by Maria Herren
"Yeah, and I've got company," Frank said, grimly. "We're on a three-way line."
"Carlo Carruci?" came a strange, harsh voice.
"Yes. I'm here," Carlo said.
"I've got someone who wants to say hello to you," the harsh voice said.
Seconds ticked by. Margaret watched a muscle at the corner of Carlo’s face jump to a steady rhythm.
"Carlo?'' Charly finally said, uncertainly.
Charly. His Charly. She was alive. He closed his eyes. "I'm here, cara mia," he breathed into the phone.
"How are Alex and Lily?" she asked. He could hear the tears in her voice.
"They're alive, they are well. They love you so much," Carlo told her.
"I love you, Carlo. Take good care of the children. Goodbye, my love." Her words had an eerie feeling of finality that chilled all of the listeners.
"You didn't pay us enough," the harsh voice suddenly interrupted. "THIS BITCH KILLED MY BROTHER!" the man screamed, shrilly.
"I've given you everything you've asked for. Let her go!" Carlo cried.
They could hear her struggle as she fought with her captor. "You filthy bastard!" she screamed before the connection was broken.
A few hours later Carlo and Frank walked out of the police station. It was just a little before midnight but they were both wired tight.
Getting into Frank's car Carlo asked, "Do you want to get a drink?"
"Yeah, sure," Frank said. "Where do you want to go?"
"There's a little place in Italian Village. I know the bartender pretty well," Carlo said.
"Just tell me where to turn," Frank told him.
⇼
The bar was dark and crowded when they walked in. There was one vacant stool and Carlo took it. "Giuseppe!" he called out to the bartender.
Giuseppe flashed a brilliant smile and reached across the bar to grab Carlo in a hug. Stepping back he said, "Che cosa voi?"
"The usual for me, but double it up," Carlo said. "What are you having, Frank?"
"One shot of Cuervo Gold, beer chaser," Frank said.
The drinks appeared in front of them almost instantly.
"How's everything today, Carlo?" Giuseppe asked, his eyes searching and questioning. Charly's kidnapping had been the only subject at the bar since the night before when the paper came out.
''Not so good, my friend," Carlo told him, draining his drink. Through all the years, Giuseppe had never known Carlo to have more than two drinks in the course of an evening. Giuseppe refilled the empty glass without a word. Several of the other patrons caught his eye and he shook his head briefly, silently passing the word along the line.
Carlo downed that drink, too. "I'll be back, Frank," he said, heading for the men's room. He didn't have to fight the crowd. A small path opened in front of him through the loud gathering. He stopped to acknowledge a few tables, feeling at home and comforted by the lively conversations, mostly in English but punctuated with streams of Italian. Several of the patrons clapped him solidly on the back. Suddenly he stopped and stared hard, trying to penetrate the far dark corner.
It can't be! he thought. He would've told me he was coming to the States! He made his way to the small table in the corner. "Paolo! It is you! Why didn't you tell me that you were coming?"
Paolo jerked around in his chair. His greeting was flamboyant as he jumped up to greet Carlo.
"Don't move! I'll be back in a moment!" Carlo said, maneuvering into the bathroom. The liquor acted fast on his empty stomach and he was beginning to feel a little light headed. He came out and grabbed Paolo by the hand. "Come with me!" Carlo said. "I want to introduce you to some other friends!"
Giuseppe had cleared a place for Frank at the bar. Seeing Carlo coming with another person in tow he gave a quick jerk of his head to the man on the next stool, who immediately got up to search for other accommodations.
"What are you drinking, Paolo?" Carlo asked. "The same as always?"
Paolo nodded and Carlo signaled to Giuseppe. "A glass of champagne for my friend!" Turning to Frank he said, "This is Paolo! We grew up together in Sicily!"
The two men smiled stupidly at each other. "It sure is a small world!" Frank commented.
Carlo seated himself between the two men and pushed his stool back. "You should have told me you were coming, Paolo! It's been too long since I've seen you!"
Paolo smiled another stiff smile and gulped at his champagne. "What brings you here?" Carlo asked. "Business or pleasure?"
"Mostly business," Paolo said.
"The last I heard you were in Monte Carlo. I've never known anyone with the luck you have at the tables!" Carlo said with a laugh. "What kind of business are you doing here?"
"I just flew in tonight. Nothing's really settled, yet," Paolo said.
"Giuseppe! Another glass of champagne for Paolo!" Carlo called out. "I'm sorry," he continued. "The music is too loud. What did you say?"
Paolo fingered the stem of the champagne glass, then downed it in one gulp. "It's too early to tell!" he yelled. "No formal arrangements have been made!"
Carlo nodded that he'd heard and started to sit back on his stool. It only took a split second for Paolo's voice to click in his brain. For an instant the world dipped around him.
He turned to Frank and put his arm around his shoulders. "Don't look at me, Frank. Just laugh like I've just said something funny."
Frank laughed with amusement and smiled at Paolo over Carlo's shoulder.
"He's the voice, Frank. The one I knew but I couldn't place. It's Paolo Lugo. Mio Dio! He's sitting right beside me! Let me have this, okay?" Carlo pleaded. "I have a lot of friends here."
Frank laughed loudly, again, then turned back to the pretty young woman beside him.
Carlo gave Giuseppe two orders. The first he did with a silent signal and a glance toward the door. Within seconds several people were congregated in that area, barring the exit. The second was for more champagne.
"Bring your best, Giuseppe," he requested. "Pour yourself a glass and don't leave anyone out. I've got a toast to make."
Someone had turned the music down.
Carlo stood and faced the quieting room. Paolo was definitely feeling the effects of the champagne. He raised his glass, cheerfully, for Carlo's toast.
"Here's to finding my wife," Carlo said, clinking his glass solidly against Paolo's.
"Certo! Here's to finding Charly!" Paolo echoed, draining his glass.
No one else had taken a drink.
Frank waited patiently. This was Carlo's show.
Paolo gradually felt the curious stares from the crowd and his eyes widened, then became panicked, trying to remember what he'd just said.
"I didn't know that she was missing," he started, "I mean I heard that she was missing. People told me. I flew in late and I heard..." he finished, lamely. He stopped himself in time to stare into Carlo's accusing eyes that ripped through his drunken stupor and slashed at his soul. The atmosphere had lost any sign of friendliness and turned dark and deadly.
"Another drink, Paolo?" Carlo asked, deceptively friendly. Everyone was staring at him. Paolo nodded.
"With a strawberry, please, Giuseppe. He likes strawberries," Carlo said.
Giuseppe served the champagne, floating the fresh strawberry with panache. Carlo invited Paolo to pick it up. "Drink it," he said, his voice dangerously low. Paolo took it, his hand shaking against the glass. He drained every drop he could get from the glass before bringing it back to the bar.
"Good. I want you to remember your last glass of champagne," Carlo said. One hand shot out and grabbed Paolo's wrist, slamming it with such force against the hard wood that the glass bounced and broke on the floor, along with Paolo's hand.
With his other hand he broke Paolo's nose. "Where is she, Paolo?" he screamed.
Time for this policeman to do his duty and save another miserable life, Frank thought, showing his badge to Giuseppe before stepping in.
"I gotta take him in, Carlo," Frank said, apo
logetically. He slipped the handcuffs on, tightening them just a little more than was necessary, and prodded him out the door to the accompaniment of angry stares. Paolo plodded along obediently in front of him, crying openly.
⇼
Eric spent as little time as he had to in the interrogation room with Paolo. He'd recognized Paolo immediately as the embarrassingly drunk guest in Sicily at Simone's wedding to Vincenzo. Now Paolo was not only drunk, he was scared. He was babbling uncontrollably.
He said that he'd accrued some very large gambling debts in several different countries. He had hatched the kidnapping plot in an attempt to pay back enough to his debtors to save his father from further embarrassment and himself from, at the least, financial ruin. He'd been in the States the whole time. He'd gotten some enjoyment out of seeing Carlo in such distress. He'd intended to leave after the transaction was complete, but everything had unraveled.
"I didn't want her to get hurt!" he repeated, over and over. "I just needed some money. Everyone knows how rich Carlo is," he sobbed. "It's her own fault if they hurt her. She shouldn't have killed Jimmy!"
At those words Eric threw his chair back and stepped casually forward.
Uh-oh, Paolo. You just made a boo-boo, Frank thought to himself behind the glass, watching Eric carefully.
Paolo continued to cry, mucus and blood dripping from his nose. Even Frank, watching closely, didn't see the slap happen, but it was enough to straighten Paolo's neck.
Paolo was dazed. The red welts were beginning to stand out on one side of his face when Eric hit him again. His neck wobbled drunkenly while he stammered, "Che fai?''
Eric jerked Paolo's head over the back of the chair and knelt beside him. "You are a miserable excuse for a dick brain rabbit-eared motherfucker," he whispered into Paolo's neck. He pulled tightly from the roots of the hair, causing Paolo to display the length of his throat. "Tell me, one more time for the record, what you just said!"
Paolo tried to talk but started to choke and cough. "Aiuto! Non recordo ... I don't remember what I said!"
Eric shook his head from side to side, "Invece, penso di si, Paolo! Devi parlare ber tutti, in English!" he instructed.
Frank stepped in. "That's probably about enough, Eric. What are you telling him?"
"I told him he's got a better memory than he thinks and he should talk in English," Eric said.
The brief interlude hadn't helped Paolo. Droplets of drool ran from his open mouth. His drunken eyes were glazed with fear.
Eric took his hands off of Paolo and stepped back. "Mia culpa, Paolo. I should have mentioned how well I speak Italian, and French and Spanish and several other languages from the countries that you visit. I've put the word out on you, you sorry sack of shit. I've heard from acquaintances already tonight that some of your ‘friends’ are willing to tell what they know to pay back their own ignorant debts. For the record, I wouldn't let any of them wipe my ass."
He lowered his voice and leaned forward. "Are you listening?" he hissed. Paolo tried to nod.
"Do you know how much I despise you?" Eric asked. Another nod.
"Do you know why?"
A blank look from Paolo.
"Would you like me to tell you why?" Eric questioned. Paolo gave a slow nod.
"You were too drunk to remember me. I've met you once before, in Sicily, when Vincenzo Cabrera married Charly's friend, Simone. I thought you were an asshole, then."
Paolo closed his eyes in recognition.
Eric put his hands around Paolo's neck. "We don't care about the money. We want Charly. Tell these officers everything you know and if you lie to them I will kill you."
Frank watched the pulsing veins in Eric's strong hands, poised for a deadly twist. "We'll take it from here, Agent Tyler," he said.
Eric released Paolo, snapping his head forward with undisguised animosity. "What can you tell us that we don't already know?" Frank barked.
"I don't know... where they are or who they are," Paolo sniveled. "I can tell you who gave me their names.
"That's a real good start, Paolo," Frank said, congenially, as Eric left the room.
Sixteen
From the open doors in the kitchen Carlo listened to the soft splashing of water into the goldfish pond. I must feed the goldfish, he thought, walking out of the room. He walked slowly through their home. The house was deathly silent but he couldn't hear it. In his mind he heard the exuberance of her laughter.
A few of the flowers he'd sent just days before were wilted over. He watched another forlorn petal find its way to the floor. I must put water in these vases, he thought, walking into the dining room.
She'd combined the fifty tiger lilies that he's sent with additional white Casablanca lilies from her own garden and the fragrance drifted toward him. She told him that out of all of her lilies the Casablanca's were her favorite because they'd been in bloom when they brought their newborn daughter home. She's going to miss Lily's birthday, he thought. His eyes filled with hot tears.
He went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine as he surveyed the room. Like the rest of the house the style was eclectic. She'd taken such delight in choosing each piece. The dining table was massive. She'd fallen in love with the hand carved legs the instant she saw it. At that point their home was still under construction and walking around the table she'd taken in its dimensions with a furrowed brow. It was too large for their space.
He was lost the moment she looked at him, her green eyes pleading. "Maybe we can put it in another room?"
He'd made his decision on the spot. ''No, my love. We'll make the dining room larger."
She yelped with excitement and kissed him, fiercely. "You spoil me," she whispered. "Thank you."
Carlo held his wine glass to the light and admired its rich color before taking a long drink.
He refilled his glass before he walked into their bedroom. Sinking into a large chair he faced the bed, remembering the passion of the love they'd shared there.
He'd known a lot of women before he met Charly. With some he'd found shared interests in art, music, or politics. With most he'd had good sex. It was never enough. He'd never stayed faithful for very long to any woman before he married Charly. Her passion, her sense of fun and adventure, her dedication to their children were all things that kept him focused on her. He loved her more than he'd ever loved anyone.
He reached for one of their wedding pictures and drug it toward him, propping it solidly against his knees. She was smiling radiantly for the camera, clutching his arm, tightly. He smiled back at the picture, remembering how sophisticated and blase he'd felt that day until he saw her coming down the aisle toward him.
She was gliding down the aisle, the hem of her gown just enough inches from the floor to make it seem as if her feet never fully touched the ground. He'd felt his stomach tighten and his knees weaken.
He felt a similar tightening now, except it was closer to his heart and it wasn't from happiness.
Putting the photo back he picked up one he'd taken when Charly was teaching Alex to tie his shoes. It had been an all day endeavor for Charly and Alex. She'd called him at the office and asked him to come home on time because Alex had a surprise. His son had proudly performed a semi-perfect bow with Charly perched on the step behind him. At the completion she wrapped him in her arms and legs, smothering his neck with kisses. He'd caught the moment when Alex threw back his head in laughter.
For days he hadn't been able to look directly at himself in the mirror. He was unwilling to confront himself. He felt like a monster. Now, with great effort, he willed himself to stand up and walk to the shining glass.
Taking in his immaculate exterior he felt a detached sense of calm. His custom made suit was unwrinkled, his silk tie hung straight. His blonde hair was smoothed back over his temples.
He found his reflected image pathetic, then comical. Throwing off his suit jacket he ripped at his tie, loosening it enough to be able to finally breathe.
Panting, he
came eye to eye with the animal in the mirror.
"Jesus," he muttered. "You've always wanted more. More money, more connections, more power, more prestige. How does it feel to have it all and lose the only thing that ever really meant anything?"
His reflection told him that he was crying.
He refused to look away, confronting the image of loss. "You poor pathetic bastard," he wept.
⇼
He slept fitfully for a few hours, his fear for Charly tempered by a horrible anger. In the still of the middle of the night he forced himself awake. Naked, he stalked to the massive oak desk in his study. The leather of the chair was cold against his buttocks. Reaching deep into the back of the bottom drawer he withdrew a small leather book.
Leafing through it quickly, he paused at the page he was looking for and reached for the telephone. It took some time to get past the annoying overseas recording in Sicily that kept repeating, "all circuits are busy."
"The hell they are," he swore. "One of you lazy motherfuckers wake up and connect me!"
When the call finally went through it was answered on the first ring. "Pronto?" It was a pleasant, feminine voice.
"Io sono Carlo Carruci. Devo parlare con Giovanni," Carlo said.
"Un momento," she said.
Carlo waited. It had been ten years since he'd been given this number. This was the first time he'd ever used it.
"Ciao, Carlo," Giovanni said. His voice had grown deeper, with the harsh edge of a heavy smoker. "The connection is not good. Are you calling from America?"
Hearing Giovanni's voice brought home the reality of what he was doing. "Yes, Giovanni."
"Tell me what I can do for you, my son," Giovanni said, his voice booming through the receiver. Carlo shivered at the words. Giovanni was from north of Rome, a town called Genoa. He had always called him his Sicilian son. Hearing Giovanni's voice brought home the reality of what he was doing.
The conversation lasted ten minutes. At its conclusion Giovanni said, "Eduardo will call you in one hour."
