Martusciello remained in his office with the cabbie and Carità; he took Menico Gargiulo’s ID and turned his back to the window, to get better light, so he could read the details and get a clearer view of the picture.
He laughed, this snapshot bore no relationship to the face of the man sitting across from him. From the driver’s license came the smile of a fair-haired young man in his early twenties, with light-colored eyes.
“Why, you should have told me that you were Prince Charming in your younger years! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put that down immediately.” He glared at Carità. “Weren’t you going to say anything?”
“Forgive me, Captain, I thought he was reading his own papers, to sign them.” Menico Gargiulo had picked up a sheet of paper from Martusciello’s desk, and was still reading.
“Now, don’t get bent out of shape, everyone knows what’s written here. It’s Pulcinella’s secret,” he concluded, using the Neapolitan term for an open secret.
“Gargiulo, have you mistaken police reports and transcripts of depositions for magazines to leaf through in a waiting room? And what do you mean by ‘everyone knows what’s written here’?”
“That is what I mean. If I explain Pulcinella’s secret then you’ll let me go? I’ll give you a nice quick overview of all these papers, it’ll save you lots of time.”
“Tell us and then we’ll decide.”
“You start with the minor leagues, it’s better, it’s easier. The players get smaller salaries so the money they’re paid to throw the games is more attractive. Which is to say, it makes a bigger impression. Plus in the minor leagues the kicking is bad, the brawls after the matches too, so your career isn’t going to last as long. The gentlemen in the betting parlors, which are now legal, have two sections: one people know about, and one people don’t know about. Right?”
“One that’s legal and one that’s illegal,” Carità translated, clearly enunciating the final l’s.
“I didn’t speak to you, and I wouldn’t if you paid me.”
“Drop dead,” Carità replied, losing his impeccable diction in the process. Martusciello put an end to the exchange.
“Go on, Gargiulo.”
“Now then, hunger can bring on a nastier kind of hunger, and so people start climbing the ladder. They move into higher markets. Notice this detail: only some, because the ones who are specialized in the minor leagues stay there, and if you ask me, that’s a smart move because they’re not as likely to get caught. Certain others might climb the ladder: Series B, Series A. The game works in exactly the same way. The gentlemen who run the parlors take the bets, and they especially take them in large number for certain matches. They take them regulation and they take them secret, illegal, however you call them. They take advantage of the addiction of sports fans: Atalanta wins and wins; Roma wins and wins; Chievo wins and wins; Cremonese wins and wins; Bari wins and wins; Como wins and wins; Bologna wins and wins; Ascoli wins and wins; Juve wins and wins. And so on. The names of the teams I just mentioned, Captain, are taken at random, the first names that came into my head from the Panini soccer cards album from when I was just a tyke. So let’s say that the owners take in two or three million euros per parlor on the victory that is supposed to come from the team they love best, or even more, I’m just giving examples. At this point they contact the players that we already know about, better yet, the strikers, all you need is three good players, maybe the goalie could be the wild card. They pay and the players arrange for a tie, let’s say. The gambling parlors take in the money plus they have the advantage of a nice little money laundering operation, with the money from neighboring business sectors: loan-sharking, shakedowns and protection, drugs, arms, and things like that, and then they invest that money in other businesses. Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly.” Martusciello looked around for his lighter.
“And I know that, in particular, you already know all about this whole thing. Now you tell me: how could it be that a fake taxi driver like me, who barely makes end meet with a few pennies picked up in out-of-the-way corners of the city . . . ”
“A few pennies?” Carità blurted out. “You pick up in a year the retirement fund that I’ll never see!”
“I didn’t speak to you, and I already told you I wouldn’t, you have nasty manners.”
“Go on, Gargiulo.” Martusciello took the first puff, the best of all.
“Now, how could it be that a flea like me knows all this and you don’t? The truth is that you know it too, and you’re content, even, that the industry can’t be stopped. Factories can shut down, the world economy is such a fucking mess that even the biggest sharks are eating each other alive, the only decent source of revenue left is soccer. And wherever you find profits you’re going to find hungry crows. Let’s just say that the crows are the melancholy cost of doing business.” Martusciello put out his cigarette in the triangular Pepsi ashtray, which followed him from office to office along with his Bakelite telephone.
“We know it, you claim. Fine. Still, we need the criminal complaints, the statements. Now Carità is going to be so good as to draw up a regular police report of your admirably detailed testimony and you’re going to sign it for us.”
“As you like, but then we’re going to say goodbye and we’re friends as before.” Martusciello lowered his chin just once. Carità was overwhelmed with astonishment.
“Really?”
“Really.” Menico Gargiulo signed his named with a final self-satisfied o.
Carità extended his hand and accompanied him to the door, which he closed carefully with a certain respect.
“Captain, I would never have expected this honorable behavior from the taxi driver.”
“Fake taxi, fake license plate, fake driver’s license, super-fake photograph on a fake driver’s license. Fake name. The honorary signature didn’t even cost him a penny’s worth of risk.”
“So why did you let him go?”
“Because his account is believable, at least in part, and it’s useful to me.”
“I’ll never understand you, Captain.”
“Or I you. It’s why we love each other.”