“Phone call from Italy. Collect.”
He refuses to concede the possibility that he will ever be willing to talk on the phone while in bed, so the only instrument in his room is on a table over by a window. I went and switched it on. He pushed the blanket back, maneuvered his bulk around and up, made it over to the table in his bare feet, and took the phone. Even in those circumstances I was impressed by the expanse of his yellow pajamas.
I stood and listened to a lingo that I didn’t have in stock, but not for long. He didn’t even get his money’s worth, for it had been less than three minutes when he cradled the thing, gave me a dirty look, padded back to the bed, lowered himself onto its edge, and pronounced some word that I wouldn’t know how to spell.
He went on. “That was Signor Telesio. His discretion has been aggravated into obscurity. He said he had news for me, that was clear enough, but he insisted on coding it. His words, translated: ‘The man you seek is within sight of the mountain.’ He would not elucidate, and it would have been imprudent to press him.”
I said, “I’ve never known you to seek a man harder or longer than the guy who killed Marko. Does he know that?”
“Yes.”
“Then the only question is, which mountain?”
“It may safely be presumed that it is Lovchen — the Black Mountain, from which Montenegro got its name.”
“Is this Telesio reliable?”
“Yes.”