SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 9:45 P.M.

MASSONI DROVE A BMW X5. Everyone drove an SUV nowadays, except Pernazzo. That was something else that was going to change. Another thunderstorm rolled down from Palestrina and burst as they climbed into the car. Massoni drove fast over the wet roads, one hand on the steering wheel. He seemed to be trying to send a text from his phone. At San Camillo Hospital, he did something that must have canceled all the hard work of the last few kilometers, because he braked, cursed, and hurled his phone on the floor in front of Pernazzo.

As the phone hit the floor it flashed and began to vibrate, and Antonello Venditti started singing “Quanto sei bella Roma.”

Massoni held out his right hand. “Give it back.”

Pernazzo stole a look at the screen before placing the phone in Massoni’s palm, but all he saw was a number.

Massoni flipped open the phone, cutting off Venditti’s anthem. “Yeah?” he said.

Massoni knew how not to reveal too much on a cell phone. After a series of monosyllables, he snapped the phone closed and announced, “We’re not going to Alleva.”

“What?”

“We’re not going. He says he doesn’t even want to see me, not till things have calmed down. He told me to take you home.”

Pernazzo mustered all the authority he could and said, “Keep driving in the direction you were going.”

Massoni ignored him.

“He’s fucking us over, that’s what he’s doing,” said Pernazzo.

“What’s with this ‘us’? He’s not meeting you, is all.”

“Think about it, Massoni. He wants you to stay with me while he gets away. You got to learn to think for yourself. Make him need—Brake!”

Massoni had already slammed his foot onto the brake pedal half a second before Pernazzo managed to shout. Pernazzo could feel a shuddering from beneath his feet as the antilock braking system locked and released the wheels in rapid cycles, and he could hear the wash of the rainwater spinning from the tires.

Massoni bashed the horn with his fist at the stationary car in front. They were going to make it.

Almost.

The SUV eased its way into the back of a small family car that had stopped dead in the middle of the street. The impact was negligible.

“Look at this guy!” said Massoni as the car they had just hit swerved out of sight and into a parking place to the right. “Causes a crash, then just finishes his parking.”

He opened the door and hopped out. Pernazzo waited a second, then followed suit.

Massoni walked around to the front of his car, bent his head, and examined for damage. Perhaps there was a slight dent in the fender, it was hard to tell. The other driver was arriving, white-faced. Water droplets from the large-leafed plane trees above splashed on his bald head. Massoni executed an elegant sweeping movement with his hand in the direction of his fender, like he was selling the car. A woman, presumably the wife, hurried away with two children. The woman had a fat ass. The girl had long sleek black hair that shone in the wet. Nice. Pernazzo watched them as they made for a pizzeria. The husband half- turned and followed them with his eyes, said something, then turned back to Massoni, and said in a loud voice, “If you want, we can call the police.”

Massoni said something that Pernazzo missed. He moved in closer and heard the bald man say, “Is that a threat?”

Evidently it was. Massoni grabbed the man’s lapel and yanked him in front of the car, pushed his head down, made him look at a scrape that Pernazzo couldn’t see.

The bald man said, “My car’s damaged worse. You’re at fault. Driver behind is always at fault.”

Massoni looked over at Pernazzo and gave him a can-you-believe-this-guy sort of grin.

“I need you to give me two hundred euros,” Massoni told the man.

“I don’t have two hundred euros.”

“Too bad,” said Massoni, “because that’s what the damage to my car is going to cost. You’re lucky I know a panel beater does discounts.”

“I don’t have that sort of money.”

“Listen to him. That sort of money. It’s exactly the same sort as what you have in your wallet.”

“I don’t have that much.”

“How were you going to pay for the pizzas?”

“They wouldn’t cost two hundred.”

Massoni reached out, pulled the guy toward him. “Just give me your wallet, see what’s in it.”

The man shook his shiny head, but when Massoni spun him round and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket, he did not put up much resistance. Massoni pulled out two fifties and a twenty, rubbed them between thumb and forefinger, folded them into his pocket, tossed the wallet high in the air between Pernazzo and the bald man. Pernazzo was faster, and leapt slightly to snatch it.

“Give me that,” said the man, finding his voice as Pernazzo opened it.

Pernazzo pulled out a supermarket points card, dropped it on the ground.

“There you go,” he said.

He pulled out a Visa card, a San Paolo ATM card, glanced at them, then flicked them to the ground, one by one, first to the left then to the right.

He pulled out a pink driver’s license, read out the name.

“Enrico Brocca. Pleased to meet you, Enrico.” He ripped the license in two, threw one piece leftward, the other rightward. Then he emptied the whole contents on the ground. Coins, cards scattered on the road. The man moved back and forth, almost on his knees, as he retrieved his belongings.

Massoni pulled back his leg and made as if to deliver a kick. The man covered his head with his arms, and Pernazzo laughed. “You’re lucky we’ve got places to be, Enrico,” he said.

The man walked slowly away toward the pizzeria. Just before he reached the front door, Pernazzo saw him bend, brush the wet from his pants, take a deep breath, raise his head, steady his walk.

Pernazzo and Massoni climbed back up into the car and sat there.

“You handled that pretty well,” said Pernazzo. “But there’s something missing in your method. You’re reactive only. You need to become more of a protagonist.”

Massoni spun the steering wheel and made a three-point turn, shaking a fist at the motorists coming from both directions. “I didn’t see you being much of a protagonist just now, standing there like a wet rat watching me.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you back home.”

They drove in silence for ten minutes. Then Pernazzo asked, “Where do you think Alleva is now?”

Massoni shrugged.

“Let me ask you something.”

Massoni drummed the steering wheel as he waited for a light to change.

“Have you got anything on Alleva?”

Massoni switched on Radio DeeJay, and after listening to the music a bit said, “I know that song. Robert someone. Sang it at Festivalbar. Good song.”

Pernazzo reached over and switched off the radio.

“You’re not listening to me.”

Massoni switched the radio on again. “You want me to break your fingers?”

Pernazzo left the radio on and spoke over the music. “The way I see it is this. You break fingers, hassle people a bit, but you haven’t done anything really important for Alleva. I’m not saying you’ve never killed a man, but you’ve never done it for Alleva, have you? I’m right, aren’t I?”

“So what?”

“He hasn’t let you see him do anything really bad, either. Right? That means you can’t compromise him.”

“Yeah. We’re still working together. So it’s good.”

“Not good. Bad.”

“I don’t become his enemy or a danger.”

“You are something he can walk away from. You’ve no leverage. Me, I’ve just given myself leverage on him by killing Clemente. Right now, he’s trying to figure out who I am. That’s what he’s delaying for.”

Massoni flicked on the windscreen wipers to brush away some droplets.

“I was just thinking, he might cut us out of the loop,” said Pernazzo.

“There you go with that ‘us’ again.”

“He’s excluding you, too. You’re not indispensable to him. You need to forge a bond that he can’t break even if he wants to.”

Massoni pushed his shoulders back into the seat, preparing to drive again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I can show you how. Right now.”

“Show me what?”

“How to get Alleva to respect you and need you.”

“He said he’s not meeting you.”

“We don’t need to meet him. Just drive back to that pizzeria where that guy dented your car.”

“Why there?”

“You want me to show you or not?”

“No.”

Massoni turned up the music and accelerated back in the direction of Pernazzo’s house.

“Are you sure there were no police watching my house?” said Pernazzo after listening through two Carmen Consoli songs back- to-back.

“Those are great, great songs,” said Massoni. “She’s a genius. Beautiful. The police don’t have the manpower to keep watch on important operators. You’re not even below their radar. You’re . . . further below their radar than a . . . You’re like an insect to them. Know what I’m saying? Hey, this is Lig-abue, listen to this one.” He turned up the volume even higher.

“Commissioner Blume,” said Pernazzo. “He said he’d be coming back. He found stuff at my place. I think he can connect me to the killing.”

Massoni turned down the volume. “There’s a commissioner who’s visited you already? He knows about Clemente?”

“He knows something. His card is in my wallet.”

“Give me it.”

Pernazzo gave Massoni Blume’s card.

“What does this guy have on you? How did he get to you so quickly?”

“I don’t know. But he’s got nothing on me. Nothing unless I tell him.”

“If you bring my name into it, or Alleva’s, you’re dead, you get that?”

“I got that.”

They had reached Pernazzo’s house. Massoni turned off the engine, then said, “Turn off the radio, Pernazzo.”

Pernazzo turned it off. When he turned around, Massoni was pointing a black pistol straight at his forehead.

“There is one way to make sure you don’t talk.”

“There is another way,” said Pernazzo, his voice rising to a squeak.

“This is the best way I can think of,” said Massoni.

“Not if I’ve written a full confession, naming you.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“No. I thought this might happen.”

“We’ll tear your place apart before the police get there. We’ll find it first,” said Massoni.

“It’s a blog on the Web. So far it’s an inactive blog without public access. They’ll take a while, but if I get killed, sooner or later the police will check my Internet activity and find it. That’s something you can’t do, no matter how many people you intimidate.”

Pernazzo closed his eyes tight and counted to three. Nothing happened. He kept counting. When he had reached seventeen, Massoni said, “So what’s your idea?”

Pernazzo opened his eyes again. “It’s not really an idea. It’s a trust thing. We’re warriors, right? We need to team up. Drive back to the pizzeria, and I’ll show you how.”

“If I drive you back there, what’ll you do?”

“Trust me. You’ll see.”

“What about this policeman and the confession you’ve put on the Internet?”

“Then we deal with that. It’s all part of the compact we have to make.”

Massoni shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he turned the car around.

10:45 P.M.

A quarter of an hour later, they were back at the scene of the accident.

“OK. Double-park sideways, on the road, but not in a way that blocks the traffic.”

“There’s a free space there,” said Massoni.

“No, double-park: it’s better.”

Massoni, finally, did as he was told.

“Now,” said Pernazzo. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a second.” He hopped out of the car, scuttled across the road, disappeared into the pizzeria. Two minutes later, he was back. He rapped on the driver’s side, and Massoni rolled down the window.

“OK. Let’s stay here five minutes.”

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

Massoni rolled up the window, turned up the music on the radio, and left Pernazzo outside, standing next to the car.

Pernazzo allowed slightly more than five minute to pass, then signaled to Massoni to get out. “Come on.”

Massoni followed Pernazzo across the road, onto the sidewalk. Pernazzo stopped, moved in against the wall. Massoni stopped, too, and stood in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You’re kind of noticeable,” hissed Pernazzo. “Stand to the side.”

“Noticeable for what?”

A group of seven people left the pizzeria and walked right past them chatting. Not one even glanced at them.

“You’re right,” said Pernazzo, easing himself away from the wall. “We just look like we’re waiting for a table. Ah!”

A woman and a man were walking out, arms linked. Massoni recognized the man as the one they had had a bit of fun with earlier. A child was trying to swing on the woman’s free arm. The silky-haired girl was behind. The four turned left, in their direction, and Pernazzo walked out in front of them.

Enrico Brocca and his wife unlinked arms. She was already backward, putting her hands over the child’s face, leaving her husband standing there alone.

Pernazzo raised his arm and fired his new Glock point-blank into the bald man’s heart.

As the man fell backward, Pernazzo fired into the middle of the egg-shaped face. The bullet came out the back of his skull like an exploding aerosol, so that when his head hit the concrete it was almost with a splash.

Pernazzo went over to the inert form on the sidewalk and fired into the lower abdomen, releasing a faint smell of beer.

Then, instead of retreating in the direction they had come from, Pernazzo continued in the same direction, passing by the wife, who was shielding her silent children’s eyes.

“That’s how you do it,” said Pernazzo over his shoulder. “Now you and me, we got a bond of trust we can’t break.”

Massoni stuck his hands in his pockets, put his head down, and walked quickly away from the scene.

Pernazzo had no time to savor it. People were arriving. Someone made a swallowing noise nearby, and he turned to see the woman, still huddled with her children, resolutely not looking at him.

He thought of the policeman then spat on the barrel of his Glock and rubbed it to make sure it wasn’t too hot to go back into his waistband. He wove his way through hissing traffic on the slippery tarmac, scampered down a narrow alleyway, eyes agleam, and was soon lost to sight.