Original subtitles

The doctor says it happened around 7:00, 7:30 in the morning.

Campana was a guy who went to the office early.

-Any cameras? -Just one, of the ramp, so it's useless.

-Weapon? -A small hole in the back of his head.

Almost certainly from a .22.

We'll wait for ballistics and an autopsy, but he was shot point-blank.

He was probably waiting for him in the backseat.

And as soon as he got in, bang!

Entering an underground garage in the morning, waiting,

then leaving without being seen, that's a big risk.

No bigger than shooting a man in Piazza Tommaseo at 23:00 at night.

Whoever did it isn't very careful, but very lucky.

What do the hot shots at the ministry say?

They spent all night with Gotti's daughter due to the secret she mentioned on TV.

Her lawyer raised a big stink.

-And? -Nothing.

Seems the secret was just a figure of speech for her dad.

-And you guys? Any news? -We've got some ideas,

but it's all really vague, just conjecture.

Better a hairbrained hypothesis than that profiler's bullshit. Go on.

If there's a link between Gotti and Crisanti,

we need to look in the past.

Because in the present, we haven't found a thing.

What did you find in the past?

We're combing the lists of Bocconi University

to see if any of Gotti's classmates knew Crisanti.

We're even going to check the tags on the surveillance camera registration.

That's it?

What do you mean? There are three of us.

Ghezzi's living room is our office,

and to stay in the know, we have to meet like secret agents.

Relax, Carella.

So, we might have a lead,

but it's early. I gotta think on it.

Okay, but hurry.

If they find out I sent men on vacation who instead are doing a parallel inquiry,

they'll cut off my nonexistent balls and stick them in the sniffer dogs' food.

Got it?

MONTEROSSI: THE SERIES

DEAD WRONG: EPISODE THREE

You have to finish this season.

Then you have another, Carlo.

So...

There are these last two episodes, then another year and I'm done.

Unless you want to pay a fine, yes.

Actually, the contract's for five years.

But, Carlo, you decide.

Five years there are like ten in the mines.

Which is where you'll be if you want to pay your mortgage.

I'd rather end up under a bridge alone and a drunk.

Seems like you're on your way to becoming a drunk anyway.

As for being alone,

I heard you and Lucia are seeing each other again.

Who told you?

I have my sources.

Come on, word gets around.

That's what you wanted, right?

Look, Katia...

Excuse me.

-Hello, Ghezzi. -I need to get that gift you promised.

Of course. Tell me where and I'll meet you.

-Is in front of my house a problem? -Sure, I'll be there in 20 minutes.

Okay, see you later.

Excuse me, Katia, but I really have to get going now.

Anyway, she should be back in a month, month and a half.

-She called me yesterday. -Yeah, she should.

You know how it goes, right?

They could send her on an urgent trip to Uganda, and goodnight.

Well, that's her job.

Yeah.

It's even your percentage, for that matter.

Anyway, Katia...

You know when you want something so bad, then you get it

-and realize it wasn't what you wanted? -Sure.

I even tried to explain that to you for several years.

Well, I guess I'm a little slow on the uptake.

There's no doubt about that.

In fact...

-Even when it comes to Crazy Love... -No.

No.

Jesus, they killed another one.

It's practically an epidemic.

-But it's not the same killer as before. -Is that what the papers say?

-The papers are clueless, as usual. -Imagine that.

They say it's an Isis cell.

Right, they killed the butcher for selling ham.

But, I mean...

Why do you say it wasn't the same person?

Because the dynamic's totally different.

The gun has nothing to do with it.

Jesus, hon, you're even a criminologist.

You don't need to be Columbo to see it doesn't add up.

-You're really obsessed with this thing. -Me?

-You even watched all of Crazy Love. -Everyone's talking about it!

Everyone's a detective, and the real ones are clueless.

They were hidden in the Gottis' old slaughterhouse.

How did you find them, Sarge?

-I didn't. Monterossi did. -You're kidding.

No, but he was smart and told us immediately.

Three old traffic cop uniforms.

-And some stuff to clean guns... -...which are gone, I bet.

Obviously.

So, old guns, probably not well-maintained.

Uniforms from the '70s or '80s.

See, our hypothesis isn't so far-fetched.

-Did you find anything at Bocconi? -Yeah.

I mean, I don't know. Of all Gotti's classmates,

-forty-one had trouble with the law. -Damn.

-How many went to jail? -Two.

One's inside, one got out 20 years ago.

Anything else?

As a student, Gotti was one of those guys who studies like a mule.

No scandals or strange situations.

His wife has her head straight too. They met there.

How could someone straight-headed hide guns?

Maybe they hid them first, then got their head straight.

Good thinking.

Let's hear from distinguished officer Rosa Ghezzi.

-Don't tease me, Tarcisio. -Where are your notes?

Over there. Come with me.

I studied all the surveillance camera footage.

You can't see the homicides.

But there was a motorcycle in front of Crisanti's house.

It drove past the door just before the murder.

-We have the plate numbers. -Yes.

Here they are.

This is it.

And these are the plate numbers for the cars

that drove past Gotti's house more than once.

-May I? -Sure.

The number in parenthesis shows how many times the same car drove past.

The underlined numbers are the ones that were parked in the street

or were already parked there and left.

You're wasting your time being Ghezzi's wife.

Send it to our contact at the Motor Vehicle Department.

Besides the motorcycle, there are another three or four plates that fit the bill.

What did you find out about Campana, the last guy murdered?

Not much.

Forty-four years old, well-off, married, no kids.

Wife's name is Isabella Nardi Contini.

The day he died, she was in a lakeside hotel.

Seems he was a trader on the global financial market. A shark.

-With a computer. -And lots of battery time.

-And lots of enemies. -Meaning?

They're going through his papers. Seems Campana got a lot of threats.

His partner reported him for fraud.

Then, people who gave him their savings and went broke, but...

But what?

There's no link to the other two murders.

Of course there isn't, because it doesn't add up.

He's too young to have any contact with the other two.

But if that's the way it is,

our hypothesis is flawed.

Maybe it's too early to say.

-Or he found out later. -Yes?

The way it happened was different. Killers don't use a .22.

-Maybe he wants to confuse us. -But we said he wasn't a pro.

You're getting ahead of yourself.

So, maybe we got something.

This motorcycle, an Enduro,

is registered to a guy who lives in Via Giacinto Gigante 7.

The same street where the lady lives

who owns the grey Fiat Tipo that was in Piazza Tommaseo.

What are two residents of that casbah

doing in Piazza Tommaseo and Giulio Cesare?

Unless it's the same person with two different vehicles.

There isn't much online.

Degree in philosophy from Paris.

Thesis on Nietzsche.

Old photos of when she modelled for Chanel.

So, let's admit it.

She's very alluring.

I don't really get why you're so obsessed with this mysterious woman.

But anyway...

This is a start.

Lawyers.

A couple of fashion agencies that may still have her number.

-And this Olga Fioroni Casti. -Who is?

The friend she retreated to yesterday after the terrible tragedy.

Yes, but I'll never get to her like this.

For a more human approach...

-you need a direct number. -I know, Carlo, I'm sorry.

-Even I'd like Obama's number but... -Come on, Nadia.

I told you. There's no trace of this woman on the internet.

-I'm going to start because I'm hungry. -Go ahead.

Excuse me, but...

Why all the rush to find her?

I just can't figure out why a woman like this

would marry a guy like Campana, who frankly...

Why? What did he do besides defraud some people?

Come on, Nadia.

His wife isn't mourning him.

Not a single friend says he was a good man.

The papers can't say why he died,

but everyone can see he was an ass.

I don't know, is there anything else you need?

-Signor Carlo? -Yes?

-Signor Oscar is on his way up. -Okay, thanks.

-Thanks. -I was hoping it was Ms. Lucia.

But it's not.

Signor Carlo.

I just have to tell you,

if you're always this agitated,

women...

they feel that.

All right, Caterina.

-Thanks for the advice. -You're welcome.

-Good evening. -Oh, hallelujah!

Oh, you're here.

I thought you got my check and went to the Caribbean.

The Caribbean is for the nouveau riche like you.

-We real rich people are super busy. -Yeah, right.

Go ahead, shoot.

Is he the one who wants a direct number for Nardi Contini?

And if so, why?

I can't figure out if he feels vindictive towards Campana

or if it's a desire for conquest.

Now that the old flame for Lucia is going out.

No, listen...

I already have my housekeeper psychoanalyzing me.

Don't you guys start too, please.

There are too many of you.

Come on, find me this darn number.

Or even just her email address.

We'll see what we can do.

There you go. Good.

Let's eat or she'll pass out.

-Bon appetite. -Bon appetite.

-'Morning. -Have a seat.

You sure that's the man we're looking for?

The age matches up. We said 42 years old.

The age is right.

That's his name. What else do you need?

When I see people who are so sure, I always wonder why.

Those are the details.

-He's even in the business. -What?

-Is he from a family? -Everyone has a family.

Let's say he's a distant relative.

If you're looking for a guy who travels from Reggio to Milan to kill someone,

he probably doesn't sell fruit.

Anyway, I've said enough.

Excuse me, have a good day.

What, are we up against the 'Ndrangheta now?

The 'Ndrangheta. He said he was a distant relative.

How distant? His grandfather, great grandfather?

Here, they'll hogtie you for looking at their cousin's friend the wrong way.

Do we want to take some risks or not?

What, did we come here for a romantic weekend?

Weird, it seemed that way till yesterday.

Hello.

-Can I get you something to eat? -Thanks, I'm not hungry.

Actually, I'll have a sandwich with 'nduja and some grilled eggplant.

-Great. -Thanks.

Oh, ma'am, and two beers.

All right.

Relax, we're not going directly from him to Laganà.

We'll look into it, assess the risks and benefits.

The risks of getting tortured and killed for the benefit of a three-room apartment.

In Biella.

Fuck Mafuz. Who does he think he is, the pope?

No one can do shit while he's making millions?

-Oh, now it's millions. -Well, it's a lot of money, right?

-You know he's expecting 12 kilos of hash? -Damn.

No one has the guts

to tell him they're fed up with him acting like he's boss all the fucking time.

You know what I'm fucking fed up with?

People who talk.

You hate that Mafuz is boss?

-Go tell him! -What do you mean?

You want to take control?

Go point a gun in his face.

-You think I don't have the guts? -Yeah.

-I don't have balls? -Let's see!

-What the fuck's going on? -Let's see 'em.

Hey! Guys!

What the fuck is this?

-Go take a walk and calm down. -This is my house.

-Stop. Get out! -It's my house.

-Get out! [in Arabic] Fuck off.

-Do I gotta go too? -Do what you want.

You're an asshole too, but you didn't start it.

NOTICE! PAID PARKING ONLY.

It's hard here. I'll take you, open doors. We're colleagues.

For now, we just want to get an idea.

Why do you want to get an idea of this place?

We can't tell you that, Perini.

I don't want to be nosy,

but there's a balance.

-Is this about those stones? -No way.

If you come all the way to the Bronx from downtown,

-there's something big at stake. -Weren't you in a hurry?

This is a blue-collar district.

After the war, it was a workers' stronghold.

Now it's just a part of the outskirts that still hasn't become trendy.

-All foreigners? -No. Thanks.

There are still a few old natives.

People from Milan, I mean. Even people from the south.

Then, foreigners. Mostly Muslims.

Morocco, Tunisia. Almost all good people.

Being poor isn't a crime.

Who's in control here?

An old local guy.

Mafuz Gebrail. Lebanese.

He has a clan of kids who deal hash and probably other stuff.

But they don't make much trouble or money.

He makes sure it runs smooth.

And besides Mafuz?

The guys in the housing racket.

They kick people out and find people housing for 3-5,000 euros.

There can be trouble. Desperate folks occupying already occupied houses,

but they sort it out.

Do you know a lady named Antonia Caronia?

Has a grey Tipo that's as old as Moses?

Never heard of her.

And a guy named Paco Barbensi?

-Yeah, from the collective. -What collective?

The housing rights collective.

Must be 40 of them.

We call them "the politicians", but they're hellraisers too.

Barbensi's more easy-going. He's in his thirties.

Twenty-nine.

He has an Enduro, right?

Yeah.

He in trouble? Should I know something?

No, nothing at all.

Well...

He definitely hasn't done anything recently.

He's got his arm in a cast. Says it was a motorcycle accident.

-When? -Must be three weeks ago.

Sure you don't gotta tell me anything?

No.

Actually, yes. The coffee's on us.

Listen, one last thing...

What if a friend needed a house,

one of those crappy ones that they occupy. Who should I talk to?

-Is this an authorized operation? -"Operation"? Come on, Perini.

Ask for Salvatore.

They call him "The Moustache". He has a moustache.

I'm outa here.

Bye, Perini, Thanks.

You're a friend.

Did you hear that?

What do you have in mind?

We can't go in there with "State Police" written across our forehead.

You wanna go with a sign that says "tenant"?

Why not?

Dear Mr. Monterossi,

Your email was astonishing.

So far I have received two of them.

One inviting me to that cesspool of feeble minds,

which I dismiss with an amused, "Forget about it."

The other, more interesting,

actually seems written by a human.

Tomorrow is the funeral of my dearly departed husband,

which is why I will be taking refuge in a house left to me by a friend.

If you care to meet me, I won't say no.

But come in your human version.

I won't open the door for a purveyor of weeping Madonnas for TV.

Sincerely...

kind of...

-Isabella. -Nice to meet you. Carlo.

Our double man.

Come in.

My condolences.

Don't be silly.

-Care for something to drink? -Whatever you're having.

You'll regret that.

So this is my mysterious double personality.

The rest are just prosaic money matters

and my conviction, which is a bit dishonest, I admit,

that it's better to live well with some vices

than to live pure but unhappy.

You're even a little dishonest with me.

But I want to help you.

Bring Queen Flora the famous good and bad news.

The bad news is I'll never come to the studio. The good news is...

I won't go to anybody else.

Lie.

Say you persuaded me not to go to the competition.

It'll work, you'll see.

-It'll be our secret. -All right.

So...

Supposing I had things I was still curious about,

which is very human, after all,

and that I wanted to ask...

a few intrusive questions.

How is possible that a woman like you

married a man who is so...

different, so to speak.

I met him by chance.

He was a social climber in a Russian novel.

A petite bourgeoise who wanted everything and now.

He told me about his scams,

about the people who fell for them.

That's how he was.

Disgraceful and unprincipled, but fun.

So fun you thought you could share your life with him.

I thought I had it all. All I needed was to kind of throw myself away.

Sublime, isn't it?

Yeah, well...

It's a sort of twisted way of saying you loved him, isn't it?

How dare you, you boor.

Then little by little, all this "sublime" began to fade.

No.

It was almost immediate.

Till I learned something six months ago that didn't leave much room to negotiate.

And?

-Can I ask you what it was? -Monterossi...

A woman can have a few secrets, can't she?

Open the door.

This is the apartment.

One month. No more.

I gotta give it back to that asswipe from the collective.

What are you paying me for?

I told you, he did me a favor.

I don't really like all this shady stuff.

I saw something, but I said I didn't see it.

We don't hide fugitives here. Invites trouble.

No one's looking for him. Relax.

There are two house rules.

One, no fucking trouble. Two, no roommates.

We'll hook up the gas if you want.

But you pay for the water heater.

The light's already on. You're lucky.

I'll send someone over later to change the locks. All right?

Buddy, play by the rules and everything'll be fine.

You fuck up,

and you're outa here.

Drop the act. It's all cool. Let's get outa here.

Let's go.

Don't get pissed off.

I'm already pissed off.

Why do you gotta be so heavy?

Well?

-I gotta ask you a favor. -Yeah?

Marta thinks I'm on a trip with my lover. What a pain.

She calls me twice a day.

We take a selfie, I send it and she calms down.

-No, look at what you fucking make me do. -Come on, please!

-You make me take a selfie. -It'll only take a sec. Come on, smile.

Jesus, I asked you to smile. Thanks a lot.

You're not well, you know that?

I'm not well either since I keep working with you.

Here she comes.

-Should we be Tuscans? -She won't fall for it.

Tuscans are funny, not scary.

-From Naples, then. -Okay.

-Help! Help! -Relax, lady, we're not gonna hurt you.

-We're not gonna do anything. -Help!

Relax, lady, we just need a ride.

Relax.

-It's all cool. -Take the car.

-We'll drive. -Help. Holy Mary Mother of God.

-It'll be fine. -...in whose virgin womb

the word became man, guide us through the hardship of life.

Hi, Antonia, it's Nadir.

I'm gonna get something from the closet, ok?

Sure, go ahead.

Hey...

-What are you doing? -Go open the door!

Follow him. Go.

Fucking go.

-Nadir, you're lookin' for trouble. -That's my fucking business.

Open this fucking door. Go down. Move it.

Open the door and leave the keys there.

Got it?

Face to the wall, both of you.

-What's up, Ghezzi? -Something's going on here.

-What do you mean? -I don't really know.

There's a kid and maybe a gun.

-He ran away with a full bag. -Full of what?

I don't know, but it definitely wasn't candy. Come on!

-Okay, we'll handle it. -Yeah, but fast.

Star of the Sea, mother of God, forever virgin, Mary,

shower us with happiness and pray for our impure souls.

-Enough, relax. -Our Father, hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven...

How is she supposed to tell us stuff?

-I dunno, but it's better this way! -You're right, man.

Lady, we're not gonna hurt you, don't worry.

You just gotta answer us yes or no by moving your head.

Good, you get it.

Lady.

You work for a guy named Nicola Laganà?

Hang on.

If I take the tape off, you'll be good, right?

Otherwise, we'll eighty-six you.

I work for Mr. Nicola. But it hasn't been very long.

Just since he got out of jail.

Before, I didn't. I swear.

-When did he get out of jail? -He got out on Monday for his birthday.

It was a birthday gift.

Now he's on house arrest.

-What did we pay your super contact for? -Now is not the time!

How old is this guy Laganà?

Thirty-eight.

"Thirty-eight."

Lady.

Where do you live?

Pellaro. Why? What are you gonna do to me?

I've got a family, kids.

-I just work for him! I know nothing. -We'll take you home.

-Why, why? -How fucking embarrassing!

Untie her!

We'll take you back to Pellaro!

I don't get it, there are still four here.

You sure you took your pill this morning?

I can't remember, Francesco. Sorry.

Take one, then I'll get you a phone so I can call and remind you.

Oh, Francesco.

-Nadir came by earlier. -"Earlier" when?

Well, must've been two hours ago.

-What did he want? -He got something from the closet.

-Shit. -Francesco? Everything all right?

-Where were you? -Where is Nadir?

-He left. -Fucking hell.

-I called. Why didn't you answer? -I know. I'm a fucking idiot.

-Yeah, you're an idiot. -Fuck.

If I had a dad, I wouldn't be so anxious.

Hey, relax.

Relax? I influenced everyone.

-Nadir, you. -Come on, what are you talking about?

Calm down, we'll find Nadir.

It's not like he killed himself.

Good evening.

-Good evening. -I want a room.

-But I want one that's swank, a penthouse. -Okay.

-A junior suite on the 8th floor. -Perfect. I'll take it.

Okay. ID and credit card.

-"Credit card"? -For the deposit. That's how it works.

Can't I give it to you in cash?

-Fine. -Okay.

This is the deposit.

And this is for you.

Thanks.

-I'll make a copy and give it back later. -Sure.

-Here. -Thanks a lot.

-Tarcisio, what are you wearing? -Don't start, Rosa.

All you need is an aluminum blanket.

-At least take your shoes off. -Later.

-So... -Hello.

-Any news about the kid running away? -Not yet.

We asked a taxi driver, but he had him drop him off at the subway station.

A budding talent.

But we do have something new.

-You gonna wait till August to tell me? -So, Crisanti...

He went to the US to study in '81.

Which is when Gotti enrolled in Bocconi University.

Same year.

So, if something happened,

it happened a while back. So, I thought...

I said, "Sannucci,

find out what reports were made in Milan that year."

And we found out a weapons shop was robbed.

11th January 1981. Three guys dressed as traffic cops.

They asked for three guns and ammo,

then just like that, pointed them at the owner.

Holy shit.

We got it, don't we?

We just have to figure out what guns they stole

and if there are any similar reports.

No, now it's time to eat, Tarcisio.

-What did you make, Rosa? -Spaghetti with ragu.

-My own recipe. -Damn!

I called and texted till 6:00 in the morning.

Me too.

I thought he might think clearer in the morning, but no way.

-Listen, Mafuz. -No, you listen.

Find him.

'Cause if I find him first, I'll kill him.

You think I can allow some kid to piss on my head?

I won't stop my men.

If I don't do it, they will.

Try calling him on your phone. He might answer.

Hey, honey.

No, that's not necessary. Thanks a lot.

-You sure you don't even want new towels? -No, thanks.

-Are we gonna do a selfie with the piece? -Please, I said I'm coming.

Thanks a lot. Bye.

We have various options of people who want to badmouth him.

But there isn't a single damn person who wants to come cry over Campana.

And that's not good.

Flora.

We ought to be happy that the widow Nardi Contini won't go on Criminal Love.

-Because they called her. -Of course they did.

Those vulture scumbags.

We find the case of the year and those guys...

-You're sure? -Oh yeah.

I finally convinced her.

She swore she won't come here or go to the others.

Good job, Carlo.

But we still don't have an episode.

So, try to come up with some ideas, seeing as that's what you're paid for.

Take five and be back here in an hour.

Creative, please!

-What did you want to tell me? -I discovered something.

I hacked into Campana's account.

The account for his racket.

In three years, there's basically just deposits.

As for transfers to other accounts,

never any transfers over 3,000 euros.

I feel like I am about to hear a massive "but at a certain point...".

But at a certain point...

six months ago, he makes four transfers of 15,000 euros each

to a guy named Michele Pandolce.

-"Six months ago." You sure? -Yeah.

Why?

Because his beautiful widow mentioned something to me,

which she wouldn't explain,

that happened exactly six months ago

and caused her to sever her relationship with her husband.

Then there's something underneath it all, because Pandolce's a plumber.

And transfers like these...

They're not for broken pipes.

No.

Did you try and talk to him?

Yeah, I tried to call, but he hung up on me twice.

What should I do, go there in person?

Yeah, but watch yourself.

Okay.

Excuse me...

Could you give us a hand? She lives on the fourth floor

-and the two of us can't make it. -Yeah, hold on.

Excuse me, could I borrow that?

-What? -The chair. I'll bring it back.

-Ten minutes max. -Okay. Thanks.

Fuck off.

-Here we are. -Go on, Antonia.

Okay. You get that side.

-I'll get this side. -Thanks.

Hang on.

Ready? One, two, three, go!

-I'll lead the way. -Okay.

Down.

Fourth floor. Ready, go!

Over here.

Good idea, getting that chair.

Old army trick.

Just a little farther. There. Perfect.

-There we go. -Thanks.

You ready? One, two, three.

I gotta go.

Here, take it back to that asshole downstairs.

How does she manage here if she can't walk?

Either one of us or one of the old ladies in the building comes by.

-You're new, right? -Stairway G, third floor.

Hi, I'm Chiara.

-Franco. -Nice to meet you.

Hey, is there an ER nearby?

Yeah. The one at San Michele. Why?

-You got a car? -No, but she does.

It's a piece of junk but we all use it.

Yeah?

Is it big? How's the trunk?

It's a Fiat Tipo. It's normal.

-Why? -I got an idea. Come with me.

-Antonia, we're gonna take the car. -Yeah, sure.

Bye.

Bye.

-This belong to anyone? -No, it's been here all day,

-but you can sit here. -No, I'll sit here, we'll have more space.

-Hey, Dad, how you doing? -How do you think I'm doing?

-What did they say? -That we gotta wait.

-Code yellow? -Yep.

Then, fat chance.

-How about we go get some air? -Sounds great.

-See you. -Goodbye.

Good luck. Bye.

-Go slow. Blend with the environment. -Sure, Dad.

Come on, don't laugh.

Okay.

ER TRIAGE, SAN MICHELE HOSPITAL MILAN

Open it up.

Okay.

-Hello. -Hello.

Interesting.

Almost looks like a work of art.

It's a long story.

-Dylan or the bullet in his head? -Both. But more Dylan.

Imagine, I even thought of writing a piece about it.

It's hard without talking about his music, but I wanted to start with his words.

He wrote a lot, even something like a novel.

Tarantula.

But I'm more boring than the police.

-May I? -Thank you.

-Do you have anything against bubbles? -Not at all.

As long as it's not soda.

So...

Hard day?

A call from the police.

Sirens blaring at my house, then an hour of questioning.

What did those bloodhounds want?

He had a pistol.

-Who? -My husband.

They found it in a sort of river, a canal.

I don't remember the name.

Lainate.

I believe.

He had a pistol and lost it after he died?

He was killed with that gun.

They wanted to know if I'd seen it, if he kept it in the car.

Killed with his own gun.

Beyond ridiculous.

You didn't know he had a gun?

Honestly, no.

Actually, if I think about it now, I'd be surprised if he didn't.

Now it's me who's boring you.

Let's go back to your Dylan.

Tarantula.

Strange title, don't you think?

Do you have a copy of Zarathustra?

Shoot, no.

-Do I lose a lot of points? -At least a million.

But don't worry, I have one.

Listen to this.

"Tarantula."

"With vengeance, your poison makes the soul giddy."

"I yank on your web,

so that your rage might lure you out,

and your vengeance might spring forth

from behind your word 'justice'."

What do you think?

Is my Friedrich enough like Dylan?

Now I'm going to have to reread it because of you.

Vengeance that hides behind justice.

Sure...

a woman freshly widowed by a murdered husband

ought to be more careful about the words she uses.

If the fresh widow talks about vengeance,

dark clouds of suspicion gather above her.

If she doesn't, appearing as if she wants to avoid the word,

those clouds begin to gather anyway. So...

I'll tell you more.

The thing about the stones.

Maybe it's simpler than everybody's musings.

-Oh, really. -Like the old Italian adage.

Let bygones be bygones.

Put a stone on top of it.

I hadn't thought of that.

As if the killer said,

"The job's done. Finished."

"Now let's just forget about it."

You know what?

I think I'll do the same with my husband.

-A fresh widow... -...shouldn't do certain things. I know.

Excuse me.

-Yeah? -Can I come, or am I disturbing?

You two still dressed?

Hold on, I'll ask her. My friend is nearby.

He wants to know if it's okay if he comes by for a drink?

-Is he good-looking at least? -Well...

He's not bad. He's younger than me.

I don't trust you anymore, Monterossi. I have to see for myself.

Did you hear that?

Does this lady have a bright red SUV?

-Yeah, I think so. Why? -Nothing.

I'm on my way.

So, how do you like your new race car?

You don't know how happy I am.

I dreamed about it all night.

-Let's hope the police don't come for it. -They got better things to do.

Yeah, sure.

Now there's that thing about the stones.

Anyway, I don't think the Muslims have anything to do with it.

They blow themselves up.

Otherwise, how are they going to get the 27 virgins?

I don't know. I think it comes from something in the past.

A sort of vendetta, but that remains to be seen.

People kill each other for many reasons, even stupid ones.

The reasons may be stupid, but not the killers.

Otherwise, they would've got him.

-Hi, Antonia, it's me. -Hi, Francesco.

-' Morning. -Have some coffee while it's hot.

He's the boyfriend of the girl from yesterday, Chiara.

They live across the courtyard in stairway A.

-Francesco? -Yeah.

He's Franco.

The wheelchair guy.

Oh, yeah, Chiara told me.

You know there are cameras in the ER?

Really?

They put them everywhere now.

I don't think the police will come after us for an old wheelchair.

They've got lots in storage.

Then, excuse me, that's why people pay taxes, right?

Yeah, I guess so.

Good, you took the first orange pill.

You have to take another one after dinner,

then the white one.

So, you just got here.

-Yeah. -From where?

From where I was before.

We were talking about the stones.

What stones?

The ones on those dead people. Don't you read the paper?

Enough to know that if they shot minimum pensioners,

they'd barely cover it.

No one shoots folks on a minimum pension.

We can get ourselves out of the way.

Anyway, killing folks only leads to trouble.

-For the shooters and victims. -You know something about it?

I know someone who was inside. He didn't come out happy.

-Some even come out in a coffin. -True.

In my opinion, all the dead guys were assholes.

Oh yeah? Where'd you read that?

We still don't have the death penalty for assholes.

Otherwise, there wouldn't be many of us.

What do you do for a living?

Graphic designer.

-He's an artist. -"An artist."

All right.

I gotta get going. I have some things to sort out.

Don't forget your pills.

-Have a good day. -Bye.

Bye, Francesco.

-No, wait, I'll do that. -I'll get some exercise.

POLICE

POLICE

It's this one. Go.

Police. Out of the bed. Hands up.

-I didn't do shit. -We'll see about that.

-Relax. -"Relax" my fucking ass.

-You got the wrong person. -Tell that to the deputy chief.

Come on, move it.