“Turning back to the journalist he asked, “What are you going to do?” “Me?” “This magazine.” The man laughed. “What’s Vissuto going to do about Gennaro Maluccio? You’ve decided he’s not guilty?” The journalist looked up from behind the cluttered desk, from behind the antiquated Olivetti, the bundles of paper and the various photographs. There was an opened can of Nastro Azzurro beer. “We journalists have many vices—but not cocaine.” “Why not?” “Can’t afford it.” “Maluccio could’ve been dealing.”... “Unlikely.” A ripple of amusement went through the pot belly beneath the sweater. “Too middle-class. Too upright and virtuous.” “A friend of yours?” “Nobody likes the chief editor. I’m the cop on this floor. I don’t wield the biggest truncheon—but I get in there first.” Again the large man laughed. The eyes remained carefully watching Trotti. “I scrub an article and your family’s eating Simmental corned beef until the end of the month.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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