Final Stroke

by Michael Beres

  The vestibule resembled a garden. Ferns grew in numerous clay pots lining the walls, and the doorway to the interior of the house was preceded by an arbor covered with vines that grew from more clay pots. The vines were so thick they blocked much of the light, mak ing it dark within the arbor. After a few minutes the maid came back and took her through the darkness and fragrance of the arbor to a long hallway with many closed doors.

  One of the doors was open. What might have once served as a for mal library because of the built-in shelves, was now a working office. There was nothing showy here, simply a large cluttered office with plain office furniture, the built-in shelves crammed with books, some boxes overflowing with folders. She could see by some of the book titles and by some magazines lying around that much of the material had to do with environmental topics. The terms “Global Warming” and “Climate Change” and “Green House Gases” were prominent. The little wall space that did not contain shelves was covered with wildlife posters and calendars. When she walked in and the maid left her there, she thought she was alone. But then she heard some taps on a keyboard and Tony Gianetti Junior wearing a Sierra Club sweatshirt and jeans stood up from behind a large flat-screen computer monitor that was surrounded by stacks of books on the desk.

  Tony Junior absentmindedly brushed at his short thinning hair with his hand and came around the desk. He bent to remove a pile of papers from the chair in front of the desk, and while going back around the other side of the desk with the papers, crammed them into a spot above some books on a shelf behind him. When he turned back to her he motioned her to sit down. Back at his desk, he moved his chair to the side of the computer monitor and stacks of books so he could face her. Above his head was a poster showing a bald eagle in flight.

  Tony Junior looked thinner than he had at the funeral, delicate. Although he was going bald, the sweatshirt made him look like a kid. After staring at her a moment with a cautious look, he seemed to relax, and even smiled a little, apparently because she was smiling.

  “We met at my mother’s funeral, Mrs. Babe.”

  “My name is Jan. Some people feel uncomfortable using our last name, at least that’s what my husband says.”

  “Yes, I met him, too. He was the one who knew my mother at Saint Mel’s.”

  “That’s right. Both suffered strokes and spent a lot of time in rehab together.”

  “And?”

  “Yes, I guess you’d wonder why I’d come here.”

  “I guess I would.”

  “I guess I should get right to the point.”

  “I guess you should.”

  “You see, Mr. Gianetti …”

  “Tony. Although my mother insisted calling me Antonio, every one else calls me Tony.”

  “Yes. You see, Tony, your mother and my husband spent a lot of time together in rehab.”

  “You said that.”

  “Okay, sorry. The point in rehab, at least when they were working with a speech therapist, was to communicate. And to get right to the point, your mother said some things to my husband that seem to make him think there might be a possibility her accident might not have re ally been an accident at all.”

  “Really?” he said, but she noticed no particular reaction, no sur prise, no resentment of her having said this, nothing.

  “Yes,” she said. “I realize it may seem impertinent of me to be here, but I do everything I can to help my husband get back to normal. And if you could possibly shed some light on any of these things he’s concerned about, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  “Okay.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “So let’s get right to the point. Exactly what things did my mother say that concern your husband?”

  How to do this in a way that might cause a reaction she’d be able to notice? Steve used to tell her he did it sometimes by asking more than one question. First question to make the person comfortable, then another question out of the blue to see if there’s a reaction.

  “Well,” she said. “Steve mentioned that sometimes your mother would say things about the staff at the nursing home, how some of them might be doing things they shouldn’t do. I wondered if your mother ever said anything to you about it. And also, sometimes she’d say things to Steve about there being a fly in the ointment, which I as sume is a reference to one or more staff members who might not be as honest as we’d like them to be. And then there was something having to do with the key to making a lot of money, or maybe the keys to get ting a lot of money, something like that. I’m sure you, of all people, realize it’s not easy to communicate details like this with someone who’s had a stroke.”

  While she spoke, Jan watched Tony Gianetti very closely. At first, judging by the puzzled look on his face, she thought there would be no reaction. But then it had come. Steve had taught her well. When she said the word key, there had been a very subtle recognition, the kind one sees when someone suddenly recalls something they were going to say.

  After this mild sign of recognition from Tony Gianetti, she had seen a more significant reaction to the plural, keys. When she said keys, he involuntarily unfolded his delicate hands and held one in the other as if he were holding someone else’s hand. She could also tell by a stiffness in his jaw that he had to work to refrain from showing a reaction on his face. Yes, he had to work hard to maintain his simple look of puzzlement.

  When Tony Gianetti did not answer, Jan continued, knowing that sometimes this could draw out even more reaction. “I know all of this sounds ridiculous, but it’s something I promised I’d do for my hus band. I told him I’d ask you if any of this meant anything.”

  “I see,” he said finally. “Was there anything else you were sup posed to ask me?”

  This was the confirmation she needed. Instead of referring to one of her questions in detail, he asked for more. She might be wrong. After all, only Steve and Lydia had told her she was good at reading people. But it certainly seemed to her that Tony Gianetti was now try ing to find out how much Steve knew.

  “I guess there was something else.” She glanced down for a mo ment to show discomfort, but looked right back to catch his reaction. “I guess your mother spoke about quite personal things with Steve. He told me she said something about you having a secret from your father, something he never knew about, but something she knew about. This is very uncomfortable for me, but I promised Steve.”

  Tony Gianetti stared at her for a moment, then stood up and took a small magazine from the bookcase behind him. He dropped the magazine on his desk and sat back down. It was not a glossy magazine with an illustrated cover like most of the others she saw scattered around. This magazine had a matte cover with the table of contents printed on the front. The title of the magazine was, Pride and Perse verance. The subtitle was, Gay Rights in the New Century.

  “Although environmental research and writing is my main inter est, I do have other interests. I came out of the closet after my father died. Perhaps you’ve heard of The Organization for Pride and Perse verance. This is our journal. I’m the editor. Unfortunately, I don’t understand how this has anything to do with someone’s unfounded suspicions that my mother’s death might not have been an accident.”

  It was over. He was indignant now. She lowered her head con tritely, but as she did so, looked at the things on his desk besides books and magazines. Not much except double-spaced articles with edito rial marks on them, and a couple of letters to Tony Gianetti, one of which was on Sierra Club letterhead. But there was something else. An envelope addressed to him, but not at an address. The reason the envelope drew her attention was because it was made of expensive linen. The envelope was simply addressed “Tony” and the return ad dress pre-printed in fancy gold script. The return address looked like a legal firm. A downtown Michigan Avenue address. Melton, Iwan ski, and Brown.

  “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I should have minded my own busi ness. It’s just that my husband used to be a detective before his stroke and I guess I was hoping …”
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  The phone rang, but Tony didn’t answer and it stopped ringing after three rings.

  “Look,” he said, “my mother just died. If there were secrets in my family, they weren’t between the two of us. She knew I was gay be fore my father died, and I think I see what happened here. The big secret was that my father didn’t know I was gay. Or if he did, he never revealed he knew. Does that answer your questions?”

  “Yes, it does. I guess your mother might have said certain things about your father that confused my husband.”

  “What things?”

  She tried to look flustered. “I’m sorry. Really I am. It’s just that my husband’s stroke has made him want to repeat things other people say and I guess he and your mother talked quite a bit about … about what your father did when he was alive.”

  He smiled and nodded. “I guess I can understand that.” Then he leaned back in his chair and stared toward his computer monitor as if he were looking out a window. “My father found peace in his later years. I think he found a way to put the earlier part of his life behind him. He loved his family very much. Perhaps you expected me to say negative things about him, but I won’t. He may have done things I’m not proud of, but no one’s perfect. When I knew him he was a peace ful man. He even admitted to me he’d done some things in his life he regretted. But he also said he wanted life for me to be different.”

  He turned from the computer monitor and looked at her again. “He told me he wanted to give our family name new meaning so fu ture generations of Gianetti’s would be proud. During the last years of his life he tried to make an honest go of it. He even lost money in some crazy schemes reminiscent of Ralph Kramden on the old Honey mooners show. Near the end of his life my mother was becoming the head of the household.”

  Tony Gianetti’s mention of the name Ralph threw off her concen tration for a moment. She’d been trying to formulate a response to this when the name made her think of poor old Ralph in the casket at the funeral home who was probably six feet under by now with folks gossiping about him at the funeral luncheon as the white guy named Dutch went from table to table looking for her.

  “As for my mother being paranoid about the staff at Saint Mel’s,” continued Tony …

  The maid came in and interrupted him.

  “What’s up?” he said to the maid.

  “A phone call,” said the maid. “He said it couldn’t wait. He called in on the other line.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Brown.”

  “Okay.” To Jan he said, “It’ll only take a second.”

  He turned to a side table hidden by his books and computer moni tor. He lowered his voice, but Jan leaned forward slightly and could hear his side of the conversation.

  “Buster?”

  “Right, crazy times.”

  “Okay, like I said.”

  “Yep, Orland.”

  “Sure, the one at Route 45 and 6. It’s one-hundred fifty-ninth down there.”

  “We’ll find out where to go from there.”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t have to book flights.”

  “That’s what he wanted everyone to assume.”

  “Right, hour and a half.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  “I’ve told you time and again, just because it’s a hybrid, it’s not slow.”

  “I’m always careful, and I’ve got rain tires. See you there.”

  As Tony spoke, Jan recalled Marjorie’s funeral and how different he seemed from Max. Two completely different men with completely different goals. Not a pair one would expect to launch a devious plan together. She wondered if she should mention Max, perhaps say some thing about Marjorie’s use of “Max the fly” when referring to the “fly in the ointment.”

  After Tony hung up he swiveled his chair back to face Jan. “So, where were we?”

  “You were saying your mother was sometimes paranoid about things at Saint Mel’s.”

  “Right. She used to tell me stories about aides who steal things and sell them back. And perhaps some do. Perhaps she saw some thing, or someone else saw something and told her about it. If that were true, and if your husband had some hard evidence … well, I guess it wouldn’t be hard for someone to get away with things at Saint Mel’s they couldn’t possibly get away with in the outside world. What I’m saying, Mrs. Babe—Jan—is maybe I’d like to pursue this. Not jump in with both feet, because both of us know we don’t have any thing definite. Unless, that is, you’re holding something back.”

  “No,” said Jan. “Not at all. It’s just like I told you. My husband has these feelings about things your mother said and I’m following up on it.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got to leave for a meeting, but I’d like to follow up on this. Where do you suggest we go from here?”

  “I guess I should go back and tell Steve what you’ve told me and see if he has anything else to say.”

  “I guess that’s the best plan.”

  The way Tony sat there, waiting, she was certain he wanted to see if she would say anything else. Like he was the one probing for information instead of her. She decided to bring something up out of the blue.

  “One more thing your mother used to say that my husband recalls. She used to mention Jimmy Carter a lot.”

  Tony studied her for a moment before answering. It seemed he had been about to stand. He said he had to leave for a meeting, but now he sat back and stared at her.

  “My mother mentioning Jimmy Carter is both interesting and un derstandable. Back in the 1980s, when I was a teenager, my father was a big Reagan supporter. This support often came out in tirades against Jimmy Carter and what a lousy President he’d been. He used to refer to the 1970s energy crisis and to Carter’s 1977 energy policy speech. You might not remember it. Carter talked about not being selfish and about providing a decent world for our children and grandchildren. He talked about our being the most wasteful nation on earth and how we needed to sacrifice for the good of the planet. He talked about oil companies profiteering. In my humble opinion, Jimmy Carter’s big gest problem was that he was two or three decades ahead of his time.

  “Yes, your husband might have gotten the impression through my mother that my father hated Carter. However, in later years, when I began publishing environmental articles, my father changed. He even told me once that Jimmy Carter had gotten a bum rap. He said our family—he was referring at the time to the organized crime family from the past—our family had been just like any political family. He said political families don’t care about the environment, and that their main interest is business as usual.”

  Tony paused, pointed to a small poster on the wall. It consisted of the letters “BAU” in a circle with a diagonal line through it.

  “A few months before his death my father took me aside. I’d done some articles on the environment in the school paper. He told me something he did not want my mother to hear. He said that during the Carter years an environmentalist and political writer disappeared under mysterious circumstances. At school I’d chosen this same profession as a career goal. My father told me he admired what I’d chosen to do but that he wanted me to be careful. He said when I turned eighteen he wanted me to carry a gun. He said he would give me one.”

  Tony turned back and stared at her. “So you see, there’s always more than meets the eye. Even when you’re talking about a mob boss there’s always more than meets the eye. Do you know when my father was killed?”

  “Somewhere in the mid-eighties?”

  “He was killed days after the Chernobyl disaster. There’s been speculation that whoever killed him chose that date because it would diminish news coverage given to the murder. It’s an old mob trick. Kill one of your own when everyone is busy thinking of other things.”

  “So you think it was someone in another organization who killed your father?”

  “That’s the prevailing theory. But it could have been anyone.” He turned, pointed to the “BAU” poster. “Esp
ecially someone with a very tough business as usual attitude. In a way, I think that day my father took me aside he knew the end was near for him. Perhaps he even knew his killers.”

  Tony seemed to come out of a trance. He stood, held out his hand. “But that’s enough for now. Sometimes I go on and I’m sorry if I did.”

  She stood and held out her hand.

  As Tony shook her hand, he said, “Again, regarding these notions my mother had about aides stealing things at the facility, what we agreed to do is for you to go back and tell your husband what I’ve told you and see if he has anything else to say. Please disregard that last part of our conversation about my father. And by the way, thanks to both of you for coming to the funeral. I appreciate it.”

  She continued holding onto his hand, recalling for a moment how she held Steve’s hand while they spoke in order to help the conversa tion along. “Well, there is one more thing I should tell you. This is very difficult, but it seems your mother was unhappy for some reason about your cousin Max.”

  Tony pulled his hand away and stared at her, looking upset with her for the first time. “Did Max send you?”

  “What?”

  “I said, did Max send you?”

  “Why would he send me?”

  He continued staring at her, but appeared to regain his compo sure. “Sorry, it’s just that my mother never cared much for Max, but always kept it to herself. It wasn’t like her to say anything negative about him. And if you ever spoke with Max, outside of yesterday at the funeral, you’d know he and my father were not on good terms. Max’s business is his own business. He was always fond of my mother, perhaps because he lost his own mother when he was a boy. And she was always good at covering up what she really felt about him. He vis ited her from time to time at Saint Mel’s. But now that she’s gone, I doubt if I’ll see much of Max. I guess you gathered we don’t exactly share the same interests in life.”

  Tony smiled again. “You certainly caught me at a weak moment. I’ve revealed more about my family than I should. Now I’ve got to leave for my appointment.”