Read The Bastards of Pizzofalcone for Free Online Page B

reading men; and yet she was able to sense Lojacono’s state of mind, even if those almond-shaped eyes never changed their expression. But the corners of his mouth, the way he carried himself, the way he moved his hands—these spoke loud and clear. Maybe it was just a matter of paying attention. Maybe it was because what he thought of as a fine, warm friendship meant something else to her, even though she would never have admitted it, even to herself.
    Lojacono took a seat at the corner table that she held for him even when, as was so often the case, there was a waiting list a yard long. Letizia’s trattoria was quite the hot spot, in part because of the proprietress’s physical beauty and personal charm. Her customers loved the traditional cooking, and her full breasts and dazzling smile made a pleasing side dish.
    Wives and girlfriends could count on the fact that she never overstepped the bounds of amiable professional courtesy, always keeping things on a cordial but not especially personal footing, and so they packed the restaurant hoping that the proprietress might sing the house a song, the way she sometimes did. They would even joke about her attitude toward the man with the Asian features, the only person in the restaurant who seemed to be unaware that Letizia was in love with him; it was like eating an excellent meal while enjoing a live telenovela. What could be better?
    â€œWhat’s wrong, you’re worried, aren’t you? Is it about Marinella?” she asked, sitting down at his table and wiping her hands on her apron.
    He barely looked up from the bowl of rigatoni al ragù that he was rapidly polishing off.
    â€œOne of these days you’re going to have to explain to me what it is you put in this ragù. I can’t get enough, even when I’m not hungry. And as long as you’re at it, you could tell me how you manage to read my mind. She’s going to a party, a birthday party. Tonight, she’s going.”
    â€œSo what? What’s wrong with that? A birthday party’s hardly dangerous, as far as I know.”
    â€œThat’s what you think, that it isn’t dangerous,” Lojacono replied, his mouth full. “Anything can be dangerous if you’re fifteen years old and you’re a pretty girl. Do you know that the majority of drug users get started at exactly this sort of party?”
    Letizia laughed: “Are you crazy? What drug users? Instead of being happy that she finally has some friends! And after all, it’s just a birthday party . . . You ought to go to a party yourself. You’re getting old and dreary, Peppuccio.”
    She was the only person who called Lojacono by the nickname his friends had used back home, when he was a kid.
    â€œBut if I wasn’t old and dreary, do you think I’d come here for dinner?”
    While Letizia was getting ready to fire back a sharp retort, Lojacono’s cell phone rang. On the display the name “Laura” was blinking, perfectly visible to Letizia, too. The lieutenant apologized, picked up his phone, and headed outside, followed by the proprietress’s suddenly black mood and the diners’ curious gazes.
    â€œ
Ciao!
How did your first day of school go?”
    The Sardinian accent and the cheerful voice immediately put Lojacono in a happier mood, in spite of the fact that the instant he set foot outside of the restaurant he was buffeted by a violent drenching gust of wind and rain; but for some obscure reason he didn’t want to talk to her in front of Letizia.
    â€œ
Ciao
. You’re well informed, as always, eh? Mind telling me how you know?”
    The woman chuckled, and Lojacono felt as if he could see her, dimples and all.
    â€œDon’t forget, I’m a magistrate, and no one can hide anything from me. Especially when I’m interested in something, I always have a way of finding things out. Well, how did it go?”
    â€œWell, what can I tell