He lies on the Jester's cart - 1
- Good evening, Chief.
The neon light casts a cold glow on the white walls. Bare, except for the photo of the President of the Republic staring serenely into space, a crooked police banner hanging beside it, and on the opposite side, scattered newspaper clippings framing the shoulders of the only man occupying the room. He sits behind one of the four desks, piled with papers, two arranged opposite two others, marking the room's layout. He is bent over the newspaper, indifferent.
The uniformed man removes his hat as soon as he enters through the door and quickly approaches the edge of the desk occupied by the commissioner. The papers rustle and flutter from the cold draft blowing through the room. The balcony door is open, and the city lights spill in, reflecting yellowish and warm in the glass.
- Chief, you need to stop smoking in here. And it's freezing when you keep the windows open. On top of that, there's a mad draft all through the station. That De Michele is just waiting to cause a ruckus, and you know it. Why do you always provoke reactions?
The man seated slowly turns the page of the newspaper. The cigarette butt rests on the edge of the ashtray, extinguished as it reached the filter.
- Can I close it?
The man dismissively waves his hand.
- God, it's freezing. You’re trying to make us suffer with this.
- Listen, Cesarano, did you come here tonight just to piss me off? Because I'm really not in the mood to have you buzzing in my ears. So if that's the case, you can go to hell.
- Chief, for God's sake, what are you saying? You know I'm saying this because I care. You're a good person, but if you're not careful, these guys will screw you over for the smallest things.
The man has a dark overcoat draped over his shoulders, his black hair tousled, long enough to curl at his neck and temples. His arms are crossed, resting on the desk, as he hunches over the newspaper. The crime section page.
Cesarano struggles a bit with the window latch before managing to close it and walks back. He stops near the desk and places a hand on the corner, leaning in slightly to read the large headline in the middle of the page.
- Terrible story, huh?
The commissioner grunts in agreement.
- What could have been going through his head?
- I don’t know.
- Some people have everything, and it’s still not enough.
The commissioner grunts again in agreement.
- Chief, aren’t you going home?
The man lifts his head from the newspaper and stares intently at Cesarano.
- What have you got going on?
The man stands up. The chair’s wheels creak as they roll backward. He reaches for his car keys and walks away quickly.
Cesarano watches him go.
- Did they assign you the case? - he shouts as he sees him crossing the doorway.
In the distance, he hears the commissioner’s voice echoing down the hallway.
- Just what the chief needed…
The sound of footsteps on the wet asphalt is strange, like walking on insect carcasses. He tries to glide over it as lightly as possible until he reaches the handle and opens the car door. He slips into the car; the seats are worn from too many uses, and the windows should be rolled down to air out the heavy smell of smoke ingrained in them. The only solution is to light another cigarette while the old Twin Spark with over two hundred thousand kilometers coughs to life again.
Let’s go. Where are we going?
There’s little traffic tonight; everyone’s home, pounding fists on tablecloths, armchair and beer in hand, distracting themselves from the horror of this night. The road to the highway ramp is clear, and he shifts into third gear, presses the pedal, then shifts into fourth. The fuel gauge needle is dangerously low, dipping toward the left. The ramp is steep and curves, the iodine lights disappearing quickly, leaving only the low beams to light the way. They are low and uneven, bent from too many collisions or rough parking jobs. It’s pitch black, a new moon, but the road is familiar, almost like driving on autopilot.
He turns on the service radio, just for company. He hates music, he hates silence. The crackling of service communications flows by like the dashed lines of the lanes, just some public order updates near the stadium, but otherwise, everything is calm. Even the clouds seem to have gone, or at least it seems so, but it’s so dark that anything and its opposite could be true.
The industrial area is getting closer, brightly lit like an oasis in this black hole. Large signs with foreign names rise high above the prefab warehouses. Sleek logos and, behind them, chimneys point toward the sky. There’s only one gap in this mosaic of light. He stops in front of it.
He gets out of the car and looks at the sign fixed to the green gate.
Prosud S.p.A.
Yellow tape marks the area. From the gate, the fire-ravaged remains of the building rise up—a three-story structure of glass and concrete, blackened and twisted by the fury of the flames. There’s a sweet smell in the air, and the wet ash seems to have soaked into everything around it.
Further on, the employee entrance is visible. There’s a funeral notice posted nearby. He turns on the high beams and steps out of the car, walking toward it with short strides, hands in his pockets.
It reads:
Marzio Solimena has passed away. His passing is mourned by his mother, his brothers, and the entire management of Prosud. The funeral will be held on September 11th at the Church of S. Maria delle Grazie.
That’s what it says.
September 11th.
That’s today’s date.
Copyright © The MaDMan, 2013. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without permission.
Lovely narration man, love the way how you paint the characters and the scene! And I like the way each character has a unique, palpable personality
Man, this is the type of stuff the legends of hardboiled detective fiction, and pulp noir are made of. Not just saying so I mean it. Stikes the perfect balance between sophisticated prose and a tone of vague simplicity that allows the reader to follow the story without their senses being overridden by too many details. I like the tiny details that are specified like the car's mile gauge and turning on the radio to kill the silence. Hates music but hates silence. Just news reports to make some noise. Great pulpy noir ... I hunt for this type of stuff. The car coughs to life. That was another dope line.