Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

Roberto slips off his loafers and hurriedly tries to get out of his beige linen slacks. Staggering and tripping in haste. Estella is out of her simple maid outfit which did not include panties and a bra, and teasingly strolls past the struggling Pisces. She is a pure redhead and alluringly pink. Estella is in the pool alongside Chiarina faster than an aircraft carrier cat shot.

  As his trousers tangle around his ankles, Roberto mutters aloud as he finally steps out of the heap, "Oh man, how good can it get," already becoming aroused to the delight of Stell and Chiar.

  Chiarina, with Estella swimming on her back doing lazy circles around her, chirps, "Better and I hope you're up for it."

  Roberto launches into the pool's warm water and soft lights like a hungry croc.

  The inky night sky has swept dusk under the Sicilian carpet. The soft pool lights remain on and the veranda lights help spread a warm glow to the table in the corner, overlooking the cliffs and sea. Chiarina and Roberto relax in terrycloth robes at the candle lit table. His hair slick and combed; she with freshened make-up and her hair blown dry and cascading over her shoulders. Estella has already poured two glasses of wine and is serving a freshly baked tuna casserole and Cannoli with ricotta cheese. She is now in a fresh, relaxed outfit of slacks, halter and a full apron. It's as if the previous splash party was not spontaneous. Possibly planned and habitual, perhaps common place. Whatever the rhyme or reason, it was both a dream and not. Roberto thinks, if ole' Bobby Camack from the streets of Philadelphia could see me now. This is Eden, and the serpent has been satisfied. Well, hell, he can. A comment by Chiarina brings him back to the table, and life as it is.

  Once dinner is over, Roberto slides a little deeper in his chair. Takes a sip of Limoncello that Estella has brought Chiarina and him. Fingers the glass, turning it slowly on the white linen tablecloth. Estella nods to her lady, teasingly trails a finger across the back of Roberto's neck as she leaves, saying to him but for all to hear. "Etna is teenage boy compared to you, Signore Roberto."

  Pisces turns his head slightly but only catches a whiff of Stell's perfumed scent, however sees Chiarina brush the robe from her thigh, uncross her legs, re-cross them and push the robe from the other thigh. She whispers, "Now you choose for tonight, Mount Roberto. Me, her, or both?"

  Roberto sighs. Life is good.

  As it is to the rabbit that no longer looks for the hawk overhead.

  CHAPTER 23

  "Once you're in a fight, it's

  way too late to wonder

  if it's a good idea."

  A gunfighter's rule

  Sean and Danny are already seated in the coach section of this Alitalia flight from Roma to Pisa. They see the woman they know from descriptions Muldoon gave them. She enters the aircraft long after other first class passengers are on-board and seated. She hangs a clothes bag in the cabin closet and sits in her vacant seat, on the aisle. The two lads see four other late-comers scurry aboard trying to look casual while hurried, anxious to get seated somewhere. They bump and squirm to the rear of the aircraft but not excusing themselves for their hasty rudeness. The Shanahans don't know Franz Bauer and Helmut Faust. Nor do they know Ivan Zharkov and Jaska Maklakov. And based on those same descriptions the Kerrigan man is not on the plane, and it appears that he won't be as the forward hatch is closed by the attendant. However the lady is on board and that has to help them find the American in Pisa. A bonus is she doesn't know them since she saw them in the terminal waiting area and again here on board without a flicker of alarm or recognition.

  Sean, squirming in his seat as the plane backs away from the terminal, whispers, "Danny, I'm havin' me a lot of second thoughts about this."

  "Aye. Me as well. But we're in it now, but I do wonder about it all."

  "Do ya think Muldoon is lying?"

  Danny cocks his head toward his younger brother and replies, "Muldoon would lie to the Almighty to earn a better spot, so it would be nothing to lie to us except to gain something for himself, and perhaps the cause, but by and large for himself."

  Minutes pass then Sean sighs long and wistfully. "Ahhh, well then, did I tell you I love Mary Kate?"

  "Aye, ya did."

  "And you and Mum?"

  "Aye, but don't be givin' me a kiss."

  They laugh at the remark. Their first since the beginning of the trip so perhaps it is a nervous one as well.

  The three Israeli's sit in a far corner of the lounge at the Grand Hotel Duomo in Pisa. They listen to a Mossad compatriot sent from Rome tell them what all Pisa and Italy already know and the world will as well by evening. It is that Reis, their teammate and Marnee's partner, has been found dead in a trash dump outside Rapallo. Reis will be returned home after the authorities are finished. However, the three are reminded to get on with their mission, which now also includes terminating Rocco DeStefano since all are positive that only he could have done this. Unfortunately, the Mossad has no new information as to the whereabouts of Rocco, nor Pisces. The messenger agent does tell Itzak, Namir and Marnee that the woman traveling with the American agent, Kerrigan, is on the way here. She was spotted boarding a plane in Roma. Unfortunately, they have no information on the whereabouts of the American. The agents first lost him in London. Then they lost him in Geneva and he wasn't in Rome. The Mossad compatriot sighs and says, "This is perhaps the largest collection of embarrassed Mossad agents ever." All hang their heads a moment at the statement.

  The briefing continues and as it wanes, Marnee, lost in her thoughts, stares out the windows of the lounge which overlooks the street. Suddenly, in a harsh whisper directed at her teammates, "Look. At the curb. Coming in and in a hurry."

  All turn and look curbside. Then their eyes follow Dee through the front door and up the marble stairway opposite them, to the registration desk. They watch as she hurriedly checks in, constantly looking around and behind her. The woman leaves abruptly, fingers hooked to a clothes bag over her shoulder, heading for the elevators. When the elevator door closes, Marnee gets up to see where the indicator stops. She signals her partners, then descends the steps to the polished marble of the ground floor. She eases out the front door and lingers on the street as a tourist might, contemplating which direction to stroll. She instantly absorbs the madness of this game as the Russians arrive by taxi, and yet another odd looking duo, closing at roughly a trot, toward the hotel from the direction of the Pisa Centrale Train Station. Marnee turns in the opposite direction, and crosses Via Santa Maria, as if heading for the shops.

  Itzak and Namir will see what I am up to. The key is Rocco and I have a nose for smoke and that always leads to fire.

  Two sets of gentlemen sit at opposite ends of the beautiful dark-stained but modern looking bar at the Hotel Duomo on Via Santa Maria. Bottles of every liquor known to man line the glass shelves in front of the mirrored wall behind the bar. To one side is a square support pillar, also stained dark, filled with black and white photos of celebrities and wanna be's. Neither duo know of the other. Sean and Danny Shanahan drinking ale, Itzak and Namir sipping soda water with a twist of lime. Their common bond now is the TV in the corner blasting the news of a murder of a young man and woman here in Pisa, and the finding of the Israeli tourist murdered and left in a trash dump in Rapallo. The Israeli's know of one and make the connection of the other. And they know Marnee has now gone off on her own. A trait not admired by her teammates nor Mossad headquarters, but it is Marnee and it works. The Shanahans know only that the woman, Dee, registered as Caterina Frati, is here and with any luck will lead them to the American, Kerrigan, or whoever he pretends to be this day. The news makes them think of home and of the aftermaths on the morns following all PIRA missions.

  Sean takes a sip of his ale, mutters, "Vibes. Bad vibes. The news is tellin' us something, Danny."

  "Aye. We'll keep a sharp eye about us."

  "Ahhh, Danny, me brother. My mind keeps slippin' to home. And the beauty of our land. The visions of the Cliffs of Moher, River Blackwater, Killarney Lakes, Gap of Dunloe and s
uch. And Mary Kate ... and Mum ... and Paddy. Then comes the ugliness of The Army, and Muldoon, and his idiot son. All of it. There is a better way and a better life I think."

  "Aye."

  "We should follow that path perhaps."

  "Aye ... and find meself a Mary Kate."

  "And soon."

  "Very soon. Yes indeed. You're not thinking about kissin' me again, are ye?"

  Another nervous chuckle is shared.

  Hunter, as Alfonse Battaglia, is settled in at the Hotel Lido Mediterranee on Via Nazionale in Taormina. Only Joe Zachary knows Hunter is here, and that is because Joe obtained Pisces current address from the cigar manufacturer. It's in Taormina. A luxurious Pisces habit that has become a ded reckoning LOP for Hunter. He needs only two, perhaps three LOP's, clues, for the fix. Tomorrow will bring a well-disguised reconnaissance, followed by a nighttime one as well. For the moment, Hunter sits on the terrace overlooking the beach on the aqua blue Mediterranean. It is covered with the yellow and white beach umbrellas, beach chairs, and the beautiful people who can afford this resort. A few yachts, to include the 78' Stephan's, are anchored a hundred or so meters offshore and several smaller, quicker boats are pulling water skiers up and down the shoreline, between the anchored yachts and swimmers. One can't miss the large number of shapely young women in tiny bikinis and more than a few are topless. I could love Europe. And not shaving, in truth, is sexy on most, at least these here.

  Alfonse takes a sip of the Chianti Reserva from Tuscany. Then another as he recaptures his thoughts of the last several hours and in particular his update from Joe Zachary.

  Antonio, the possible lead is dead. An Israeli agent is dead, murdered. A MacBeer man is headed to Pisa, and Dee. However, the target lives here. And the big guy, DeStefano, has most likely gone to ground and if not caught or killed will show up here sooner or later. Either way he will be handled, but he's vital to finish this mess ... a sophisticated thug with more ties than an eyelet field boot. Complex as a spider's web but yet as simple. Then Hunter mutters another rule by some gunfighter somewhere, "Squeeze, don't pull. Watch, don't blink. Move, don't wait." Then a tad louder, "Missions change; warriors don't."

  "Sir, would the Signore care for another, or perhaps a menu?"

  "Oh, excuse me. Ahhh, well, just talking to myself and admiring the scenery. Yes, another will do just fine. No menu, I will eat inside later. Thank you."

  "No problem, Signore." The waiter leaves smiling since they both have not only spoken in the native language, but Hunter's, Alfonse's, is marinated with the dialect of this Messina area.

  When the waiter returns with Alfonse's wine, he takes a moment to suggest that the Signore take time to tour the Etna eruption sites. The waiter adds that he had, as well as most Taormina citizens and visitors had, especially the dry waterfall in the Cava Grande where the lava had flowed like a great river of glittering red and orange streams. He adds wistfully, "Not so now, but still ..." he shrugs and smiles.

  Alfonse nods, smiles and thanks the man. Follows with, "I will. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. First I want to walk about the town. Take it in. Locate a friend if I can. A painter. Perhaps you have heard of him, Roberto Catalano?"

  "Ah, yes, Signore. Signore Catalano. He stayed here for a few days some time ago. A notably generous gentleman. He is an artist. A painter of oils and lives her now," pointing up over the hotel toward the bay and the cliffs beyond. "Big, big villa. Keeps to himself except when he paints."

  The waiter prattles on for several moments, then hurriedly excuses himself to attend another table where a beautiful woman is waving frantically for service.

  Hunter glances at the woman. Can't blame him.

  Then he sets off to the concierge's desk and his limo. He's made his decision and will purchase a practically new 78 foot Stephan's. The previous owner brought it to Taormina, then passed away less than a week after his purchase. His wife is not a seafarer so the launch is available at an easily negotiable price. It has a cruising speed of 11K, max of 13. The launch has five cabins, sleeps nine and has three heads. Has an open salon, large formal lounge and an aft sundeck. It is done in beige leather and mahogany furniture and trimmings. The decks are all teakwood. Hunter has it registered and named The Marnies after an old Marine joke about an Air Wing snuffy who painted Marnies on the tail of all the planes in his squadron. A slight spelling error. Anyway, Hunter laughs softly as the paperwork is being completed. I'll understand it.

  Rocco moves quickly on foot to a public phone and makes a call to an old friend that has done him many business favors in the past. This old friend can only take calls from a few people, and Rocco is one, perhaps the most important. He is as good as Rocco at his trade, but a recluse by historical necessity, which is good. Drago Brafa is a friend, and also a Sicilian by birth. Drago comes to Rocco, picks him up and they drive to Drago's home near the river in Pisa. It is small, old, and attracts no attention. Nor does Drago these days.

  Over a much needed glass of wine with Drago's animated grunts, homemade sign language and Rocco's nodding replies, Rocco finally arrives at his topic. "Drago, how would you like to come to work for me? Home in Sicily? Even near your Messina?"

  Drago smiles. Pauses, then sighs. His response is his normal guttural sounds, grunts and sign language but his demeanor is excited and one that exudes appreciation. This is Drago's means of communication since his tongue was cut out by the Nazi's and left him for dead twenty-seven years ago. He survived, was found and resurrected by Rocco who understands the language of Drago. The interpretation is, "Home. Ah, that sounds wonderful,” but the notes also carry a mysterious melody. “For you old friend, or for your employer?"

  "Well, yes, for my employer, of course. But, day to day, for me. You will have little if any contact with him, and for that you will be thankful, yet well rewarded."

  "Will I live in this place? And what is it I will be asked to do?"

  "Yes, Drago, you will live on the premises. At the villa. You will help provide security. And help me with some tasks from time to time. And with some at hand now. Tasks you are familiar with and have done many times for your country, and after, for me. Have I ever wronged you? Have you not always been handsomely rewarded?"

  "By you, yes. That part is true, but I am not as strong and quick as I once was, so now I must use more of my mind in completing tasks. Perhaps plan better. Not too much charging as a bull might."

  "Drago, I know all that. Let me get to the point. I need help now, here in Pisa, to get rid of some people. Then we will go to Sicily and get lost forever. With our women. Do you have a woman?" Rocco pauses, getting no response to the women remark, he continues. "The pay is good. The villa is spacious, and the work will be quiet and uneventful. More like retirement, only with better benefits than most."

  Drago sighs. Stares at his friend and many-time confederate, and labors through his questions. "Do I understand you correctly? You want me to kill, or help you kill some people here? Then we leave quickly and quietly for Sicily. There it will only be security? Bodyguard? Working for your employer? And I have your word, that once home, the killing is over?"

  "Yes. That is it. You have my word. And you will be richer than you can imagine."

  "Imagine?"

  "Well, perhaps not imagine. But richer than you are, or can expect in your lifetime."

  Drago pauses for several moments. Looks around his small house. Smiles. "I will do this for you, Rocco. Done. Tell me who, where and when." He smiles, "Soon I would imagine."

  "Yes, soon and, ahhh ... more than a few. Good, Drago. Downright good. First, another glass of Chianti to wash the taste and smell of Antonio from me. Then my plan."

  The man rises, grunts, "Yes, Bossa."

  After her arduous and nerve racking trip, Maria DeLuca arrives at the La Palma Hotel on Via Vittorio Elmanuele III on Capri. The one that Hunter told her about in his dream. "Nightmare," she mutters. "But real now, and gorgeous." The flights were long. The meeting with Zachary seemed lo
nger but was brief, succinct and cool. The flight from Rome to Naples, was a puddle-jumper or more apropos, a vineyard-jumper. The forty-minute ferry ride across the Bay of Naples was beautiful and refreshing. Mind clearing in a fashion. The hotel she has learned was first established in 1822, modernized and added to several times over, but its distinctive trademark symbol, the palm tree, remains in front.

  The view from her room is breath-taking. The old town and the sea. The room like the hotel is grand, and she has been told by an eager Desk Manager of its clientele over the years. Royals, such as King Constantine of Greece, if one has an interest in such things. She thinks, the stars that visited here such as Sophia Loren and Gina Lollobrigida would be of more interest to Hunter than the good King. She laughs softly at the thought, then sighs at the reason she is here, Dee, her family. The man, Hunter, will destroy all that, and yet maybe, possibly provide salvation and restoration in some strange unforeseen way.

  Unpacked, showered, and dressed she again reads the message given to her when she registered. "Maria. Don't try to reach me. I will call late tonight. Have a nice dinner. Try Mamma Gemma's. Ask for directions. H."

  She places the message on the small desk holding the telephone and leaves for da Gemma Ristorante on Via L'Abate. When she asked of the ristorante Maria was informed by the gentleman at the desk that Mamma Gemma and her husband, Raffaele, started this now famous eatery in the early 1950's. It's in the historical center of Capri. Its walls are adorned by dozens upon dozens of photographs of famous people, and many not so famous, but all have visited and eaten at this ristorante. And all have for sure seen the most famous of the photos, that of Mamma Gemma in her famous red apron.

  Maria is ushered to a small table in the corner with a wonderful view of the town and the entire room. When the waiter arrives, Maria asks in her best Italian, "Would you have by chance an American Wine from the DeLuca Reserva?"