Save the Detective



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  Carlo Barbieri

  Save the Detective

  Series "Bath stories for Sicilians and not"

  www.quellidized.it

  Save the Detective

  Copyright © 2012

  Zerounoundici Edizioni

  ISBN: 978-88-6578-203-3

  On cover: Image Shutterstock.com

  Save the Detective

  Mondello half of September. What a wonder.

  The air did him thinner, the shades they lengthened as soon as some, the obsessive heat and the hordes of tourists were by now a memory. I would have liked to feel me as an any resident that is for riappropriarsi of that angle of heaven. And I was there instead, sat to the balconcino of my cottage of 55 square meters really on the Gulf, with the Newspaper of Sicily opened on the knees and the mind it turns to the usual problem of end season: as to convinces my wife to remain to few days in blackberries. A difficult battle, to Rome to attend her/it there were our child and his/her companion by now it departs some family. and the gruppetto of friends and the habits interrupted by the long vacation. Certainly, also I had a big desire to return to Rome but the Mondello of September I didn't want her/it really to lose. Mmmh. and if I/you had cheated on the forecasts of the time? We had to reenter with the ferry for Civitavecchia embarking the auto, and Mariella had terror of the sea sickness from when had happened her that...

  dlindlon.!

  I didn't wait for anybody. And who could be? Did I try a rapid scanning of the various possibilities: Mariella no, was it at the hairdresser and then you/he/she would have gone around for shops with his/her/their sister-in-law. registered letters here we don't receive of it. to seller?

  Did I go to the intercom: «Who is?».

  «I’m Montal…».

  Unknown voice. It is low not to be made to be understood. or not to make to be understood.

  «You excuse me I have not felt well". Montal..." and then?».

  «The Commissioner I am, the Commissioner of Police, open me, please».

  I moved me in the kitchen from where I could see the gate on the road. The sight reassured me: a gentleman of half age in jacket and tie. It didn't seem me to know him/it. I returned to the intercom: «you arrange you».

  I opened him and while I was reaching the entry I felt the gate that was closed again.

  Few second after we were of forehead in front of the door of my appartamentino. To who resembled? Handshake and.

  «Good morning».

  «Good morning.» and it handed me an enrolls.

  I picked him/it up, attentively looking at him/it as if I/you had been really able to understand if it were true or false, and smiles: «I had understood well Then, she is really a homonym of the famous Commissioner!».

  «Really no».

  I reread. «Yet you/he/she is written there here.».

  «I can enter?».

  I became me account that I was holding him/it on the door.

  «Certain, you excuse me. you arrange him».

  I returned him the enrolls, sipped my chair preferred by the newspaper and I moved her/it in front of the divanetto.

  «I pray».

  We sat there both, me on the chair and him on the couch. I knew that I would have owed perlomeno to offer him a coffee but I didn't feel her/it to me to leave alone a stranger...

  He/she remained for some in silence twisting himself/herself/itself the hands. He/she finally spoke.

  «He/she sees. The ams not to homonym. I am really him».

  The jaw slowly came down me, as a bridge drawbridge.

  «Doctor Barbieri, I am really the" famous" Commissioner. They there was room for certain to her the means to inquire himself/herself/themselves.».

  "And as", did I think," phoning the police station where you work, that doesn't exist even"?.

  «Doctor, nun me taliassi accussì. I am not crazy. We know very well it both that the country where I work me it doesn't exist and that if that Great Writer invented him».

  Exactly. And did it say not to be crazy? But where was logic? I didn't understand there nothing.

  I recalled the bridge drawbridge. «And in fact. feels. in short me not.»

  «Doctor I need her. It is a private thing of mine. Private and delicate».

  «Delicate? How much delicate?».

  It looked me in a serious way, strange.

  «Delicate. We say. matter of life or death».

  If he/she wanted to impress me there you/he/she had succeeded very well.

  «And because it comes from me?».

  «Because she can make to end the nightmare».

  «But. you excuse me but.»

  «No it is right, you excuse me her. The debbos to explain, otherwise it doesn't understand. Do you first of all look me: a beautiful man finds me or no?».

  I was more and more interdict and I started to sweat despite it was not at all warm.

  «Mah, me it is not that... that is in short.».

  «Doctor I know him/it that she is not gay and not even I am not gay, even if the Great Writer has made me make a long series of figures of merda maintaining me chaste and pure in the most unbelievable situations. Has Minchia been able to make to give me a night with the Swede without farmici to do nothing, that I cannot believe there yet. but does answer me please, gives The seem her to beautiful hand yes or no?».

  «Mah, perhaps. yes, perhaps yes. I want to say, for a woman. or however for the one who is attracted by the men, it seems me of yes».

  «It is less badly. Us equal of yes. Doctor I go on the specific one. As they are my hair?».

  «Normal I would say».

  «And my legs?».

  «But I don't know him/it.».

  «He/she doesn't know him/it? And her taliassi, so he/she knows him/it. Taliassi ccà». it got up standing and it lifted the pantalonis until where it was able.

  «And then, that seems him of it?» did it always get excited more «they are astute or twists?».

  «Right-hand are, astute» I calmed down him/it, embarrassed.

  Did it become red, did it throw out of the pocket a series of photo and did it start to launch her to one to one on the low tavolino between us: «And then perchémminchia the Great Writer has left that in TV they did me without hair and with the crooked legs that you/he/she can pass us a horse in mean, aaaaah???».

  «It is all right, you calm down, it is right, but in short a writer some liberties if you/he/she can also pick her/it up, especially when it is famous as him.».

  «" Famous", does it tell me? "Some liberties" it tells me?». The Great Commissioner was out of itself: «But what cuntannu suits me doctor Barbieri! Let's tell her
/it the truth! For how much does it concern the" famous", but this Famous Writer without me who was, aah? Ah, and according to her you/he/she is taken only" some liberties?" Only" some liberties", aah?».

  I tried to calm him/it: «Feels commissioner, it seems me that she exaggerates some, sits him. the hair, the legs. and it is all right. also burdens lost occasion in bed. and it is all right. and that it will be never. in short it doesn't seem me to tragedy,... before, sits him».

  It collapsed sat but it didn't stop howling.

  «A horn expensive doctor is all right. Because of those that she calls" lost occasions" they take me all for the culo, also the policemen that I miss it seems him true, and that horned of Coroner puts us the load from eleven telling everybody that the autopsy of my bird has done and it preserves him/it under alcohol. This fitusissimo" Great Writer" you/he/she has ruined me the life and it is not yet I satisfy, you/he/she is ruining more always her to me, always more!».

  In effects I had noticed that in the last episodes to the poor Commissioner was happening of all: half heart attacks, depressive crisis, women that picked around it up...

  «But done admit and not granted, because it would have him with her?».

  «But as because doctor? But true it doesn't arrive to us aah? True it doesn't arrive to us??».

  I squeezed together me in the shoulders. I didn't arrive there.

  «Doctor then I tell him him me. The Great Writer is jealous. I Ge-he-know! Jealous as a crazy person!!!».

  I was amazed. «Geloosooo? Of her? Of one character of his?».

  «Yes doctor. But true it doesn't understand him/it aah? Yet he/she also writes her».

  «For charity it won't compare me certain.».

  «No, I don't compare her/it, it would miss us, I am not crazy. without offense for charity. however her however anything writes her/it and you/he/she Khan understand better than others. Is the fact that the Great Writer has always been a good writer, I am the first one to say him/it, but all know him/it and they appreciate him/it today, thanks to whom? Thanks to me. To me, does it understand? Do all ask him" When it goes out the next story on the Great Commissioner"?. At the beginning' it is what he liked. He liked a great deal it. Then it realized that I was growing too much, and he risked to become" The Writer of the Great Commissioner" and enough. It is as if one, impassioned of gardening, cries a tree, and the tree grows, all admire him/it to him and he is happy. However then the tree grows as you/he/she was waited, it becomes incredibly great and beautiful, and all have only eyes for that. But he also loves the other plants of his/her garden, he/she succeeds in making to grow strange and very beautiful plants... but nothing, people have only eyes for that tree. And he becomes for all" That of the tree." Then it starts to hate him/it that tree. Don't prune him/it more, it tells everybody that it is not the most beautiful of his/her plants, it tries to divert the visitors showing him the other wonder of his/her garden. but the people that tree always has in head. And then him he realizes that there is an only solution.»

  He/she remained in silence for some with the low eyes. Then it lifted them and it aimed straight them in mine.

  «. to demolish him/it».

  «.»

  «Doctor, that has decided to kill me».

  Here it is, her" Matter of Life or Death."

  It lowered a thick silence. The dog of the neighbor didn't even bark more. I taken back breath to the sudden one, I had remained in apnea for different seconds.

  «But as ago to say.».

  «Doctor, on the fact that wants to kill myself I don't have only a suspect: I have the certainty. You look here».

  It threw out of the inside pocket of the jacket two sheets, clearly photocopies, and it handed me them. On the first one there was only a title": L' Last Investigation." The second contained few words written by hand, with a handwriting some round": Here the rompicoglioni finally dies. To decide if died heroic to do you satisfy the readers or died a few ridiculous to do happy me."

  «You realizes doctor? Not only wants to kill me, but wants to make to make me a ridiculous end for the taste to do me her to do! Does it understand him/it to that point hates me?».

  The Great Commissioner tore me the sheets from the hands and started to shake them in air shouting: «Doctor these notes I am of fifteen days ago! That when it starts it goes on as a train and second me the book to this time has already ended him. The publisher will publish him/it to him of run... and as soon as him ago, I am fottuto. Fottuto!!».

  It suddenly lowered the voice: «Doctor, needs to kill the Great Writer before he kills me».

  Hair stood up me in head.

  «But what does it say? Is it crazy?».

  «Doctor, man of law I am. And I assure her. believes me, he treats. it deals with self-defence. Does he want to kill me? And we kill him».

  The heart stayed me. «Us? ».

  «Yes doctor. Rather, to be more precise. her. He/she kills him/it her».

  I got up me of release: «Feels I don't want to feel to speak of this history anymore. Please».

  It also got up him and an arm gently took me: «Doctor listens to me. I don't ask her to take a gun and to shoot him. You simply have to prevent to kill myself to him, using his/her same weapons. I cannot do him but her yes. Because she writes. I am asking her an action of justice. I beg her, you help me. Help me».

  It lowered the silence. He looked me waiting that I told him something, but I was silent with the fixed eyes on the wall to his/her shoulders.

  Finally the arm left me and lowered the head. It was as if you/he/she had become to the sudden very more old man. It gently placed the sheets on the chair, it reached the door of house, it opened her/it and he turned verse of me without looking me: «Thanks the same».

  I shook off me and I mentioned to accompany him/it to the gate, but it stopped me with a gesture: «you don't disturb him, I know the road».

  I was standing on the landing. Only when I felt the noise of the gate that he/she was closed closed again to my it turns and I took a seat again me. I still had in the eyes that desperate look.

  I taken back in hand the two sheets and I reread them more times.

  After some I got up me, I turned on the computer and I started to write. It is to write. More and more quickly, of throw, without stopping me, I had to do soon, I had to do soon.

  There was the life of a Commissioner to save.

  THE END

  The author

  Charles Barbieri was born.

  Reformed marketer is chemical and you/he/she has lived in Palermo, Teheran, The Cairo.

  You/he/she has now calmed down and ago before and back in Palermo and Rome without succeeding in deciding him because, as many Palermitanis, have Palermo in the heart, but.

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