Five-player Briscola

Massimo runs a bar in a fictional coastal town near Livorno.
Like so many provincial establishments, the bar is frequented by a group of old men who pass the time playing briscola and talking (or gossiping) about the affairs of the world and those of the small village.
Then an extraordinary event comes along to shake up the daily grind: the corpse of a young woman is found in a dumpster.
Needless to say, Massimo turns amateur detective, making his share of mistakes, but ultimately playing a decisive role in uncovering the killer.
To avoid being accused of spoiling the culprit and the resolution, I will say nothing of the plot, confining myself to noting how trite and predictable it is.
At first, Massimo’s attention to certain seemingly insignificant clues entices the reader, but the author’s eagerness to deliver a twist ending ruins the gradual buildup of evidence, motives, and the very logical architecture of the noir.
The setting could open up intriguing possibilities if, for instance, the old men played a meaningful role in the detective plot or, conversely, if the writer were capable of portraying the atmosphere of the bar.
Nothing of the sort! Setting aside the use of the Livornese dialect, the bar and its patrons remain in the background—flat, insipid, and superficial.

The novel’s sole merit is the writing: simple, accessible, and clear.
The reader breezes pleasantly through the pages without being subjected to any particular effort of concentration, yet without lapsing into boredom.

Why not read it? It is the classic travel novel, but it leaves nothing behind.