I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  “What’s a MEO?”

  “Men’s ears only.”

  “Well, sorta.”

  She got up. “Okay. Come along, Eleanor.”

  Dominic kept rubbing his feet until they left the room. “We were followed tonight,” he told the others.

  “By whom?” asked Vito.

  “Damned if I know. I noticed this car with three hoods in it at the Japanese restaurant, but it didn’t ring any bells. Then, about half an hour ago, this car followed us when we left the Lido, the private club Bonazzi frequents. It tailed us all the way home.”

  “The word must be out that you’re searching for him,” said Vincent.

  “That could explain his abrupt disappearance,” said Vito. “After all, you and Mike have been trying to locate him for over a week now. The word had to come out sooner or later.”

  Dominic nodded. “Yeah, but I was hoping to find out where he spends his time before it did break.”

  “I don’t like it - you being followed,” said Ettore.

  “Uncle Dom doesn’t think they were the fuzz,” said Junior.

  “Don’t discount that,” said Ettore. “McPherson came over directly after Tony left and raised the roof about us looking for information. He could be trying to discourage your search.”

  “I didn’t know McPherson came here, Papa,” said Vincent. “What else did he say?’

  “He said that if Caesar Bonazzi should suddenly meet with a mysterious accident, he would track down the guilty party as resolutely as the murderer of Maria.”

  “Tony talked,” said Dominic.

  Ettore shrugged. “He probably hinted the facts so strongly that only an idiot would fail to understand. And McPherson is nobody’s fool.”

  “Then we must plan on the police swarming over us if we take action against Bonazzi,” said Vincent.

  “I didn’t expect anything else,” said Ettore.

  “How about Bonazzi’s father?” asked Vito. “How will he react?”

  “Exactly as I am acting in the case of Maria.”

  Vincent leaned back far into his chair. His eyes narrowed. “That brings a new dimension to the situation.”

  “Not if Bonazzi meets with an obvious accident,” said Dominic, softly.

  “I’ve sent a lot of men to prison who thought they could pull that gambit,” said Vincent.

  They heard Michael and Bob entering the front door. At the same time Rose carried in a tray holding sandwiches and beer.

  Bob looked at the tray. “Do you have an extra couple of sandwiches, Mama? We’ve been sitting half the night.”

  “There’s one extra here. Take it. I’ll make more. How about you, Mike?”

  “No, I’ll just pour myself a long cognac.” He looked over at Dominic wolfing down a sandwich. “How did you make out?”

  Mouth full, Dominic just shook his head.

  “Some men followed him and Junior home tonight,” said Vito.

  “Hmmm, looks like the ball game is warming up.”

  “I want you boys to be careful,” warned Ettore. “Dom thinks they may be Bonazzi’s men.”

  “I’ll work out a way for you to shake them tomorrow,” said Vito. “They certainly have to begin tailing from the house here.” He picked up a notebook. “How did you do tonight?”

  “Believe it or not,” replied Michael, “our boy, Chet, likes roller skating.” He turned to kiss Carol and Eleanor as they came in.

  “Is the MEO off now?” asked Carol.

  “Who pulled the MEO?” asked Michael.

  “The bridge-builder type.”

  Michael turned towards Dominic. “What for?”

  “If I tell you here, she’ll know what Vito said while my mouth was full.”

  “That’s a real lucid answer,” laughed Carol. “You boys haven’t been reading the statistics lately. Major crimes by females are up more than a hundred percent. We’re capable, you know.”

  “Dom and Junior were followed by some men tonight,” said Michael.

  Carol’s eyes flashed towards Junior leaning against the mantel of the fireplace.

  “It wasn’t a big deal, Mama. They didn’t try to contact us or anything. It’s quite possible we were mistaken.”

  “What about the skating rink, Mike?” asked Ettore.

  “We looked the place over from stern to stem. No Bonazzi. Bob asked about. A few of the people knew him, but none has seen him in the rink for a couple of weeks. We went from there to his father’s place, searching for that Thunderbird he drives. The old man has an estate bigger than the Yellowstone National Park, but it wasn’t there. We waited around for an hour, then went to his apartment. Not there either.”

  “He’s been tipped off that you are hunting for him. I’m sure of that,” said Vito.

  “He can’t hide from us forever,” said Michael.

  Rose came to the doorway. “Vince, telephone for you.”

  “At this hour? Oh, yes, I think I know who that is. I’ll take it here.” He walked to the phone on a stand in the vestibule, and returned a few minutes later. “I’ve just got some news from an acquaintance downtown. Bonazzi left early this week for Italy.”

  “Is he sure of that?”

  “He’s sure.”

  “That certainly explains why you haven’t picked up any sign of him,” said Vito.

  The room grew quiet as Dominic turned towards Ettore. “What do we do now, Papa?”

  “The two weeks aren’t up yet,” interjected Vincent.

  Ettore pursed his lips, his eyes strangely distant. “Well, maybe we’d better begin by adding up the score. Vito, how do your notes stand?”

  Vito opened his notebook. “Vince contacted Felice Cotarro, the boy who was in the fight with Bonazzi. He said Bonazzi went wild, kicking, scratching, and did bite his arm. This strange style of fighting startled him so much that Bonazzi was able to break his arm before he could defend himself.” Vito looked up. “I think that’s an alibi for having been licked, but it does establish the fact that Bonazzi did bite him. Next, Mike contacted Albert McDonald, the doctor who treated Cotarro. McDonald told him to get lost. Mike stated he was sure someone had gotten to McDonald, because he seemed to be expecting a visit from one of our family. Next, Vince found the child who had been struck in the ear by Bonazzi. The father said he had received eight thousand dollars and all medical expenses paid for his son’s injury. Next, Mrs. Beaker’s story was accepted as told without any further checking. Next, Mike spoke to a waitress at Rancy’s Bar near Lincolnwood. Bonazzi tried to pick up a girl there who was seated with another girl. After a big play, he learned they were lesbians, so he threw a bowl of soup on her. It took two of his friends to keep him from assaulting the girl. Next, the card players. Vince said they all refused to speak to him. He’s still working on that. Last, Mike met up with a nightclub singer who had lived with Bonazzi for almost a year. He said she was terrified when he started questioning her and threw him out of the apartment.” He closed the book.

  Ettore nodded and turned to Vincent. “What do you make of it?”

  “It’s a pattern, plain as day. He becomes violent when he thinks he’s being provoked.”

  “That’s not uncommon,” said Michael. “It’s called paranoid schizophrenia, and we know as much about the disorder as the man on the moon. Some think it’s due to a chemical imbalance in cells of the brain. Others believe it’s a result of improper upbringing. You know the standard clichés; a doting parent allowing the child to usurp powers it shouldn’t have. Several of the old royal systems developed monsters that way. Today we have persecution-type tantrums by the children - holding their breath, biting the rugs, rolling on the floor. If not treated, they frequently evolve into the kind of parents who strike children at the drop of a hat, or the father who throws plates and breaks chairs if his supper is not just so. In the worst cases, a reaction like Bonazzi’s.”

  “Then you don’t think that crack on the head during soccer was responsible?” asked Vincent.

 
; “It could have contributed to some physiological problem that we don’t know about. For example, if he had a tumor on the frontal lobe. But it’s unlikely to be the cause. Somewhat like a fellow crippled by polio breaking a bad leg.”

  “Would you consider him insane?” asked Dominic.

  “He’s as crazy as a coot,” said Michael.

  There was silence in the room. “Then why have you agreed to execute him?” asked Vincent, a furrow in his brow.

  Michael shrugged. “I couldn’t leave Papa and Dominic out in left field. Also, paranoid or not, learned doctor or not, this dude raped and murdered my sister. If you scratch beneath all this polished veneer, you’ll find the same sort of contadino as Papa. I wouldn’t blink eye one taking Bonazzi apart strip by strip before I cut his throat.”

  Michael looked at the shocked face of Carol. “I’m sorry, darling, but that’s the way I feel. I loved Maria as much as anyone, but if it had been you or Eleanor, I think Bonazzi would already be dead, regardless of the cost.”

  Carol shook her head. “It’s not that, Mike. It’s just that I never suspected how deep your passion goes. And don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re the man you are.”

  “What is the treatment for such a person?” asked Vincent.

  “Electroconvulsive therapy sometimes helps. Several psychiatrists have experimented with tranquilizers, some quite successfully. Then there’s brain surgery. Last but not least, there’s always the strait jacket in a padded cell.”

  “But he would still eat steaks and ice cream,” said Dominic. “And there’s always the chance a bleeding heart type would let him out.”

  Ettore brought them back to the present. “Vince, can you find out where in Italy he went?”

  “He was bound for Milano. Whether he has remained there is another story.”

  Ettore sat back in his chair and began to massage his jaw. The others fell silent, for that was the sign that Papa was thinking deeply. In the old days it brought a hard, cold stare to anyone who disturbed him.

  “Dom,” he finally said. “I want you to go to Milano and find him. I don’t want a hair of his head touched, do you understand?” Dominic nodded. “Keep him under observation, but stay out of sight yourself. When the time is ready, I will come there.”

  “Grandpa,” said Junior, almost biting his lip with wishful hoping. “Can I go with Uncle Dom? Two are better than one.”

  “You don’t speak Italian well enough.”

  “Sure I do, Grandpa. Not like you or Dad, but I can get along.” He turned to his father for support. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

  Michael looked again at his son, once more surprised to find him grown to a man. He nodded. “Junior’s been studying Italian the past couple of years,” he said to Ettore. “His accent would raise your hackles, but at least it’s not a Texas drawl.”

  “He’s a good man to have along,” added Dominic.

  “All right,” said Ettore reluctantly. “But you stay out of trouble. That means listening to your Uncle Dominic and not making any quick decisions. If you become separated, call here. Understand?”

  “Sure, Grandpa. And thanks.”

  “Papa,” said Vito. “Milano has grown since you were a boy. It has over one and a half million people now. Dom will be as much a stranger there as in Kalamazoo. I know a man who could be of help to him.”

  “I’ve been to Milano,” said Dominic.

  “Let’s hear what Vito has to say,” said Ettore. “How can the man help?”

  “Well, for one, helping him to locate Bonazzi. Everyone who registers into a hotel must fill out a card which the police collect nightly. That kind of information can be obtained without raising anyone’s suspicions.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Oh, yes. It remains at a very low level. Some clerk on the outside talks to a clerk in the filing room.”

  “All right, you work it out with Dom.” He got up. “Well, I’m for bed now. We’ve got plenty more to do tomorrow.”

  It was too warm for Vincent to turn in, and he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. He walked out on the porch and sat on the cushioned swing which Ettore changed every few years for another of the same make, form and color. The story had gotten around that his father had purchased a dozen of them years ago, put them in storage, and periodically replaced those which wore out. There were a hundred memories attached to the swings. They had listened to the Witch’s Tale every Sunday night over the radio Papa carried out to the porch during the summer months, and Vincent, then Michael, then Anthony had cuddled up to Mama on the swing, shivering with frightened delight at the witch’s high cackle.

  He had courted Bernice on a much later swing, and his sons had rocked madly on still later ones.

  He got to his feet. The memories were too sad. He stretched lazily, then went down the steps and along the flower rimmed walk to the front gate. Mario had mowed the lawn earlier. There was the scent of fresh cut grass mingled with the aroma of roses and lilacs. He opened the gate and strolled down the dimly-lit street, lifting high his head and breathing deeply of the breezes from the lake. He drew in his stomach as he walked, then chuckled when he realized it hadn’t changed his form one bit. The years were catching up. He had to face the fact that being called portly no longer meant huskily dignified or stately but fat as a hog.

  The two men standing alongside a tree on a neighbor’s lawn did not catch his eye until he was level with them. There was no sense whistling them away, so he halted and faced them as they walked towards him. Their faces were barely distinguishable in the night, but they were big fellows, that Vincent could see, each one as large as himself.

  They stopped a few feet away, their backs to the moon, their features in deep shadow.

  “Your family has big noses, Judge,” one of the men finally said.

  Vincent cocked his head. “What do you boys want?”

  “We may want to break every bone in your body,” said the spokesman.

  “Why? Has talking gone out of style?”

  “It looks like you DiStephanos are talking too damned much, asking questions and all that shit.”

  The second man moved in while his teammate was talking. Moonlight glistened on brass knuckles as he swung. Vincent stepped forward, not caught unaware, took the blow on an arm, and drove his fist into the man’s face. His heart leaped when he saw his assailant stagger back and drop to the ground. A flash of pain chiseled into the left side of his neck, whirling him about. He fell to one knee. He saw the spokesman raise a blackjack for another blow. Left arm hanging limp, useless, he lunged forward with his right shoulder. The man deflected the attack and his blackjack descended again. Vincent felt a hot, sharp pang as his scalp was laid open. He rolled to one side, his mouth forming a cry as pain surged throughout his body from the first blow. But the man was on him like a fury. The club crashed down on his face. Bursting lights blinded his eyes. He felt a sudden urge to vomit. Lungs pounding, he tried to roll again, but he was helpless.

  The skull-bursting lights lessened and he saw the first man coming up again. His assailant bent down on one knee and drove the brass knuckles into his face. From a great distance, he heard the first man say, “The body. Work on that.”

  Their shoes thudded into his back and side. Moaning, Vincent moved feebly to crawl away. One of the men grabbed his feet, levered him over on his back, and spread his legs wide. A moment later, he received a violent kick on his testes. Vincent did not know it, but he gave out a loud, agonized scream before blacking out completely.

  The neighbor’s house was barely one hundred feet from the attack. It was owned by an octogenarian, a stockbroker of English ancestry, who had never recovered from the shock of having Italian immigrants residing next door. He had not sold his property and moved because the estate on the other side and those across the street belonged to men of greater distinction than himself. He disliked sleeping in an air conditioned room, so his windows were wide open. He was awakened from a deep slumber by the sound
of a high scream. Lifting his head from the pillow, he held his breath to listen. Hearing nothing further, he turned to one side and went back to sleep.

  An hour later, consciousness came to Vincent on waves of pain. His moans brought him awake. Mouth open, gasping for air between anguished sobs, he rolled heavily to a sitting position. One effort after another got him to his feet. With his good hand, he held on to a tree until nausea overpowered him and he spewed. Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, he took a deep breath and started home, staggering as he walked. At the gate, he went down again. Laboriously drawing himself up, he walked on rubbery legs up the path and climbed the steps. He fumbled about at the entrance until he found the bell, then thumbed it while leaning against the door.

  It seemed to take forever before a light came on in the house. Dominic opened the door. He took in the situation in a flash and grabbed Vincent as he started down again. Lifting his brother, forty pounds heavier than himself, as if he was a child, he ran to lay him on the couch. Quickly he raised Vincent’s eyelids to check his pupils. They seemed okay. He whirled towards the staircase and started up the steps two at a time. Rose was coming out of a room at the end of the hallway. She was only half awake.

  “What is it, Dom?”

  “Vince is hurt. Get Papa.”

  He went to the door of Michael’s room and tapped upon it. Almost at once, Michael opened it.

  “Get your medical bag and come downstairs. Vince has been injured.” Without waiting, he ran back down the stairs to the couch. Vincent’s eyes were open. “Take it easy, Vince. Mike will be right here. You’re okay. Do you hear?”

  Vincent nodded weakly. Michael and Rose rushed down the stairs together. Dominic stood aside to allow Michael room to examine his brother. After a quick inspection, Michael dived into his bag for a vial. Assembling a syringe, he filled it with a pain deadening drug and injected it into Vincent’s uninjured arm. “Call an ambulance,” he told Rose. “You watch him, Dom. I’m getting some clothes on.”

  As he started up the stairs, he met Ettore, clad in a long silk robe, coming down. “It’s Vince, Papa. He’s all right. Just beaten up.” Without waiting for a comment, he continued on to his room. Carol was up and about to walk out.