‘Basta.’ The voice sounded mean, but it came as a relief.

I looked up through the warm blood which was dripping off my eyebrow. The fat barman from yesterday was retreating, sweating slightly after the effort of his little game of football.

The man who had called time put his face in mine. ‘Don’t ever come into my joint and wave a pistol at my staff.’ It was the Calabrian I had spoken to on the phone yesterday.

‘This the welcome you always offer your guests?’ I said, spitting out some blood.

‘The hotel is closed.’

‘I can see why.’

Fatso stepped forward wanting to go again, but the short one held out his hand and knelt down near my face. He pulled back my head by taking a fistful of hair. ‘You know who I am?’

‘Lo Bue, the manager of this shit-hole?’ I tried to sound casual.

‘Very good.’ The man smiled. His teeth appeared bright and expensive, out of keeping with the rest of his ugly face. He looked like an up-ended anvil: a thick nose on a narrow head. ‘My barman tells me you were here yesterday playing the tough guy. You were lucky he didn’t kill you.’ The man let go of my hair and my head smacked on to the floor.

‘What do you know about Ricky Salati?’ Lo Bue asked.

‘Ricky Salati?’ I repeated, trying to work out what was going on. ‘I told your heavy back there. He went missing in 1995. That’s all I know.’ I glanced up at Lo Bue. He looked more greedy than guilty.

‘Why are you interested?’ I asked him.

The man slapped me with the palm of his hand. It felt almost soft after the toe-caps I had taken already.

‘I was asking what you want. Why are you poking around now, asking questions? What’s the idea?’ The man put his face real close. I could smell whisky and mint. His skin was saggy and tired, even as he grimaced. ‘What’s it to you? What are you doing exactly?’

‘Trying to find out what happened to the boy. No one’s seen him for fourteen years. His mother’s died. There’s an estate.’ The man nodded and I took my chance: ‘You seem almost happy I came along.’

The man leaned forward and hit me with a backhand. I poked my tongue into a new hole on my lower lip and tasted the blood: it tasted like chestnuts.

‘I don’t think you know who I am,’ Lo Bue said. ‘What makes me happy is seeing debts paid and, if that’s not possible, punishing the debtors.’

I tried to look at him, but I couldn’t focus. Objects were blurring and swimming in front of me. I could feel the blood inside the bone above my ear throbbing and I couldn’t understand what the man was saying. But I felt on instinct that Lo Bue needed something. If he was holding a winning hand, he wouldn’t have invited me over for lunch.

I tried to figure out what was going on. Someone who had been involved in Ricky’s murder would hardly start playing the tough nut with an investigator. This felt more like Lo Bue wanted to find the boy, rather than bury him.

‘So Salati had debts with you?’ I slurred.

‘You’re quick,’ the man said. ‘The boy left a lot of debts around here. That’, he said with incongruous politeness, ‘is why I would like to know where he is. And if he isn’t alive, I would like to know what happened to our money. Clear?’

‘I don’t suppose any of you have any evidence of these debts?’

The man’s face seemed to sag further as he looked at me with tired disdain. ‘Don’t insult me.’

I flinched, expecting another blow, but nothing came. I tried to sit up, using my left arm to push myself up against the table.

‘What’s the figure?’

‘One hundred and twelve million lire.’ It sounded precise, as if the man had carried it around with him like a bad memory for years. ‘You want it in euros?’

I shook my head. I still count in lire. Always will probably. There was something about those zeros that made me feel better, like I was a wealthy man. Back in those days the lire had so many zeros we were all millionaires. Seems a long time ago now.

‘How did it happen?’ I slurred. My lips weren’t working properly any more.

‘What?’

‘How did he run up the debt?’

The man looked at me like he hadn’t expected to answer questions.

‘A straight game of scopa,’ he said quickly, as if he didn’t want to linger on a sore subject. ‘It happened every night. This one was the usual. The stakes were high and they were playing quick. I had nothing to do with the tables. I just served them. It was my joint. They came here to play. But I saw it all. He lost everything at one sitting.’

‘You let your staff play cards with your guests?’ I asked.

‘He was free to do what he wanted when he was off-duty. Listen,’ the man leaned close to me again, ‘don’t you worry about how I run my hotel. You just worry about finding out what happened to him, and remember that I’m interested in finding out what happened to our money.’

‘Oh that.’ I sneered. ‘I’m afraid that probably died with him.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. He was about to pay back. He had phoned me to arrange a meeting, said he was bringing round half of it that night he disappeared. He was about to settle.’ He said it again, trying to convince himself.

‘Debtors always say that.’

Lo Bue looked at me differently, with a trace of respect. ‘Yeah. But this time it was real. He said he had half of it.’

‘And why did you believe him?’

‘I knew him. He had worked here for two years. Trust me, he was on his way here to pay back. Someone got wind of it.’

‘You don’t think he found El Dorado?’

‘Ricky do a runner?’ He coughed a guffaw. ‘No. Someone got to him. Someone who knew he was flush.’

‘Like your stooge over there?’ I looked at the barman. I pulled myself to my feet, but the effort made my head throb more and I felt dizzy. It felt like we were on a ship. I didn’t want to show the pain, but closed my eyes to regain concentration.

‘You find any information’, I heard Lo Bue’s voice, ‘on what happened to him, you call me, clear?’

I nodded, and the barman stepped forward and pushed me towards the foyer so hard that I fell over.

Once I got outside the pedestrians stared at me. I caught sight of myself in a shop window and barely recognised what I saw.

I limped towards the station to get a train back to the city.

People kept looking at me all the way. One woman even asked if I wanted her to call a doctor.

When the train pulled in, I decided to head back towards Salati Fashions.

Salati’s shop was open. It was the day after the funeral, but the girl was in there serving customers.

‘Salati not around?’ I asked her.

She thumbed over her shoulder and I walked out back. Salati was sitting in a small kitchenette, staring into space.

I coughed quietly and he glanced up. ‘You again?’ He looked me over. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Perks of the job. Listen, something’s come up.’

‘What?’

‘Paternity.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Your father died in 1995, the year that Ricky went missing.’

‘I know. It meant my mother lost both husband and son in the same year.’

‘Happy marriage was it?’

Umberto looked up at me with wet eyes. ‘What?’

‘It just seems a coincidence. And in my trade coincidences don’t exist.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Just asking if you think it’s a coincidence?’

‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’ Salati was getting angry. He didn’t like hints that he couldn’t understand. He obviously thought his mother was as pure as the driven snow.

‘Let me tell you what I know. Your mother had an affair with a man called Massimo Tonin. Your younger brother, Riccardo, was their child. For as long as your father was alive, Tonin kept his distance. But in the spring of 1995, after your father had died, they started getting close.’

Salati stood up and stared at me with an icy look. Then he started laughing, but the chortles became shorter and more nervous. Then his face dropped and he looked furious. ‘You don’t believe that do you?’