“I wish I could have. But Gio died after I got back from Missoula, I guess you heard.”
“Yes.”
They both fell silent a minute, and Mary took a swig of Diet Coke, as an antidote to champagne. There were so many questions she was dying to ask Mrs. Nyquist, but she couldn’t go there. She sipped her Coke and listened to the lovely piano music. The pianist had segued into “I’ll Be Seeing You,” which Mary knew she wasn’t supposed to like anymore, but still did. She felt suffused with the wonderful feeling of having won. For Amadeo. And the bittersweet feeling of having it all end, and having to let him go.
Mary raised her glass. “To Amadeo.”
“To Amadeo.” Mrs. Nyquist smiled, raised her glass, and they clinked and sipped. “I guess you know, he and I were in love,” she confessed, softly.
Mary let the hushed words linger.
“Gio used to bring Amadeo around the office, and Amadeo and I became friends. He was shy, but I tried to teach him a few words in English. Pencil. Pen. Then one day, he fixed my typewriter. The p key stuck, and the r. Always those two.” Mrs. Nyquist smiled. “I guess I kind of got a crush on him, from that day on. His wife was still alive at the time. He fixed the radio on my desk, and it wasn’t even broken that bad. He took it apart, cleaned it, and put it back together again, and it got better reception after that.” She shrugged, remembering. “Some girls like roses, and others like things fixed, I guess.”
“I’d like both.” Mary smiled.
“Then after his wife passed away, Amadeo was so blue all the time. My heart just went out to him, and our friendship, well, it turned into love.” Mrs. Nyquist sighed heavily, and her hooded gaze met Mary’s, on the level. “I’m not proud of it. I was a married woman. Aaron was so busy with the camp and his career, but that’s no excuse.”
Mary didn’t say anything, but she didn’t judge, either.
“Aaron knew about my feelings for Amadeo, or at least he suspected. Even from early on, when I had my crush, he could tell. Later I found out he was having one of his men keep an eye on Amadeo, in the camp, from even before our affair began.”
Mary remembered the FBI memo, from the National Archives, monitoring Amadeo’s meeting with Giorno about Theresa’s death. She had assumed Amadeo was being monitored by the government, but he wasn’t. He was being watched on orders of Aaron Nyquist, who wasn’t worried about betrayal of his country, but the betrayal of his wife.
“So I broke it off, in July. Right before the Fourth, because we were having a party at the house. I couldn’t do it any longer, betray Aaron like that. I had made a vow to him, and I wanted to keep my word. Set things right between us.” Mrs. Nyquist swallowed again, as she had in court. “Then I heard that Amadeo killed himself, and foolishly, I thought I had something to do with it. That he was upset over our breakup. I never gave a thought that it was murder. I forgot all about the contract until you came to Butte.”
“It was lucky that I did, then.”
“Or it was meant to be. Do you still think things don’t happen for a reason, Mary?”
“Maybe they do,” Mary conceded. “I’m in such a good mood, I can’t disagree with anybody today. Least of all you, Helen.” She noticed Mrs. Nyquist’s grandson had come back into the lounge and stopped at the marble bar to talk with the bartender, a pretty redhead.
Mrs. Nyquist smiled sweetly. “I’m telling you all this, about Amadeo and me, because I think you understand him. You have a feel for him. He was a wonderful man.” She leaned over. “I honestly think he was my one true love, and I think he loved me back that way, too. He couldn’t do enough for me, he paid me so much attention. He even carried around a lock of my hair. Imagine!”
Mary would have said something but her throat felt kind of tight. She leaned over, unlatched her trial bag, extracted an envelope, and handed it across the table.
“What?” Mrs. Nyquist asked, puzzled. She opened the envelope and gasped. She took out the lock of hair, cupping it in her palm, and looked up, her eyes shining. “This is it! This is mine! How did you get this?”
“It was in Amadeo’s wallet. I had it in my desk drawer with my personal stuff, because I showed it to Judy and didn’t put it back in the case file. He kept it with him all the time, Helen.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Nyquist blinked the tears from her eyes and placed the lock back into the envelope with care, and Mary felt the love she felt for Amadeo. Because it was the love she had for Mike.
“To real, honest-to-goodness, no-joke love.” Mary raised her glass. Someday she’d have that love again, she just knew it. She might even serve a subpoena on a certain engineering professor.
“To love.” Mrs. Nyquist raised her glass, composing herself. “And to you, too, Mary. You’re quite a little lawyer.”
“Thank you.” Mary sipped her Diet Coke, watching Mrs. Nyquist’s grandson and the bartender, with their heads bent together over the bar. The plastic casing to the cash register was hinged open, and they were both looking inside.
Mary blinked. Her gaze traveled from the cash register to the grandson. Will Nyquist. His hair was dark, his eyes darker. She knew those eyes. She had seen them on George Clooney. Oh my God. Mary turned to Mrs. Nyquist, whose gray head turned to her, and the two women regarded each other over the table for a minute.
“Yes, it’s true,” Mrs. Nyquist said, answering a question she hadn’t been asked.
“Will is Amadeo’s grandson?” Mary felt like shouting, but Mrs. Nyquist silenced her quickly with a wave.
“Aaron knew, I couldn’t deceive him, not more than I already had. Still, he raised Amadeo’s son as his own. He was a generous man, of heart and spirit.” Mrs. Nyquist sniffed. “But I never told Will’s father. And Will doesn’t know either. That’s why I didn’t bring him to court today, in case it came out. I was afraid you would ask about me and Amadeo, but you didn’t. Thank you for that.”
“There was no need to, because you told the story so well.” Mary’s attention returned to Will, watching him. He did look so much like the way she had imagined Amadeo, now that she could see him uncovered by grease. And he fixed things — old trucks and evidently, cash registers. Will must have inherited his grandfather’s mechanical ability and his movie-star looks. Mary turned to Mrs. Nyquist. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I guess so. I guess I will.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Mary said gently, then she thought of something. “Helen, you know what? If Amadeo has a living heir, which he does in Will, then that heir is entitled to inherit Amadeo’s estate. I’m talking about the money that flowed from the original patent for the hatch.” Mary leaned forward on the cushy shell-pink chair. “You understand? The money that’s been going to Justin Saracone all these years will now go to Will.”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Nyquist asked, uncomprehending, and Mary felt a rush of excitement.
“Helen, before today, Amadeo’s estate was worthless. You thought you were coming back here for a murder trial, but the hearing was about who gets the royalties for the hatch Amadeo invented.” Mary touched her arm. She couldn’t help it, she had to make contact with something. “The answer, thanks to you, is Will.”
“My goodness!” Mrs. Nyquist blinked. “Is it enough to pay for the U?”
“It’s enough to buy the U!” Mary burst into laughter, and Mrs. Nyquist’s hand fluttered to her mouth in shock.
“Oh, my Lord!”
Mary beamed, feeling good all the way to her very soul. And then, though she couldn’t tell if it was the champagne, the piano music, or the truth, she could have sworn that she heard a soft voice whispering.
Sì.
Fifty
“Ma, what goes in next?” Mary asked, from over the big, dented pot of brewing tomato sauce. Beads of sweat popped on her forehead. Steam melted her contact lenses. The Panasonic radio on the counter played Sunday with Sinatra, Mass cards curled behind the switch plate, and Penny scampered between everyone’s feet, chasing a tennis ball th
at nobody had time to throw. Mary stirred the tomato sauce, and a chicken wing, a bumpy meatball, and a piece of driftwood floated past. “Is it the garlic or the basil?”
“Garlic, Maria!” Her mother called from her seat at the kitchen table, where she was nestled like a baby bird in the pink folds of her chenille bathrobe. Mary’s father sat next to her, in his Sunday undershirt and Bermuda shorts. They didn’t try to help, because Mary had threatened litigation and now had the juice to deliver. Not only had she gotten her preliminary injunction, but Justin Saracone had been charged with conspiracy in Frank Cavuto’s murder when Chico turned state’s evidence. And in the process, Mary had become a major business getter at Rosato & Associates, with new cases coming in every day from three different parishes. Today South Philly, tomorrow the world.
“The basil gets too bitter if you put it in early,” her father said, and next to Mary, Judy stirred spaghetti in another big, dented pot.
“Didn’t they teach you anything in law school, girl? You embarrass the profession!”
“You know you want me,” Mary said, smiling. She grabbed a chipped china coffee cup, dumped in the chopped garlic, then stirred it up. She couldn’t remember when she’d been so happy. Her mother’s operation had been a complete success and she was cancer-free. Keisha had recovered, too, and was engaged to marry Bill. And Premenstrual Tom had turned out to be harmless, but still completely annoying, so Mary had given him the cell phone number of a certain brown-eyed reporter at the Philly News.
“Ready, here!” Judy yelled. “We have spaghetti ignition!”
“Now basil ignition!” Mary sprinkled in the cheery green strips.
“Only a minute, Mare, with the basil,” her father said, and her mother nodded in agreement, blessing the entire operation.
“Okay, lift off!” Mary and Judy sprung into motion as a team. Judy poured the boiling spaghetti into the colander, and Mary ladled the gravy onto the bare plates, mysteriously priming them for maximum spaghetti reception. It was a rookie kitchen dance, but in no time the table was complete with four plates of fresh spaghetti and homemade gravy, set in front of three hungry people, Mary’s parents and Judy.
Mary was the last one to sit down because, for the first time, she was the one wielding the wooden spoon. She waited a minute, savoring the sight of the three people she loved so much, happy, whole, and about to be well-fed. And she sent up a silent prayer of thanks, for when it counted the most, all of the saints had come through for her.
Even St. Valentine.
Author’s Note
and Acknowledgments
“Where do you get your ideas?” It’s the most common question people ask authors, and my answer for Killer Smile is simple: The idea for this novel came from history — not only the history of my country, but of my family.
My paternal grandparents, Giuseppe and Mary Scottoline, were compelled to register as “enemy aliens” on February 27, 1942, although they had lived in Philadelphia for thirty years and violated no laws. My grandfather was a laborer and my grandmother a housewife; he was illiterate in both Italian and English, though she had been a schoolteacher in Italy and was literate in Italian. They raised four children: three girls and then a boy — my father, Frank. Ironically, at the same time that Giuseppe and Mary were being registered as enemies of the country, their son, Frank — my father — was serving in the United States Air Force. I learned their story only recently, when my father gave me their alien registration cards shortly before his death. (I include a copy of their registration cards at the end of this book.) I am forever indebted to my father, and to my grandparents, for this novel, and, of course, for much else.
By way of historical background, at the outbreak of World War II, President Roosevelt signed into law a series of presidential orders that identified all Italian-born Americans as “enemy aliens.” The presidential orders compelled Italian-Americans to register as enemy aliens, and some 600,000 registered. The orders also authorized their arrest by the FBI and relocation to internment camps. As a result, more than 10,000 Italian-Americans were evacuated from their homes and places of business, and sent to internment camps around the country.
The major internment sites for Italian-Americans were Fort George Meade in Maryland, Camp McAlester in Oklahoma, Fort Sam Houston in Texas, and Camp Forrest in Tennessee. Italian-Americans were also sent to Fort Missoula, Montana, and any one of the forty-five other internment camps used by the Immigration and Naturalization Service and the Provost Marshal General’s Office.
Some of the Italians interned were visitors to the United States, such as waiters working at the World’s Fair in New York or sailors on visiting cruise ships, but many were Italian-Americans who had lived in the United States for decades without violating any laws or without giving the government any factual basis for designating them as enemies. Some were editors of Italian newspapers, bankers, or other professionals. Many had adult children serving in the United States military, fighting against Axis nations, including Mussolini’s Italy.
Italian-Americans on the West Coast were greatly affected, because its enforcing general, Lieutenant General John DeWitt of the Western Defense Command, was so vigorous in his enforcement of the presidential orders. In addition, the government believed that the coasts of the United States were especially vulnerable to communication with the enemy. Italian-Americans were registered as enemy aliens en masse and as many as 52,000 Italian-Americans on the West Coast had their daily travels confined to “exclusionary zones” and were subject to dusk-to-dawn curfews. For example, the father of baseball great Joe DiMaggio was not permitted to visit his son’s restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf because it lay outside his exclusionary zone. Fishermen and sailors were particularly targeted for this reason. Many were no longer allowed to work as fishermen, and in some instances had their boats seized.
Italian-American residents of the East Coast registered en masse as enemy aliens. They were not permitted to travel without their registration booklet and were subject to inspection and search on demand. Many had their homes searched for flashlights and radios, and this property was confiscated on the belief that it could be used to signal enemy submarines and warships off the East Coast. As on the West Coast, the fishing business on East Coast port cities such as Philadelphia, Boston, and Gloucester were affected. Fishermen were not permitted to fish, even if it supported their families; in Boston alone, 200 fishermen were grounded.
The status of enemy alien was eventually lifted, but the suspicion, hard feelings, and monetary losses remained. To date, no reparations have been demanded or paid to any Italian-American interned and no reimbursement has ever been made to them for any property confiscated. In 1999, as a result of lobbying by the Italian-American community, the United States Congress addressed the treatment of Italian-Americans during World War II, which resulted in House Resolution 2442, acknowledging that the United States violated the civil rights of Italian-Americans during World War II. The bill was passed by the House of Representatives in 1999, in the Senate in 2000, and signed by President Clinton in the same year.
This chapter in American history represents a turbulent confluence of war, law, and family. It wasn’t the first time that civil liberties have been set aside in times of armed conflict, and it won’t be the last. You don’t need me to tell you that history is on a loop. More recently, the September 11 terrorist attacks and the war with Iraq have raised a number of legal issues regarding the suspension of civil liberties during wartime. This summer the Supreme Court will decide questions concerning the rights of “enemy aliens” and “enemy combatants,” including the right to sue in U.S. courts for unlawful detention in internment camps. As long as there is armed conflict — whether abroad or domestic — these legal, political, and emotional issues will recur, and will shape the contours of justice.
My own awareness of the historical context for this novel was heightened greatly by the good works of the National Italian American Foundation, and they get first and
deepest thanks here. For those who would like to learn more about the internment, please refer to the following materials: Lawrence DiStasi, Una Storia Segreta: The Secret History of the Italian American Evacuation and Internment During World War II (2001); Stephen Fox, Uncivil Liberties: Italian Americans Under Siege During World War II (2000); Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist, All the Laws but One: Civil Liberties in Wartime (1998); Carol Van Walkenburg, An Alien Place: The Fort Missoula, Montana, Detention Camp, 1941–1944 (1995); Gary Glynn, Montana’s Home Front During World War II (1994); Umberto Benedetti, Italian Boys at Fort Missoula, Montana, 1941–1943 (1991); and Bella Vista: An Unseen View of WWII, a television program produced by Kathy Willows and Montanans for Quality Television.
In this regard, special thanks to Umberto Benedetti, a former internee at Fort Missoula whose many books have cast light on the subject, as well as to Alfredo Cipolato, another internee at the Fort, who has educated all of us. I would like to note that in my search for the graves of the Italian internees who died at Fort Missoula, which began at the National Archives and ended at the Catholic cemetery herein described, I discovered a secret: that the memorial markers of the three Italian internees who died at Fort Missoula were paid for not by the United States government, but personally by Mr. Benedetti and Mr. Cipolato. These two men have never been recognized or thanked for their previously anonymous act of generosity and grace. They should have been. Grazie mille.
Thanks to the staff at the National Archives in College Park, Maryland, who helped me find the original files of the internees at Fort Missoula, and a huge hug to my amazing assistant, Laura Leonard, who was by my side all the way, as always. Thanks so much to Director Robert M. Brown at the Fort Missoula Museum and his wife, Claudia, and to staff members Donna McClure, Jocelyn, and most of all, to archivist and gentleman Dale Johnson and his wife, the lovely Coby, librarian and great lady. Happy Birthday, Coby!
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