Read Online CB14 Blood From A Stone (2005) by Donna Leon - Free Book Online Page B

‘That’s whatI’ve been told. The factories are the same. They work for the legitimate companies during the day, then they turn the fake ones out at night.’
    ‘“Fake” doesn’t have much meaning any more, not if it’s the same factories, I’d say,’ Brunetti observed, trying to lighten the mood that had come over their conversation.
    There was to be no jollying Marco. ‘I suppose so,’ was his only comment.
    ‘Do you have any idea of who’s behind it?’ Brunetti persisted.
    ‘Only an idiot wouldn’t be able to figure that out, it’s so big and so well organized.’ Then, in a voice grown minimally less cool, Erizzo added, ‘They’ve got only one problem.’
    ‘What?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘Distribution,’ Erizzo surprised him by answering.
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘Think about it, Guido. Anyone can produce. That’s the easy part: all you need is raw materials, a place to assemble them, and enough people who are willing to work for what you pay them. The real problem is finding a place to sell whatever it is you’ve made.’ Brunetti remained silent, so he proceeded, ‘If you sell it in a shop, you’ve got all sorts of expenses: rent, heat, light, a bookkeeper, salespeople. Worst of all, you’ve got to pay taxes.’ Brunetti wondered when he had ever had a conversation with Marco in which the subject of taxes had not been mentioned.
    ‘That’s what I do, Guido,’ his friend went on,voice veering back towards anger. ‘I pay taxes. I pay them on my shops, and for my employees, and on what I sell, and on what I manage to keep. And my employees pay taxes on what they earn. And some of it stays here, in Venice, Guido, and what they earn they spend here.’ The warmth in Marco’s voice was not that of friendship or returning intimacy.
    ‘You tell me how the city profits from what the vu cumprà earn,’ Marco demanded. ‘You think any of that money stays here?’ Even though it was a rhetorical question, Erizzo paused, as if daring Brunetti to answer. When he did not, Erizzo said, ‘It all goes south, Guido.’ There was no need for him to say more about the destination of this money.
    ‘How do you know that?’ Brunetti demanded.
    Brunetti heard him take a deep breath. ‘Because no one bothers them, that’s why. Not the Guardia di Finanza, and not the Carabinieri , and not you people, and because they seem to come into this country pretty much as they please, and no one bothers to stop them at the borders. That means that no one wants to be bothered or that someone doesn’t want them to be bothered.’ The pause after this last sentence was so long that Brunetti thought Marco had finished, but his voice came back, ‘And if I thought you had the stomach to listen to any more of this, I’d add that they also enjoy the protection of everyone who refuses to see them as illegal immigrants who spend their daysbreaking the law while the police stroll back and forth in front of them.’
    Brunetti was at a loss about how to deal with his friend’s rage, so he let a long time pass before he said, voice calm, ‘Longest definition I’ve ever heard of “distribution”.’ Before Marco could react, he added, ‘Also the most illuminating.’
    Marco paused for an equally long time, and Brunetti could almost hear the wheels of friendship spinning about in search of the road they had left. ‘Good,’ Marco finally said, and Brunetti thought he heard in that monosyllable the same relief that they had come back to firm ground. ‘I’m not sure all of this is true, but at least it makes sense.’
    Was this the historian’s plight, Brunetti wondered, never to know what was true but only what made sense? Or the policeman’s? He drew himself away from these reflections and started to thank Marco, but before he could say more than the other man’s name, Marco said, ‘I’ve got another call. I’ve got to go.’ And then silence.
    The call had gained Brunetti no new information, but it had strengthened his