"I read, I read," Giuseppe answered disgustedly.
"I need some information, Mr. Battiato."
He bet he did. The slut. How did she track him down to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? He heard his own breath seething between his teeth. The motherless whore. She had probably called up Maria... No, the bitch still didn't know how to use a telephone. She went to see her. God in heaven, the streets of Naples were doubtless running with blood at this moment.
"Are you from the government?" Battiato asked.
"Yes. In a manner of speaking."
He knew it! And then the two bitches had gone together to the polizia to demand his arrest. He would never trust a woman again. How they would laugh when he was dragged off to prison! Hah! Giuseppe in shackles. Well, he would tell them both that the cold steel of manacles was more comforting than a woman's treacherous heart, that was for sure.
"The wounded man on your ship, Alberto Vittorelli—"
"No!" Alberto! Could it have been Alberto? Crying fleets of angels, did his best friend sic the authorities on him? He would kill the bastard, the slimy dog dropping; he would cut out his black heart with a burning poker...
"Is there a problem? He's still alive, isn't he?"
"He is alive," Battiato rumbled. But not for long. What was Alberto doing with Francesca in Barcelona? The pig, rutting with his best friend's... A thought crashed in on him. What if it wasn't Barcelona? What if it was Naples? His wife. Maria, you cheating bitch!
"I kill him!" he roared.
"I beg your pardon?"
Giuseppe pulled himself together, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "So sorry, signor. No problem. What do you want?"
They want my dick, that's what they want. The three of them would take his manhood, limp and gray after years of prison, and throw it to the dogs on the street. That is what his mighty weapon is for, they would say. And poor Giuseppe would be at their mercy.
Tears flooded down Battiato's face. "Don't listen to them!" he cried. "They are a pack of filthy liars. On my mother's sainted head, I swear—"
"Mr. Battiato," the flat voice broke in impatiently. "My business is rather urgent. I would appreciate it if you would speak up. There seems to be some difficulty."
"All right," Giuseppe sobbed. "I come into port." He would come in with a knife in his sleeve. He would fight them to the death.
"That won't be necessary. Just stay on the line."
There was a series of electronic poops and squeals. Then the voice said, "Do you read me now?"
"I read you." He would get even. One night, a little ground glass in the manicotti.
"I want you to find out how Mr. Vittorelli was injured."
"What?"
The voice began to repeat. Battiato interrupted it. "You want to know about his injuries?"
"That is correct—"
"What about lying with my wife? What about cheating with the puta in Barcelona?" he bellowed. "Does that count for nothing?"
"Not at the moment, Mr. Battiato," the voice said, puzzled. "If you don't mind—"
"What am I saying?" He slapped himself twice.
"I'm sure I don't know. Now about Mr. Vittorelli..."
"A shark. A shark bit him on the leg. Very bad."
"Before the shark. The electric burns. You did radio in this morning about high-voltage burns, didn't you?"
"Yes..." Battiato was sweating profusely. "Who are you?" he asked. Maria had a cousin in Sicily. Money everywhere, the thieving whore-monger.
"My identity is of no consequence."
"Vito! I know it is you, Vito, and they are lying bitches!"
"My name is definitely not Vito," the voice continued calmly. "I want you to find out how Vittorelli got his burns. I know that you are friends with the patient."
Giuseppe eyed the microphone suspiciously. "Why should I?"
"Well, it's a— it's a good thing to do, Mr. Battiato."
Giuseppe laughed. "You want to find out about Alberto just because it's a good thing? Who you jerking off?"
The headset sputtered. "You are making a simple request more difficult," the voice said unpleasantly. After a pause, it added, "Very well. There'll be a reward."
"What for? What makes Alberto so special? What for you so interested in the sauce chef?"
"I cannot reveal that, Mr. Battiato."
"Vito, I swear—"
"And I promise you I am not this Vito person," the voice crackled. "Now see here. I have lost all patience with you. I am making a simple request that could save the lives of countless persons. I have offered you a reward for obtaining this harmless information for me. There is no reason on earth why you can't get it, and time is running out. Now, for the love of God, do it."
Giuseppe gasped. O Sainted Mother, could this be a test? Not by Vito, but a test by a greater force? A message like this came once in a lifetime, once in ten thousand lifetimes. Saint Bernadette received such a message. So did Joan of Arc and Francis of Assisi. Maybe their talks with the Almighty didn't occur over a radio transmitter, but God always did work in mysterious ways.
Giuseppe fished out a rosary from his tool kit. He was one of the Chosen, singled out to bring information to Someone very concerned about old Al Vittorelli, who must have said a heap of Ave Marias while he was decurdling the hollandaise.
"But how can I— o, Madonna—" he burst into a stream of rapid Italian.
"Speak English, please. I don't understand any other language," the flat American voice said.
Giuseppe fell backward off his chair. American? After all this time, God was an American? All those Paternosters for nothing!
"How can I find out?" Battiato enunciated carefully.
The voice rang with urgency. "Ask him."