough for them to feed you a line of bullshit.”

Pernazzo hunched his back and took a step toward Blume. Pernazzo was small, but Blume’s instinct made him take a step backward.

“Get out of this house,” he said.

Blume ignored him. “Have you ever heard of Arturo Clemente?”

“No.”

“You never heard of him?”

“Never.”

“Even though he was the man responsible for bringing television cameras and the Carabinieri to one of Alleva’s dog fights?”

“No.”

“Even though you were detained that evening?”

“No.”

“Even though you said a few words to the television cameras. Even though just before coming here I watched you giving your opinions on bear-baiting.”

Silence.

“Did you not even watch the TV documentary when it aired? You must have wanted to see yourself on TV.”

“Leave my house now or I will call the Carabinieri.”

“No you won’t. But if you don’t want to see me again, I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me some fingerprints and saliva samples?” said Blume.

“What for?”

“To exclude you from our inquiries.”

“Inquiries into what?”

“The murder of Arturo Clemente.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ah. There’s that phrase again. Where were you yesterday morning?”

“Here at home.”

“Can anyone else confirm that?”

“No. But I was online playing Texas Hold’em poker.”

“Really? If I remember correctly, that’s illegal in Italy. Did you win at that, at least?”

Pernazzo shrugged.

“A bit. The pot wasn’t big.”

“Help me here, Angelo,” said Blume. “How can I be sure you were online like you said?”

“That’s your problem.”

“No, Angelo. I think it’s yours.”

“What? Because it’s illegal?”

“Because it’s not much of an alibi.”

“I was playing from seven in the morning until the early afternoon.”

Blume went over to the computer. “Show me,” he said.

Pernazzo stood up and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Blume tried not to look at the silver gleam between Pernazzo’s knuckles as he pressed the keys on his keyboard, making the fantasy landscape dissolve.

“This is the program,” he said.

Blume watched as the name “Full Tilt Poker” appeared on-screen. A virtual felt table appeared. Four avatars sat around a table. A busty woman, a frog, a dog, and a cowboy. “Which one is you?”

“None of these. We’re just observing others. You think all of a sudden I’m playing there and talking to you? I have to sign in, join a table. You don’t get it, do you?”

“No. I don’t,” said Blume. “So when you join, what are you? A woman, a dog, an insect, what?”

Pernazzo closed the program. “That’s my business.”

“And you were playing this game all Friday morning?”

“Sure. You can get your IT department to check my IP. I know they spy on us anyhow.”

The fantasy landscape reappeared on-screen. Blume moved the mouse to pop up the Windows taskbar, but nothing happened.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I was trying to pop up that clock thingy, check the time.”

“This isn’t a Windows system. The clock’s on the top.”

“Ah, so it is.” It showed nine fifteen. He had to meet Kristin at nine thirty. He was not going to make it.

“OK. I’m going to go away, have someone check your IP address like you said. I’m going to check that label, and I’m going to think a bit about Angelo Pernazzo the underdog, the loser. This will take me up to two days. For two days, therefore, we will be watching you. Any attempt to leave Rome will result in your immediate arrest, and then we’ll come in here and tear this rat’s nest you call home apart. So just sit there and play your computer games until I knock. Think you can do that?”

Blume took out a card with the station number and his name and rank on it, and held it out. Pernazzo plucked the card from Blume’s large hand, skimmed it toward the computer desk. He missed and the card fluttered to the floor.

“You might want to engage the services of a lawyer or”—Blume pointed to the computer—“enlist some elves and wizards to help you.”