[Gia Santella 01.0] Gia in the City of the Dead

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Oh, Jesus, Gia. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’m just really tired and ... I don’t know.” Scared.

  “It’s okay. I’m so sorry you had to see that.” He paused. I could hear him inhale sharply. “Gia, maybe you should let someone else handle this. My mother said that you looked ... well, not like yourself.”

  “Tell her I’m fine. The less you know, the better. I promise I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can.”

  A group of young men on scooters zoomed by, drowning out Dante’s voice for a few seconds.

  “— I don’t like this at all,” he said. “Gia, the autopsy report showed they died in a fire. I know you saw something there, but I’m worried that somebody is using you, maybe trying to get your money or something. You are very vulnerable right now. And maybe a bit more likely to be open to suggestion.”

  “You don’t believe me? After I just told you I saw brains and blood on the wall?” It came out like a shriek. He thought I was imagining the whole thing?

  “Gia, I want to believe you. I really do.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, I still need your help.” The line was silent. “Please, Dante? Just do this for me.” I knew I was pleading and didn’t care.

  “I’ll see what I can find out. Be careful.”

  “I’ll call you when I get to Sicily.” I hung up before he could answer.

  I then dialed Susie to check that her family was safe. She said that Kato was going to be released this week. He was doing much better, she said.

  A tiny particle of the guilt I was carrying around was released, but the weight on my back felt about the same. I wouldn’t be able to rest until I knew for sure who was killing—or trying to kill—the people I loved.

  ON THE TRAIN, I FOUND an empty compartment, locked the door, turned out the lights and decided I’d try to sleep. I hadn’t slept worth a damn the night after visiting my parent’s house. The train wasn’t scheduled to arrive in the Southern Italian town of Milazzo until morning. From there, I’d take the ferry across to Sicily.

  During the night, as I slept to the rocking movement of the train, I had an erotic dream about Bobby that turned into a horror movie. I thought I’d blocked him out of my mind forever. But my dream told me otherwise. In it, we were making love when I realized that Christopher’s cold dead body was in bed with us. When I jumped out of bed in fright, Christopher sat up and laughed at me, a long, evil laugh. I woke, heart pounding to the sound of the train wheels clattering on the tracks.

  Once the fright wore off, I thought about Bobby and his mouth and his hands. Longing coursed through me so strongly, I was tempted to go seek out a lover in the restaurant car — maybe some Italian businessman having a nightcap.

  But I knew I should try to get more sleep. I had no idea what awaited me in Sicily and I wanted to be prepared. If that were even possible.

  Sicily wasn’t a big island, but it wasn’t small, either. Without knowing what I was looking for, I might as well have been on my way to the Congo.

  IN THE MORNING, I STUDIED my mother’s land deeds while I munched on a cannoli and sipped an espresso in the restaurant car. Mateo Antonio Turricci had given my mother what looked like the deed to a house and several adjacent properties.

  Before I stepped onto the ferry from Calabria to Sicily, I called Dante.

  “Any luck?”

  “Gia!” He sounded like he’d been waiting for my call. “That guy is bad news. The State Department guy told Matt that his file was classified. CIA eyes only. He’s dangerous. I think you should leave your investigations up to the experts and come home. I think you’re getting in over your head.”

  I laughed. Dante had always been overprotective of me. At least now he believed me.

  “It’s fine. I’m pretty sure the guy was my mother’s guardian after her parents died. He left her a boatload of land. I’m actually hoping he’s going to help me find out what happened to her. As soon as he hears what really happened, he’ll be on my side. If he is powerful — maybe mafia — then that’s even better. He’ll make shit happen. Don’t worry about me, sweetie.”

  I hung up again before he could answer. I had meant it, too. If Turricci was connected, that meant whoever killed my parents had underestimated them — and me.

  The sun was setting by the time I wandered off the ferry onto Sicilian soil. Stepping foot on my ancestral land, I wondered why my parents had never taken us to Sicily.

  Growing up, they had taken us everywhere in Italy besides Sicily. We’d spent months on the Cinque Terre, visited Rome half a dozen times, Florence, Venice, and Pompeii. But never Sicily.

  Once I asked if we had any relatives in Sicily we could visit and my mother looked pained and left the room. My father told me that some memories were too difficult for my mother and it was best not to bring up Sicily again.

  I wondered if it hurt too much for her because she had lost her parents at such a young age. She was only fifteen when they died.

  Being in Sicily made me feel nervous and vulnerable. I needed some way to protect myself. Cab drivers knew everything. In San Francisco, they could tell you where to find prostitutes, heroin, or contraband. If they didn’t know, they always knew someone who did.

  Hitching my backpack over one shoulder, I hailed a cab and leaning in the window, asked if he knew where I could get a gun, a pistola. I flashed so many lira in front of him, he just nodded for me to get in.

  He drove to a small shanty along the side of a hill overlooking rough seas. He told me I’d find what I needed inside.

  I got out, leaned in and handed him the lira. I was about to tell him I’d pay him extra if he’d wait, but as soon as his chubby fist closed around the money, he roared off, nearly running over my sandaled foot. Motherfucker. I was stuck at some shack with some gun dealer, miles away from civilization. I hitched my bag on my shoulder, took a deep breath, and headed for the blue-painted door.

  Before I could raise my hand to knock, the door flew open. A man in his twenties with an unbuttoned white shirt and thick hair waved back in a pompadour stood there, leering at me.

  “Voglio una pistola.” I want a gun. I didn’t crack a smile.

  He gestured for me to enter. A voice inside warned me to get the hell out of there. I looked around. In both directions lay an empty stretch of road. In the distance, far below, was the sea. We had passed one or two buildings on the drive. It would be a long, hot walk back.

  I started to turn to leave, but then the man smiled.

  “Come in. Are you hungry? We are about to eat.” He spoke in Italian.

  It sounded so normal, I smiled back, and despite my gut instinct, walked inside. A shiver ran across my arm as I stepped into the cooler, dim room that reeked of stale cigarette smoke. But beneath the smoke was the sweet smell I recognized from childhood – sauce simmering on the stove. It was familiar and comforting. Maybe this would be okay.

  Once my eyes adjusted, I saw that the young man had left through a swinging door to what must have been a kitchen. The living room was small and tidy. Two love seats faced one another. An older man sat slumped on one.

  “Sit.” He said in Italian.

  I perched on that edge, clutching my backpack with white knuckles. I eyed the door to the kitchen, but all was quiet.

  “Why you need gun?” His English was rusty, but I could tell he was proud of it.

  I shrugged.

  The man, who had thin gray hair slicked back and a pressed light blue shirt sat up straighter, tapping an unlit cigarette on the couch. He raised his eyebrow. He wasn’t taking my shrug for an answer.

  “I’m an American woman in Sicily.”

  The man laughed and lit the cigarette, not taking his eyes off of me until he exhaled.

  I set my backpack on the floor next to my feet and leaned back on the couch adopting the man’s relaxed posture. He stared at me and I looked, unflinchingly, back.

  He watched me for a few seconds an
d then nodded as if he had made up his mind. As if on cue, the younger man returned with a small pistol.

  “You know how to work this?” He asked in Italian.

  I eyed it. “Yep.”

  “One million lira.” It was a fair price. Only about seven hundred dollars American.

  I leaned down to grab my backpack at my feet. I’d moved some cash into it while I was in the cab so I didn’t have to reveal my hidden money belt to the gun dealers. By the time I saw the man’s pants leg inches away from my face, I knew I’d made a mistake. Then it all went black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “YOU DON’T COME TO SICILY and ask to buy a gun.” The voice, speaking in Italian, seemed to come from far away.

  The words, followed by raucous laughter, dimly made their way into my throbbing head as my body tumbled downward, knocking against scratchy bushes, scraping sticks, and small rocks that felt like punches. I was afraid to open my eyes. I knew it was best to keep my eyes tightly closed. When I finally came to a painful stop, I slowly opened my eyes. All I saw was brilliant blue sky above me. I was stuck against a prickly bush that had stopped my rolling further down the steep hillside.

  A bird whistled a happy song and I heard tires squealing from what sounded like far away. Gingerly, I sat up. I was near the bottom of a steep, weed and flowered-covered incline. A craggy outcrop of bushes and rocks had stopped my body from continuing its roll right off the cliff. I could hear the surf pounding some ways down the hill a few hundred feet below. So, despite appearances, I knew they didn’t want me dead. I was certain if they had wanted me dead, they would’ve put a bullet in my head before sending my body plunging down the hill, or at the very least, waited around to make sure I went soaring off the cliff into the ocean.

  My head throbbed where I’d been whacked with the pistol. I tried to stand, but felt dizzy and slumped back into a sitting position on a large rock, putting my head between my hands. Of course, they’d taken my backpack. I frantically patted under my jeans. My money belt was there. Thank God, they hadn’t searched me.

  They were just playing with me. Sending me a message. As far as I could tell the message was “Don’t be a stupid American girl who thinks she can play with the big boys in Sicily.”

  I’d learned my lesson. The Tenderloin and Hunter’s Point in San Francisco were Disneyland compared to Sicily.

  The warrior learns from his mistakes and grows stronger, more powerful.

  It took me a while to make it to the road I’d spotted. I headed to the right, which seemed to be north. I had traveled south to get to the shack.

  My head hurt and as I walked, I daydreamed about coming across a small café where I could get a large glass of water and four aspirin. But the road, which was up against the side of the hill on one side and overlooking the ocean on the other, didn’t seem to have any businesses. No cars, either.

  After about thirty minutes, I heard the distant rumble of an engine and stepped to the shoulder of the road, ready to flag the driver down. The vehicle that rounded the bend was an old rusty pickup truck and the gray-haired driver didn’t even slant his eyes my way as he passed despite my yells and frantic waving.

  I kept walking.

  It took me about another half hour to reach a small village.

  When I saw the road leveling out and the line of small buildings in front of me, I wanted to cry with relief. Instead, I kept on, encouraged by the thought of aspirin and water.

  It wasn’t a store. It was a small cluster of homes. Nobody seemed to be at the first house, but my knock was answered at the second. A teenage girl looked at me as if she were bored.

  “Do you have a phone?” I asked in Italian.

  Instead of answering, she closed the door. I should have asked for water and aspirin. A few seconds later, she handed me a phone and stood there in the doorway watching me.

  A half hour later, I’d downed some aspirin, drank a huge glass of water, and was waiting for a driver from a hotel in Taormina to pick me up. I knew after that blow to the head, I’d need a day or two to recover. It would drive me crazy. I had things to do. But I also knew my body needed some down time.

  The clerk at the Grand Hotel Timeo in Taormina said they had a doctor on staff who could come look at my head. I said I’d pass. I’d had a concussion before, from getting a kick in the head during my Budo training. Only time would make it better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THREE DAYS LATER, THE throbbing in my head had disappeared. I had taken it easy, lying in bed most of the day, watching TV and ordering room service for food and toiletries. The luxury hotel was ostentatious. The bathroom alone was nearly as big as my entire Tenderloin apartment.

  I thought such a lazy lifestyle would’ve driven me crazy, but my body told me otherwise.

  But this morning I woke up ready to go.

  All my clothes had been in my backpack, so, dressed in the only clothes I had, which were smelly, dirty and ripped, I headed down to the fancy hotel’s lobby. There, at a few of the expensive designer shops, I bought pink lacy lingerie, a black bikini, a burnt orange sundress, a cashmere wrap, black linen pants, four short-sleeve white T-shirts and four long-sleeve black T-shirts.

  After a shower, I headed back downstairs to one of the hotel’s restaurants. I gulped down eggs, bacon, and coffee and left the waiter a tip double the price of my meal. The waiter, who was in a tuxedo and very prim and proper, swooped up my lira without blinking. I took a chance and put my hand on his arm.

  “Scusi,” I said and asked him how to find the villa that belonged to my mother.

  He said, sure, no problem, did I have the address?

  I showed him the address on a piece of paper. I’d scribbled Turricci’s name beside it. The waiter’s eyes widened as he read it. Without answering, he walked away, jerking his arm out of my grasp.

  I got the same response from the three cabbies I asked to take me to the address. The first one started sputtering in Italian, leaped out of his cab and closed the door I had opened. The second one just kept shaking his head and repeating “no.” The third one sped away when I showed him the address.

  Now I was really curious.

  I FOUND A RENTAL CAR agency and paid cash to rent a small Fiat. It took me less than twenty minutes to find the villa. It stood alone on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The driveway led to a giant iron gate flanked by a huge stone wall that hugged the curves of the hills as far as the eye could see, all the way to what must have been the cliff overlooking the sea.

  There was no buzzer at the gate. It was fortified like a castle. There was one way in – through that gate and I wasn’t getting in unless I scaled it myself. For a half second I considered it. After all, it was my property now, right?

  With all the windows of the Fiat down, I drove away, trying to come up with a plan, inhaling the peculiar combination of scents that made up Sicily — some intoxicating mix of salty air, lemons, and Jasmine.

  Soon I came upon the nearest town, if it could be called that — basically a blip on a lonely stretch of rural road. The café was a tiny room at the front of a cottage with iron café tables and chairs outside. Two older men sat drinking espressos and playing some board game I didn’t recognize.

  One winked at me when I walked past. Inside, a small bar stretched across one side of the room. An ancient but sturdy espresso machine took up most of the bar. There was no menu. An older man with a generous head of silver hair and equally generous belly smiled when I walked in.

  I ordered an espresso before I brought up the villa. The man stepped back and squinted at me.

  “Bonadonna?”

  My mother’s maiden name. I knew I didn’t look anything like my mother, who had blonde hair and brown eyes.

  “Si. La mia madre.”

  The man made the sign of the cross. He knew she was dead.

  “How do you know?”

  “We know what happens to the people from our village.”

  Then he came out from behind
the bar and with a heavy sigh, sat down at a table and patted the chair beside him.

  I carried my espresso over and sat down, wondering why he looked so sad.

  I explained in Italian that I was trying to find someone who could let me into the villa.

  The man shook his head.

  I took the deeds out of my bag and handed them to the man. He barely glanced at them, as if he knew what they said. He waved his hand. And told me in Italian to go home and keep the past buried from the light. I was confused. Wasn’t that what Mrs. Gutmann had said?

  “I need to speak to Mr. Turricci. Where can I find him? I need to talk to him. I came all the way from America to tell him some news about my mother.”

  This time there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes. He didn’t answer. He put the broom in a corner and walked out, into another room without saying a word. After about ten minutes when it was clear he wasn’t going to return, I made myself comfortable. I could outwait him. An hour later, the door opened. The man handed me a slip of paper. It said: “Boat. Lucia-Grazia. Messina Harbor.” A boat with my mother’s name?

  “You no get this from me. I want to live a nice old age.” His English was rusty, but he made his point.

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” I said, and gave him a long, slow wink. He didn’t smile. He shook his head sadly and walked me to the door. I heard the lock turn behind me.

  Night was falling in indigos and purples before me as I walked down the dock to the Lucia-Grazia. I’d changed into the black linen pants and a black T-shirt and pulled my hair back in a low ponytail. I took a roundabout way, going first to an adjacent dock to scope it out. The Lucia-Grazia was not a boat. It was a yacht.

  The windows were dark. But then I noticed a tiny glow. Somebody on the deck was smoking. I crouched down. I wanted to get on that yacht. A little way down, a small walkway connected the two docks. I could make it to the yacht in ten minutes.