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resumed his daily stroll, heading for home and the crossword puzzle.
    AS THE WIND BLEW, PUSHING CHILLY GUSTS OF AIR under his loden overcoat, Rocco decided that all things considered, it could have gone worse. A suicide just meant a series of bureaucratic procedures to get out of the way, the kind of thing you could take care of in an afternoon’s work. His plan was simple: leave the bureaucratic details to Casella, talk to Rispoli and find out what idea she’d come up with for Nora’s present, go home, get a half-hour nap, take a shower, go back out and buy the present, go out to dinner with Nora at eight, after an hour and a half pretend he had a crushing migraine, take Nora home, and then hurry back to his place to watch the second half of the Roma-Inter game. Acceptable.
    Just as the wind died down and a fine chilly drizzle began to pepper the asphalt, cold as the fingers of a dead man’s hand, Rocco stepped into the Bar Alpi. A strong smell of alcohol and confectioner’s sugar washed over him, like a warm, welcome hug from a friend.
    â€œBuongiorno.”
    The man behind the counter gave him a smile. “Hello. What’ll it be?”
    â€œA nice hot espresso with a foamy cloud of milk . . . and I’d like a pastry. Do you have any left?”
    â€œSure . . . go ahead and take what you like, right there . . .” He pointed to a Plexiglas case with an electric heater where breakfast pastries were on display. Rocco grabbed a strudel while the barista ratcheted the porta-filter into place and punched the button that applied pressure to the boiling water. He heard the clack of billiard balls from the other room in the bar. Only now did he notice that the walls were covered with pictures of Juventus players and black-and-white team scarves. Rocco went over to the counter and poured half a pack of sugar into his coffee. It took awhile for the sugar to sink into the hot dense liquid. A clear sign that this was a good espresso. He took a sip. It really was good. “You make a first-rate espresso,” he told the barman, who was busy drying glasses.
    â€œMy wife taught me how.”
    â€œNeapolitan?”
    â€œNo. Milanese. I’m the Neapolitan in the family.”
    â€œSo, you’re saying that you’re a Neapolitan who roots for Juventus and that a woman from Milan taught you how to make espresso?”
    â€œPlus I’m tone deaf,” the man added. They both laughed.
    Another sharp clack from the next room. Rocco turned around.
    â€œYou want to play some pool?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œLook out, those two are a pair of professional sharks.”
    Rocco slurped down the last of his espresso and strodeinto the next room, finishing off his strudel in a shower of crumbs down the front of his loden overcoat.
    THERE WERE TWO MEN. ONE WORE THE JUMPSUIT OF a manual laborer, the other a suit and tie. They’d just set the cue ball down on the table and were about to begin a game of straight pool. When they saw Rocco they both smiled. “Care to play?” asked the man in the jumpsuit.
    â€œNo, you guys go ahead. Mind if I watch?”
    â€œNot at all,” said the one who looked every bit the realtor. “Just watch me dismantle Nino, here. Nino, today I’m not taking prisoners!”
    â€œTen euros on the best out of three games?” asked the manual laborer.
    â€œNo, ten euros a game!”
    Nino smiled. “Then I’ve already made my end-of-year bonus,” he said, and shot the deputy police chief a wink.
    The realtor took off his jacket while the laborer chalked his pool stick with a vicious grin.
    Clack! And the three ceiling lamps that illuminated the green felt of the billiards table went dark simultaneously.
    â€œWell of all the damned . . . Gennaro!” shouted the realtor. From the bar the proprietor called back: “The power always goes out when it’s windy like this!”
    â€œTry paying your electric