9

Next Urbino went to the restaurant in the Calle degli Albanesi that Rigoletti had made his call from. It was little more than a small snack bar with booths and a counter in the back. A television beamed down from a corner above the counter. It was crowded with youths, most of them not in costume. Loud music competed with the video music program on the television. Smoke was thick in the air.

A young woman was painting a boy’s face as his friends watched and laughed. She looked vaguely familiar and for a moment he thought she might be the girl in the Piazza who had pointed him out to Leo and the other boys, the girl Xenia Campi was trying to interest Giuseppe in. But she gave him only a quick glance and turned quickly back to her work. He must be mistaken.

Urbino went up to the counter and asked the waitress, her black hair cut at oblique angles, if she had been working the night the English photographer was murdered.

She shook her head.

“Do you know anyone who was here that night?”

“Lupo,” she shrilled out above the noise. “This man wants to talk with you.”

A tall, thin young man with closely cropped hair dyed blond came from the back. It looked as if he had black eyeliner on. “What do you want? Are you with the police?”

“No.”

“You’re not Italian, are you?” he said, picking up on Urbino’s slight accent.

“No, but I live here in Venice,”

“So what do you want with me?”

“The girl tells me you were working here the night they found the man in the Calle Santa Scolastica.”

Instead of answering, Lupo stared back at him.

“I was wondering if you noticed anything unusual that night.”

“What’s it to you if I did? I’ve already talked to the police. It was very busy here that night. It’s Carnevale. I didn’t know anything was wrong until that man who lives in the Corte Santa Scolastica came in to call the police. He has a problem, that one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Always complaining about the music, about the kids who hang out here, about how we’re weird and not normal. He should talk! He’s an old relic. We like to have our fun with him.”

He returned to his friends. On the way out Urbino looked for the young woman painting faces. She had left. As he was going down the Calle degli Albanesi toward the Riva degli Schiavoni, he heard footsteps behind him.

“Excuse me, signore, you were asking Lupo about the night they found the man in the Calle Santa Scolastica?”

Urbino turned to see an emaciated boy about eighteen.

“Do you know something?”

“I might,” he said, looking nervously behind him and running his tongue over his lower lip.

Urbino knew what he was dealing with and held out a ten-thousand-lira note. The boy frowned and Urbino took out another. He grabbed them and stuffed them into his filthy jeans.

“So?” Urbino prompted.

“I was in the place that night. A man with short light hair came in about ten o’clock. He was by himself. He had a drink but he stayed by the door, looking out, as if he was looking for someone or expecting someone to come along. He didn’t pay much attention to anybody in here. He was young, younger than you, but not young like the kids who hang around the restaurant. He stayed for about ten minutes. I went out a little while after he did. I saw him going down toward the Calle Santa Scolastica. And there was another thing.”

He paused and licked his lower lip again. Urbino gave him another ten thousand lire.

“He was like you,” the boy said with an air of triumph.

“Like me? What do you mean?”

“He was an American. He spoke Italian with an American accent. His Italian wasn’t good, not like yours, but he was an American just like you.”

He went back up the calle to the restaurant.