Auntie Poldi and the Sicilian Lions by Mario Giordano

cigarettes and a buy copy of La Sicilia , which had splashed the murder on its front page. “The whole head. A ghastly mess. Blood everywhere – lashings of it.”
    Gossip was the last thing Poldi felt like that morning. She was feeling thin-skinned and irritable, but her curiosity was stronger than the impulse to get back into bed and ignore the world.
    â€œYou mean you saw it?” she asked with simulated horror.
    â€œNot personally,” Signor Bussacca was forced to concede, “but I’ve got a close acquaintance in the Carabinieri.”
    â€œIt’s awful, simply awful.” Poldi mopped her perspiring brow. “He was such a nice young man. Who would do such a thing?”
    Signor Bussacca glanced around and leant towards her. “My close acquaintance in the Carabinieri isn’t supposed to talk about it, but…” He cleared his throat and hesitated, as if to satisfy himself of my aunt’s discretion.
    â€œNot a word,” Poldi whispered back.
    â€œOfficially, of course, all lines of inquiry are being explored. The fact is, however, my friend in the task force hinted at the existence of some definite leads.”
    Bussacca straightened up as if he had already said too much.
    â€œWhat sort of leads?”
    He raised his hands. “Well, the murder weapon, Donna Poldina. A lupara. That says it all, surely.”
    â€œYou mean Valentino was murdered by Cosa Nostra?”
    Bussacca gave an almost imperceptible start, as though bitten by a mosquito. “The Mafia, Donna Poldina, is just an invention of the fascists in the north.”
    Poldi nodded and thought for a moment. “Let’s assume, purely theoretically, that Valentino was murdered by a relatively unimportant criminal organization that traditionally kills traitors and competitors with a sawn-off shotgun. Why should it have done that? Valentino was such a nice young fellow.”
    â€œ Boh ,” Bussacca exclaimed, spreading his hands in a gesture of utter ignorance. “Perhaps he wasn’t what he seemed – perhaps he knew too much.”
    â€œAbout Russo, you mean?”
    Bussacca gave another shrug. “I mean nothing. Nor do I subscribe to rumours.”
    All at once, Death had entered my Auntie Poldi’s life once more. He had sneaked up on her from behind, shouted “Boo” and laughingly reminded her of his power and the expiry of her own deadline. All at once there he was again, the jack-in-a-box, the capricious djinn whose embrace she had yearned for so ardently, wanting him at last to bring the curtain down on this lousy farce of a life. To request the audience to refrain from applauding and leave the theatre quickly – that had been her aim: to take the whole messy business into her own hands and, having got pleasantly sozzled to the accompaniment of Gloria and the sound of the sea, to let herself glide over to the other side, where my Uncle Peppe might still be waiting for her.
    But all at once Death was there and laughing at her.
    â€œThis isn’t fair,” she shouted.
    Death merely brushed that aside. “Come off it, Poldi. Did you really think you could trick me – simply overtake me on the right? I thought we’d settled that.”
    â€œBut why Valentino? What a waste of youth and joie de vivre .”
    â€œPff.” Death just shrugged his shoulders and made a tick on his to-do list. “It all went off according to plan.”
    But that, of course, was no way to treat my Auntie Poldi. Not even Death could get away with that.
    â€œYou can kiss my ass,” she yelled. “If you don’t keep your agreements, neither will I, okay?”
    Death looked puzzled for a moment and re-examined his to-do list, then tapped his clipboard pedantically. “In the first place, my dear Poldi, there’s nothing here about any agreement, and secondly —”
    That was as far as he got, because Poldi booted him hard in the