Dancing With the Devil

by Maria Herren

  Neither man said goodbye before hanging up.

  ⇼

  Carlo felt the smooth leather of the small book he held in his hand. He'd built a small empire with a cool head for business. The more successful he became the bigger the temptation had been to join "the group" for better import pricing.

  He'd resisted the temptation, willing to pay the higher prices in exchange for knowing every decision he made regarding his business he made solely on his own. And he also kept all of the profits.

  The man who had given him Giovanni's number years ago had said simply, "He'll be there whenever you call."

  Carlo closed the book. He shifted back in the chair and his bare skin caught on the leather. The house was empty and silent. The click of his lighter seemed to echo from the walls of the study. There was a bitter taste in his mouth that didn't come from the cigarette. He glanced quickly at the grandfather clock.

  He would always remember the exact hour that he sold his soul.

  Seventeen

  Giovanni Terrazi savored the taste and sweet aroma from his cigar. He purchased the blend directly from Havana. He rolled it delicately in the thick fingers of his large hand and he smiled broadly.

  "Finalmente," he sighed. He took another long puff from his cigar and took a moment to enjoy it before he summoned Vincenzo.

  Except for a thin line of gray hair at his temples, Vincenzo Cabrera had not changed outwardly from the day he'd married Simone. He waited patiently while Giovanni smoked in silence.

  "They've got Paolo Lugo," Giovanni sighed, shaking his massive head. "I am glad I don't have a son who is so stupid. Pay his bail. Erase his gambling debts as I promised. Tell his father it is my gift to him because he is my friend."

  He paused and took another puff. “Tell him also that our friendship is over." He sighed, again. "Get Paolo out of the states. Don't bring him to our country. Give him enough of a beating so that he will remember not to mention my name. Not too much, though, he's always been weak. Also, tell him to get a new vice. If I hear of him entering any casino, ANY casino, anywhere in the world, I'll have him killed."

  Vincenzo nodded. "Questo e tutto?"

  "No," Giovanni answered, opening a cedar box and extending the cigars. "That's not all. Sediti," he said, gesturing toward a chair.

  It was a special honor. Although he was now a central figure in the inner circle, Vincenzo had never been invited to enjoy one of Giovanni's prized cigars.

  "Grazie," he said, seating himself.

  Giovanni stood and lit the cigars for both of them. Vincenzo held the smooth taste of the rich tobacco as long as he could before he had to exhale.

  "It's a very good taste, non pensi?" Giovanni commented, contentedly.

  "Si, Giovanni. Molto buono," Vincenzo assured him.

  "Como esta la tua famiglia? Your daughter is well? Your wife is happy?" Giovanni asked, congenially.

  "Si, Giovanni. Angela has just started school and Simone is a very good wife," Vincenzo told him.

  "Bene ... bene. Very good," Giovanni said, leaning forward to gently roll off the ash on the end of his cigar. "I'm glad that everything is well."

  His eyes narrowed a bit and he took another inhale of the cigar. "I've never understood why you didn't marry Catrina Carruci," he said around the smoke.

  "My uncle forgets things in his old age!" Vincenzo chided him. "I've told you why I didn't marry Catrina, Giovanni. I love her like a sister. I've never had a desire for anything more.”

  Giovanni grunted and sipped his brandy. "It's such a pity. You're the only man in Sicily who feels that way." He stood up and walked to the liquor cabinet where he got another glass and the bottle of brandy. "I bought this brandy over fifteen years ago. It's the finest I've ever purchased. I've been saving it for this day."

  He smiled a smile of such total satisfaction that it caused the small hairs on the back of Vincenzo's neck to stand up in defensive warning. He filled Vincenzo's glass and sniffed it with appreciation before handing it to him and seating himself in the deep chair. "I think you'll like it, Vincenzo," he said.

  Vincenzo took a sip and nodded. "It's excellent, Giovanni."

  Giovanni smiled in acknowledgment, then studied the fire. "Have you heard from Carlo, Vincenzo?"

  The small hairs that had just begun to settle sprang up stiffly again. Giovanni hadn't asked about Carlo for years. Vincenzo felt a great apprehension.

  "Yes, Giovanni. He called about two months ago. He and Charly are planning to bring Alex and Lily at the end of the month as a surprise for Angela's birthday."

  Vincenzo watched one of the logs shift and a spray of sparks exploded with a hiss. He felt the heavy weight of Giovanni's stare and returned his look.

  Giovanni's voice was surprisingly gentle. "They may not all be coming together."

  The dancing flames writhed together and cast sinewy shadows along the walls. Vincenzo placed his empty brandy snifter on the smooth mahogany table and folded his hands carefully in front of him. The shock of the words had left a dull ache in the pit of his stomach. For a brief second he thought perhaps he'd misunderstood. The light in Giovanni's eyes told him that he had not.

  "I don't understand, Giovanni!" he blurted. "Why would you kill Carlo? He's done nothing to you!"

  Giovanni laughed a warm laugh that chilled Vincenzo to the bone. "Oh, no!" he chuckled. "You've misunderstood!" he continued, reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. "I've waited a long time to bring Carlo closer to me! I have no intention of hurting him!"

  He refilled his glass and reached for Vincenzo's. "No, Giovanni. I've had enough."

  This time Giovanni filled his glass. He slid the glass carefully across the glassy surface of the wood. "Drink it," he said. It was not a request.

  Vincenzo drank.

  "Life is not so complicated, unless that's the way you want it to be," Giovanni said. "I've loved both of you boys since you were babies. I watched you play together in the sand at the beach of Mondello when you were still in diapers. Mio Dio! It's difficult to believe that it's been that long! And now, listen to you! You're asking me if I'm going to have Carlo killed. Where is your trust?"

  Vincenzo knew that it wasn't the warmth from the fire that was making him sweat. "He left our country for a new life, Giovanni! He asked for nothing from you! He wants nothing to do with you!" his voice had a ragged, cutting edge.

  There was no reaction from Giovanni. Faced with Giovanni's impassive countenance he felt the blood begin to swell in the veins around his neck. "Carlo told me years ago that he'd never do business with you, Giovanni."

  Giovanni laughed. "Did you take that oath with him, Vincenzo?"

  "What have you done, Giovanni?" Vincenzo asked.

  Simone was asleep when Vincenzo came home. He watched her breathe softly for a long time, then he went to his daughter's room. She rolled over when he opened the door. "Papa?" she questioned, sleepily.

  "Si, piccolina, my little angel," he said, sitting on her bed. She raised her arms and he brought her into his lap.

  "I tried to stay awake for you, but my eyes keep closing," she said earnestly, nestling against his chest.

  "I know, angel. It's late," he said, kissing her gently. "I didn't want to be so late, but there was a lot of business to be done," he explained to the top of her head.

  "That's okay, Papa," she said, and he could hear the smile in her young voice. "Mama let me eat my ice cream before the vegetables at dinner!"

  "Tell me it isn't true!" he exclaimed in mock horror.

  Angela pulled back to look at him. "Don't be mad, Papa. I made her do it."

  "I'm sure you did, angel," Vincenzo said. He'd been on the receiving end of her pleading eyes more times than he could remember. "I'm sure you did," he repeated, softly.

  He tucked her back under the covers and was almost to the door when she said, "Papa, why are you so sad?"

  He looked searchingly back towards her small form that was sleepily clutching the stuf
fed animal he'd bought her for her last birthday. "What do you mean, bambina mia?"

  She yawned widely into her covers and mumbled something that he couldn't hear before she fell asleep.

  Climbing into bed with Simone, Vincenzo wondered about the perceptive qualities of the innocent.

  Eighteen

  Jack Salvi sat quietly in the corner and watched Charly sleep. A cigarette was drooping from the side of his lips and he swatted at the ash when it hit his leg. He was glad she was asleep. His brother had cut her cruelly before he left and the gashes on her cheek were slowly closing as the edges hardened.

  He hadn't wanted to return to the area where she'd killed his brother, Jimmy. They'd fought about it outside Sam's cabin after they'd taped her up and put her in the trunk.

  "Let's just kill her now, Jerry! We can still get our share of the money and get the hell out of here!"

  "What do you want to do just shoot her? What kind of justice is that? After what she did to your brother? DIDN'T YOU LOVE YOUR BROTHER?!" Jerry screamed, slamming the lid of the trunk with such force that the whole car shook.

  "Yeah, Jerry, I did," he said placatingly, backing away. "But we took this job for the money, right? Now Jimmy's dead, right? That's a tragedy we've got to deal with. But we can still get the money, right?"

  He had felt like he was getting his message through to his brother. Even so he moved a safe distance around the car before he continued. "Hey, I know that our instructions were specifically NOT to kill her, right?"

  His brother glared at him.

  "Look, don't glare at me that way, okay? I heard you threaten her. I knew it wasn't part of the job, but I'm sure she didn't know that. And Jimmy never knew anything, anyway. You made her afraid, so she killed Jimmy to get away. His blood is on your hands, so don't fuck with me about how much I loved him. Let's leave her here, get the money and get the fuck out of here!"

  He hadn't had a chance to move when Jerry leaped across the car and slammed him against the hood. He cursed his own small frame when his brother pinioned his wildly flailing arms.

  "You've always thought you were smarter than all of us, you weak little bastard," Jerry snarled. "I'm tellin' you right now that Jimmy was more of a brother to me than you'll ever be!" he screamed, letting go of Jack's arms and lifting him by the neck, dragging him inch by inch to the open door. "Get your skinny ass in there!" he yelled, flinging Jack across the seat.

  Jack shivered and put his hands protectively around his neck. He'd always known he was a coward, and there were several recent reminders. Glancing around the lean-to he'd helped Jerry build against the side of the mountain he listened intently for helicopters. They'd been sweeping the area all night and even the briefest interludes of sleep had been miserable.

  It hadn't been easy to watch what Jerry did to Charly. In fact he'd left several times. Jimmy's dead and Jerry's crazy, he thought, getting the last he could from the cigarette. He stomped it out with his heavy boot, watching the embers of the ashes scatter.

  He didn't like to look at her, but he couldn't help himself. In fact it was hard not to look at her. He'd never seen anyone defy his brother the way she had. He was guiltily glad that his brother had enjoyed the torture enough by himself that he hadn't demanded him to participate like he had with some of the others.

  It shocked him that her eyes were open. Jack knew she had to be thirsty and he waited for her to ask for water. Instead, she just stared at him. He watched the tremors work their way along her body but her eyes stayed open. It was cool on the mountain, but beads of sweat had formed across her face.

  "You killed my brother," he started, strongly. "I'm ... I'm not going to give you any water."

  Charly's gaze didn't waver from his face. Her eyes flashed an insult that was easy to understand. It didn't take long for her taunting look to enrage him.

  "You killed my brother, you little bitch!" he swore, quivering from emotion with his hand raised. He closed his eyes when he slapped her. It was a harsh connection. Blindly he slapped her again and again. The cuts on her face reopened and his hands were slick with her blood.

  "It's all your fault!" he screamed, hitting her again, perversely delighted by his position of power. "Everything would've been fine if you hadn't killed Jimmy!" He wasn't sure when she became mercifully unconscious. Weak from his own brutality he slid down beside her. "It's all your fault," he whimpered. "Everything's your fault."

  Nineteen

  Eric had been winning more than he'd been losing at the game. He'd picked this table carefully, playing a little each match and watching every dealer. He was sitting in front of a dealer who maneuvered the players as easily as he did the cards. It never took Eric long to recognize a highly paid professional.

  The pile of chips in front of him weren't the highest stack, but they were a respectable showing. Too much to walk away, too little to buy a yacht. The dealer was showing enough on top to make it worth the risk to take the bet. Eric nodded to the dealer for the next card. The small crowd that had gathered made the play momentarily significant. It wasn't the most gutsy play he'd ever made, but it was certainly worth his while.

  He had no doubt that he'd made the right impression. He wasn't enough of a concern to be taken seriously, but he'd played just well enough to be noticed. It wasn't long before he felt the slight touch on his elbow.

  Eric sized him up quickly. The man had been born to work in a casino. He had a slightly exaggerated aggressive stance, showing his importance. Features that made him more pretty than handsome. From the cut of his suit it was obvious he spent a lot of time in the gym. He really likes the big mirrors, Eric thought.

  "They say you like to gamble," the man said, admiring the low cut dress and large breasts of a passing blonde.

  "They're right. I do. I'm looking for some strong players. Sound like anyone you know?"

  "Maybe I do. What's your game?'' he asked, his eyes caught in the rhythmic sway of the blonde’s retreating hips.

  Eric smiled. "Anything that pays well."

  "I heard you. Why don't you entertain yourself for awhile and I'll see if you've got any takers, okay?"

  They just keep getting younger and dumber, Eric thought. One of the things Eric liked about casinos was that you never had to ask for a drink. "Thank you, miss," he said, handing the young lady a bill from his recent winnings. After he took a sip he handed her another. "Keep them coming, strong like this one," he said.

  "Good luck, tonight," she whispered in his ear.

  They just keep getting prettier and smarter, Eric thought, watching her walk away with a sway that put the blonde to shame.

  He wandered from table to table, watching the faces of the gamblers. The intensity in some of their eyes gave a small clue of how much the game meant to them, but he could never tell how much was riding on any given roll or the turn of a card. The ones who were really addicted were easy to recognize. They never registered delight in winning or anger in losing.

  He waited and he watched. It was hypnotizing how much invisible money was changing hands. The smell of the room had nothing to do with anything tangible. It was a combination he was familiar with. Fear and excitement.

  The big man came back and signaled him to a table. "These are most of the regulars," he said. It was his only introduction.

  Eric handed him a bill.

  "You're obviously a real player," the man said. "These are only gamblers."

  "Is there a favorite game?'' Eric asked, showing him another bill.

  "On a good night they all get played," the man said. "What's your best game?''

  "On a good night I play them all well," Eric responded with a smile. "Tell me the first and last names of the men at the table. Start at the head of the table, go down the left side. Try not to smile when you look at me."

  The young man enunciated each name softly and clearly and was generously rewarded. "Wait just a minute, I'll get you a chair," he told Eric.

  Eric stood and surveyed the players. It had tak
en a lot of careful questions in the right quarters to locate the casino here in Monte Carlo where Paolo Lugo had spent the most time and money. There were six men already seated at the table. No one acknowledged his presence. Even the dealer was looking through him.

  He regarded each man individually. He found what he was looking for in the tapping fingers of the man directly in front of him. I've hit the jackpot! Eric thought. There's a man who's itching to play, win or lose. A man after Paolo's own heart.

  "I trust that none of you consider seven an unlucky number," Eric said, taking a chair from his new friend, smiling widely at their cool reception. They made a place for him beside the impatient red-headed man.

  "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather sit on the other side of the table," Eric said, walking around so that he was directly opposite the red-head.

  The dealer announced, "Sir, the game is Baccharat. Would you like another drink before we begin?"

  "That's a good idea," Eric said, smiling at the same young lady who'd brought his last drink and wished him luck. "Thank you, Yvonne," he said, with a glance at her name tag.

  Eric won a lot of money that night. Some was luck, some was talent, and most was a balls out desire to win that had nothing to do with luck or talent.

  Throughout the evening he'd watched the eyes of the red-head. At times they were excited, sometimes anxious, occasionally happy and then nervous. He was not meant to be a gambler. He lost a lot more than he won. At the end of the night his eyes were flirtatious. With Eric.

  Eric had hoped that they would be.

  He stood and stretched. "Thanks for playing, boys," he said, and his smile included the dealer. "I'm cashing in."

  Yvonne came toward him before he made it to the door. Her smile was beguiling. After spending so many hours at the casino he found her smile more sad than bewitching. Come and get me, darlin', he thought. We're all using each other. Leaning down into her ear he asked, "How much would it take to get you out of this place for the rest of the night?"