She sat on the sofa, and her appearance gave Barzini some hope. "Come on, girls," he said, "I don't know what these men told you, but—" He still had the mask in his hand. He tossed it aside.
Teresa put a hand on his shoulder. "Pay us off, Mr. Barzini, and you won't get hurt."
He shrugged again. "Is this some kinda sick joke?"
She grabbed him by the hair. "You give us the bank draft, and we leave."
"I swear I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what this is all about. Now why don't I get you ladies a drink and we can talk about this?"
Teresa bent down and whispered to Rosa to give her the scissors. Rosa slipped them from her bag as Barzini turned his attention to Sophia, declaring that he knew nothing about the men who attacked them. Sophia asked how he knew they had been attacked, and his eyes rolled frantically as he pointed out that they had bruises and Sophia had a bad cut.
Teresa was at his side, and as he looked around to see what she was doing, she snipped at the lobe of his ear with the scissors. He screeched and backed away, his hand to his ear.
"What the fuck! Are you crazy?" Blood trickled down his hand, and he took out a white handkerchief, pressed it on the wound.
"We just want the bank draft, Mr. Barzini."
"Jesus Christ, you cut my ear, you cut my fucking ear!"
Teresa gestured to Sophia, who got up and went to Barzini's desk. She began to pull the drawers out and tip the contents on the floor.
Barzini turned on her in fury. "You leave those alone. Don t touch anything—"
Teresa opened her bag and took out the gun. He stood helplessly watching, dabbing at his ear with the handkerchief. "I can't believe you women could be so stupid! You know what you're doing? You think you'll get away with this, think I make the decisions? I got partners."
"We know you do, Mr. Barzini. Did you ever think that we might have, too? And we're not taking anything that your partners weren't prepared to give."
Teresa handed the gun to Rosa and joined Sophia in searching through Barzini's papers. She picked up a small book and flicked through it.
Barzini moved to the desk to try to take it. "You crazy bitches!"
With both hands shaking, Rosa pointed the gun straight at him. He froze, afraid to move even a step, while Teresa flipped through the book.
When she spoke again, her voice was very calm. "Empty your pockets."
Barzini took off his jacket and flung it aside. "I tell you, you're making a mistake. Believe me, this doesn't stop here."
Teresa searched the pockets of his jacket and opened his wallet. She took out a folded white envelope, and just by the look on his face knew she had found it. The draft was for fifteen million dollars, but it was made out to Barzini.
"You get the documents when you've cashed this draft. That was a nice restaurant you took us to; book another table there, say, one o'clock tomorrow. We don't want any drafts, just the cash, and in return you'll get exactly what we agreed to. If you don't turn up—"
Suddenly Teresa had lost it. What if he didn't turn up? What if he cashed the draft himself and took off?
Graziella rose from the sofa and walked sedately toward Barzini. "If we do not receive the money, we will ask for a meeting with my husband's associates. We will tell them of our treatment. We will tell them, do you understand? You made a grave error of judgment. Do not believe we are alone."
As they walked out of the hotel, Luka was already opening the door for Graziella.
They were still describing to Luka what had been said and who had done what to whom when they let themselves into the apartment.
Luka asked to speak to Teresa alone. They went to the study and closed the door.
"How do you know he'll stick to the bargain now?" he demanded.
"We couldn't do anything else; the draft was in his name."
"There're all-night banks. . . . You shouldn't have walked out. I told you to take me in with you. You fucked up. You could get every one of those women hit, you know that, don't you?"
Teresa felt her legs shaking. Luka leaned close, but his eyes were so pale and dead that she backed away from him.
"You needed me. He had to be scared, understand? You have to put the fear of God in him. You needed me. Why won't you trust me? I saved your life, all your lives, for chrissake."
Teresa clutched the desktop to give her strength. "And we saved yours, so I guess we're quits. You're going to get a slice of the fifteen million, and you've earned it. But then what happens? What happens next, Johnny? Are we going to live under the threat of blackmail? Is that what we can expect?"
"Has Sophia been talking to you?" Teresa shook her head, and he went on. "Then why? Why are you turning against me? I don't understand. You need me."
She gave him a hard look and adjusted her glasses. "How come you know so much, Johnny? You're just a kid, and we keep on trusting you, but we know nothing about you and . . . you made us accessories to murder."
He lifted his hands in a gesture of amazement. "You know why I had to do that! What did you want me to do then? Run? Why won't you admit I saved your lives?"
Teresa sighed. "I know, I know. . . . But it's all getting out of control, Johnny. I keep listening to you, but—"
He was sitting on the edge of the desk, swinging his foot. "Reason I know so much is that I was a runner, you know, a messenger boy. I kept my eyes and ears open. My father was small-time, but part of the mob. I was running messages before I was thirteen, cleaning the cars, that kind of thing. But because I could keep my mouth shut, they liked me."
Teresa took her glasses off. " 'They,' Johnny? Exactly who?"
"Well, sometimes it was the Gennaro family, and they kind of passed me around. They shipped me out to Sicily almost a year ago. I was supposed to be a courier, you know, bring stuff back for them. By then my father was dead. I was in deep trouble over the Dante thing; I mean, I can't go back, I blew it, they'd have me shot. It was heroin, I told you, and so without you I wouldn't have stood a chance of getting out of Sicily. I guess I need you! So, you hire me now, I work for you. You own me because if you wanted, you could turn me in at any time."
"That works both ways, Johnny."
"Right, but I don't want to take over. I'll take whatever orders you give me. I want to work for you; you've become my family. I've got nobody else."
Sophia walked in, and he turned. She leaned against the doorframe. "It's two in the morning. I think we all should get some rest. I think Johnny should leave."
Luka was off the edge of the desk fast. He didn't look at Sophia, just muttered that he could come back to drive them to the meeting with Barzini.
"I'll walk you down, Johnny. I need some air," Teresa said.
Sophia watched them standing in the street below. She closed the curtain and turned to Graziella. "Do you have any pills? I've run out."
Graziella opened her bedside drawer and held out the bottle. As Sophia reached for it, she saw Michael's photograph.
"He was your favorite, wasn't he?"
Graziella closed her eyes. "He filled my soul and broke my heart. They always say the firstborn is the one, the one that touches you most, lives inside you more than the others. Maybe because the first one is so frightening and so wonderful—"
She stopped. Sophia had left the room.
Sophia poured a glass full of whiskey, then sat at the kitchen table. She took the first pill, then a second, and felt a hand on her shoulder. Graziella took the pill bottle, carefully screwed the cap back on, then pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching for Sophia's hands, but she could think of no words of comfort for her daughter-in-law.
"I want to sleep, Mama, and never wake up. I don't think I can take any more. It's as if we're caught in madness."
Graziella sighed. "Yes, sometimes I lie awake, and it is as if I am in a different world."
Sophia reached for her hand. "Mama, there is something I have never told you. You remember that night when Filippo brought me to the vil
la after the accident? I had come to Palermo from Cafalu because—"
She stopped because Rosa had appeared in the doorway.
"Where's Mama?" she asked. Her face was drawn and pale. Graziella patted her knee, and Rosa climbed on it like a little girl and buried her face in her grandmother's shoulder.
"Grandmama, I am so glad you are here."
Graziella smiled. "You know, I guess we all are hungry." She kissed Rosa's cheek.
"You know what day it is today? Grandmama? It's Christmas Day."
Rosa felt her grandmother's arms tighten around her, and she snuggled closer.
"You know, Rosa, Christmas at the villa used to be so special. We would put lights all over the big tree, you know, the one by the kitchen garden? Full of lights, and Papa would climb to the top and put up the holy saints that the children from the local school made specially each year. And when the boys were little, after we checked to see they were asleep, we would creep out and hang up their stockings. Only they weren't real stockings but old pillowcases with the boys' names printed on them in big red letters. Michael, Constantino, Filippo. I would put Papa's gifts underneath the tree, but never, never did he put one there for me, no! He would hide it, like I was a little girl. Sometimes it was under my pillow, sometimes in the pocket of my robe, and once I found it under my napkin at breakfast, a string of pearls. Oh, Rosa, each one perfect, each one chosen by Papa. Years and years he had waited because to find pearls the same size, the same color is very, very difficult. There was one for each year of our life together, one for each of my sons. . . ."
"Can I see them, Grandma?"
Graziella whispered, "They're gone, Rosa, all gone."
"I will buy you some more."
"Some things, Rosa, you cannot buy. Mama just put it into words." Sophia gave the sweetest of smiles; it was that smile that had touched Graziella's heart the day Sophia had been carried into the villa. Now it touched her again, because all the sadness and the madness surrounding them had not destroyed the sweetness in Sophia's soul.
Sophia knew then that she could not, would not ever tell Graziella about Michael's child; it was too late.
Teresa wrapped Sophia's coat around her. Luka tucked his hand under her arm.
"You should go back!"
"No, I couldn't sleep. Besides, I wanted to talk to you. You're a strange boy, and sometimes you scare me. I trust you, then I don't, but I want to trust you, Johnny, because—"
They stopped, and Luka drew the collar of the fur coat closer to her neck, protecting her from the cold night air. It was a comforting, kindly gesture. He cupped her face in his hands. "Teresa, you mistrust me because you, and only you, know what had to be done. But you know that I can take care of you, all of you. In every family there has to be one to protect you; that is all I have ever done."
They had walked all the way to the trucking company. It was still locked and barred, with lethal-looking wires threaded over the tops of the walls.
"This is where my husband used to work. It's the only part of our business that I didn't include in the sellout. I also kept the leasing rights to Pier 3 at the docks. It's one of the biggest."
Luka looked up at the unlit warehouses and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, feeling the cold himself.
Teresa smiled. "I want to plow my share of the money into starting this place up again. I need help, of course, people I can trust."
Luka stamped his feet, feeling really cold now. "How are you going to find these people? For starters, you'll have the unions on your back."
She wasn't listening to him but was looking up at the huge Warehouse doors. "This is where all the gasoline used to be brought. The Lucianos were paid a percentage of every gallon they sold. Did you know that? They had so many fake companies it was a full-time job just keeping track of the names.
Old Papa Luciano was always going on about his legitimacy, but I know for sure that he made millions out of the gasoline scams."
Luka cocked his head to one side, looking at her hunched in the cold, her thin nose red. He was touched by her earnestness.
"You want the Lucianos back in business, is that it?"
She nodded, looking down at her shoe, and kicked at the street. "I need to know who Barzini's partners are, if they are American or Sicilian, what business they're in. Could you find out?"
Luka had not the faintest idea of how to go about it, but he said, "Sure, I'll find out for you. Go on home, Teresa, I'll take care of it."
Exhausted, Teresa climbed the stairs. She hoped they all would be sleeping; she couldn't face any further arguments. She heard them as she turned onto their landing. At first the high-pitched wail frightened her. Then she listened in disbelief as the three voices, off-key, warbled together, "Adeste, fideles. ..."
Chapter 20
Commissario Pirelli spent Christmas in Milan, and it was the worst Christmas he had ever had. The investigation into the murder of the Paluso child had, to all intents and purposes, been forced to end. It had to be admitted that Luka Carolla had probably left Italy. There had been no fresh evidence for six weeks, no further sightings. The judge in overall charge of the case decreed that Carolla would remain on the wanted list, with the right of extradition if he was found in the United States. The case, as with hundreds of other Mafia-linked cases, would remain open on file.
Pirelli, with his wife, Lisa, and son, Gino, had returned to Milan on Christmas Eve. They had shopped for a tree and gifts. When they finally arrived home, Lisa sent Pirelli out to fill a bucket with earth for the tree, while she unpacked.
One of the cases was full of dirty laundry that she hadn't ad a chance to wash in Palermo. As she tipped it into the laundry basket in the bathroom, she noticed the pair of sheets she had put on the bed before she left.
Although it was against the rules, Pirelli dug the earth from a flower bed. When he carried it back to the apartment, Lisa was waiting.
She threw the dirty sheets across the room. "Since when have you bothered to change a bed? I'll tell you when: The day you brought a whore back here, you bastard!"
Pirelli said nothing, and Lisa's voice rose to a screech. "You call yourself a detective? No wonder that guy got away. You can't even bring a woman here and clear away the evidence! Well, you spend Christmas here, get your whore to keep you company, because that's all the company you'll have! I am leaving. . . .
Pirelli slumped into a chair and lit a cigarette, still saying nothing. Lisa faced him, hands on hips, eyes blazing. "Well, aren't you going to say something? Even try to make an excuse?"
He shrugged, refusing to look at her. Frustrated by his silence, she stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. He could hear her crying. Slowly he stubbed his cigarette out and followed her.
She was curled up on the unmade bed, sobbing. He sat beside her.
"Lisa, Lisa, listen to me. . . ."
"How could you bring someone into our bed? How could you do that to me?"
"I have no excuse, it was unforgivable, and I'm sorry."
Lisa sat up. "Who is she? Do I know her?"
He lit a cigarette. "You don't know her."
"How long has it been going on?"
"It happened only once. I'm sorry."
"Who is it?"
"You don't know her. I couldn't understand it myself; all I can say is that I'm sorry. I am ashamed, if that makes you feel better."
"Are you still seeing her?"
To Lisa's astonishment, he appeared close to tears. He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes.
"Do you love her, this woman? Joe?" She pushed his shoulder. "Are you in love with this woman, whoever the bitch is?"
He caught her hand, and she tried to pull away; but he held on tightly. "Listen to me. It's over, but I can't talk about it."
"Oh, fine! You bring a woman back here to our apartment, sleep with her in my bed, then tell me you don't want to talk about it! Well, fuck you."
She broke free and slapped his face. He turned his head away,
then gestured toward the door. Their son was peeking into the room, his face scared.
Lisa snapped, "Go to your room, Gino. I'll come and see you in a minute. . . . Gino, do as I tell you."
The boy slunk away, and Pirelli got up and closed the door. He stood with his back to his wife and sighed. He asked. "What do you want me to do, Lisa? You want me to leave?"
She took a tissue from the box on the dressing table and blew her nose. "I don't know. ... I just don't know how you could have done this to me."
She seemed so helpless. He went to her and rubbed her shoulders.
"Don't you love me anymore?"
He stroked her cheek. "I do love you, Lisa, I love you. . . ." He flushed guiltily and gave her a sheepish smile. "Look, we'll go on that vacation, the three of us. Now that I'm through in Palermo, we can go right after Christmas. What do you say?"
"I don't know, Joe. Right now I don't know what I want, I'm so mixed up, so ... I still can't believe you lied to me."
His face tightened. "I haven't lied, Lisa. Believe me, I haven't lied to you. It is over. I won't see her again."
He held her in his arms, kissing her hair, her neck, as she clung to him, crying. He hugged her tightly.
"Don't, Lisa, please don't."
Christmas was strained, with Lisa referring to his "one-mght stand" at every possible opportunity. Pirelli was torn by guilt and a sense of failure. Luka Carolla was out there somewhere; thinking about him brought Pirelli back to Sophia as if the two were somehow linked.
He had decided not to return to work after the Christmas break but to take the two weeks' vacation due him. Then he received a call from an old friend.
Detective Inspector Carlo Gennaro was in charge of the Nino Fabio homicide, and he asked Pirelli's help in tracing Sophia Luciano because he needed to question her. Pirelli agreed. He had no way of knowing that Sophia was in New York.
Michele Barzini was a worried man. He knew that the men who had supplied him with the cash to pay off the widows were now waiting for the documents giving them full rights to all the Luciano holdings.
He left his suite at the Plaza and walked two blocks to his underground parking space. Engrossed in his own thoughts, he walked down the ramp and headed toward his car, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.
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