I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  Dominic abruptly stood up. He stepped forward three paces. “Bonazzi,” he called. “This is from Maria.” He leveled the shotgun!

  In all his life, Dominic had never seen a man move so fast as Bucci. Without breaking stride, the man whirled into Bonazzi, driving him to one side the instant Dominic fired. Dominic knew at once his slugs would hit empty air. Furiously, he pumped another shell into the chamber. Suddenly, he felt a fierce blow strike his hands. Surprised by the shock, he watched the shotgun spin to the ground. Directly ahead crouched Bucci, a pistol in his hand. In a flash Dominic realized that he had shot the gun out of his hands. With an animal cry of disgust, Dominic dropped to the ground. A bullet whistled by as he rolled desperately into the shrubs. Another bullet threw dirt and chips of stone into his face. He leaped to his feet and began running wildly back to the car. Pounding feet sounded behind him as Bucci came in pursuit. Dominic was halfway to the Fiat when Junior jumped out and ran towards him with the carbine in his hands.

  “No!” yelled Dominic, trying to brake. “No!”

  But Junior was past him, opening fire at Bucci from the middle of the road. Dominic wheeled around. A scream welled in his throat as Bucci came to an abrupt stop and fired. Junior flew back as if hit by a truck. He fell limply to the ground, the carbine dropping from nerveless hands.

  The scream came from Dominic’s throat. He hurled himself onto the carbine, grabbed it up, and began firing rapidly in the general direction of Bucci. An answering shot clipped the road by his shoulder.

  Ettore had started from the car the moment Junior wrenched the carbine from him and leaped out. The suddenness of the duel between the boy and Bucci froze him for a few seconds. Dominic’s scream of despair broke the spell. Watching Junior go down, he raised high his hands. “Bastardo!” he shouted, and began running towards the gunman.

  A car’s headlights came down the road. Bucci abruptly spun on his heel and raced back to the Mercedes. In seconds, the car was roaring away in the opposite direction. Dominic dropped the carbine and whirled around to Junior. A horrified groan broke from his lips as he looked into the lifeless eyes with the small, black hole centered directly above them.

  Ettore kneeled beside him. “Oh, my God, my God,” he moaned.

  The approaching car stopped along the road, its driver staring curiously at the two men gathered around the dead body.

  Dominic took a deep breath. He shook Ettore by the arm. “We must get out of here. Quick, open the car door.” Picking Junior up in his arms, he carried him to the Fiat. Ettore had the rear door open and, together, they laid the body on the seat. Dominic climbed behind the wheel as Ettore crouched in the back holding his grandson. Lights still out, Dominic took off with spinning tires. Once out of sight, he switched on the headlights and drove swiftly to a highway running parallel to the coastal road, which took him back towards Juan-les-Pins.

  “Papa,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m all right, Dom. A little sick to my stomach, but I’ll be all right.” He took a deep breath. “What happened?”

  “Bucci shoved Bonazzi out of the line of fire, then shot the shotgun out of my hands. He might have gotten me if Junior hadn’t intervened.”

  “We’ll have to go to the police.”

  “I know, but we must think of an explanation. The shotgun and carbine back there are registered in my name. Another thing, Papa, the fuzz here aren’t like those in America. They play rough.”

  “We’ll say this, Dom. We stopped to look over the beach and you saw someone take the shotgun from the car. You ran after him and he fired at you, so you ran back. He started chasing you. Junior took the carbine to help and the man shot him.”

  “Okay, Papa. It’s pretty lean, but we’ll play it that way. How do we explain why we’re here?”

  “You were touring with your nephew - a post graduation present. Land values seemed good here, so you phoned me. I felt like having a vacation, too. Now, find a hospital quickly.”

  Inspector Marcel Fontaine could smell the fish in the story even against the wind. Being one of the three English speaking detectives in the Nice police department, he had been assigned to write up the statements from the two Americans. He liked the French police system much better than that of certain neighboring countries, which he had studied thoroughly. In those countries the police first questioned the individuals involved in incidents, then prepared a statement. That method made it too easy for a deponent to hem and haw and later say he was misunderstood. But when a statement was first written, it became a petard upon which the devious ones could be hoisted during subsequent questioning.

  He scrutinized the investigation reports. The shotgun had been found near the bushes west of the restaurant parking area. One round had been fired. A groove halfway down the barrel had mystified them for a while, but the laboratory promptly certified their growing suspicion that a bullet had struck it.

  He had listened with just one ear while the young DiStephano tried to explain that the only possible reason his fingerprints alone were found on the shotgun was because the thief might have worn gloves. But he listened more carefully to the reply to his question as to why Dominic had purchased the two weapons. He expected, and wasn’t disappointed, when the tough-looking man told him he enjoyed the sport of hunting and the weapons seemed like good buys. He took pleasure in watching DiStephano squirm when he asked why he had bought shells for deer or boar hunting now when the season did not open for three months in Germany or Yugoslavia or wherever he intended to find them, and again was not surprised at the answer that they seemed like good buys.

  Both the old man and his son had said the assailant was a big fellow, but their description would have fit any of five million persons in France. They said there might have been a second man about, but they couldn’t be sure. Nor were they sure whether any cars had passed by, nor were they sure if anyone had come from the restaurant who could possibly have seen the incident, nor were they sure if the man had left on foot or in a vehicle, nor were they sure whether the moon was shining or not.

  Actually, after two days of investigation, Fontaine had already pieced the incident well enough together to form pretty much the true picture. It had been a shoot-out, clear and simple, and the other side had shot straighter. The only points to decipher were the identities of the people on the winning side and what had instigated the shoot-out. If he could learn the answer to one of them, the second would drop into his hand.

  There was one lead. The restaurant people said two couples had left just about the time of the shooting, but had disappeared by the time the report came that a man had been killed down the road. They spoke Italian, said the waiter. But checking Italian tourists during the season was like counting coal in Newcastle. It could be possible they had seen something and been frightened away. But to hope for an Italian to volunteer information to any authoritative agency was blowing bubbles. Inspector Fontaine decided to keep that in mind. After twenty years of police work, nothing surprised him any longer.

  He felt a twinge of disappointment that the DiStephanos had moved too fast for him. When the son had shown up at the hospital in Nice with the body of his nephew, he said his father was back at the hotel in Juan-les-Pins recovering from the shock. By the time the investigators checked that out, the hotel clerk advised them that the old man had stepped out for a walk. They wasted two good hours searching for him without success, even to the point of contacting taxi drivers who plied the Juan-les-Pins trade. During the third hour, the old man walked into the hospital, where he stated he had taken a taxi from Juan-les-Pins earlier and waited at the post office to telephone the United States.

  So instead of employing the usually successful technique of rushing them into a dingy cell to languish while Fontaine took his time shuffling the bits of evidence together, the police officer was soon faced by a representative of the American consulate. The representative did not go through the regular drill of asking to see the Americans in trouble, to explain to those un
fortunates that the United States Government, in its infinite glory, could not help except to give them a list of attorneys who spoke English, and how they could obtain magazines after being sentenced to jail for twenty or thirty years. Instead, the representative informed all within hearing in easily understandable terms that the United States Government would take a dim view of the DiStephanos being placed in ‘protective custody’, or questioned every other hour around the clock, or treated as anything but first class citizens. Somebody, thought Fontaine, had been contacted by the old man in the United States with plenty of muscle. So, instead of allowing the DiStephanos to think up their answers in the solitude of a dank, straw-mattressed cell, the only hook he had was to hold their passports.

  Michael and Carol arrived in Nice less than twenty hours after Ettore phoned, flown over in Vito’s jet. Dominic met them at the airport, drove them immediately to a hotel, then told them all the details in the privacy of the suite. Michael took it with a deep-lined, stunned look on his face, his long hands massaging each other as signs of his grief. Carol leaned back in her chair with eyes closed.

  “How’s Papa?” Michael finally asked.

  “He feels responsible,” said Dominic.

  “I was afraid he would.” He cleared his throat. “I guess you do, too, don’t you?”

  Dominic remained silent.

  “It’s nobody’s fault,” said Carol, in a small voice, her eyes still shut. “It’s in your blood.”

  “I’m very, very sorry, Carol,” said Dominic softly. “I’ve wished a thousand times it had been me.”

  “I know that, Dom. But when we get to the funeral parlor and see Junior, I’ll be wishing every minute I had never heard of the DiStephanos.” Her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with a Kleenex, then sat up. “Dom, I want a favor.”

  “Okay, Carol. Name it.”

  “I want Bucci dead. I don’t care how or when, but I want to know his death warrant is signed.”

  “I’ll swear to that.”

  She took Michael’s hand. “Poor, poor Michael. You wanted so much to have a son love you as deeply as you love your father. He did, my dear. He loved you more than anything in this world.”

  Michael broke down completely.

  They all went to the United States by commercial air, Junior in a sealed coffin in the bay. Inspector Fontaine had been reluctant to release their passports, but had refrained from making an issue of the matter when called to the office of the Minister of Police and told to cooperate. He was not about to seek problems at this stage of his career. The dead man was not French. The two Italian couples were probably far beyond his reach. And there were other dossiers waiting for his attention, in addition to the rush of work that always followed Bastille Day, which was two days hence. The principal reason given by the DiStephanos for going home, that they had to attend the funeral, was poppycock. The French attach little importance to funerals; at least, not like the Italians. One wears black, weeps, and plops them in a hole. Voila, life continues.

  Junior was buried in the DiStephano plot in Chicago, at the side of Maria, on a humid July afternoon. There were nowhere near the numbers present as with Maria’s funeral, but it still required police to control the traffic. With few exceptions the same city and state officials attended, the same representative to Congress, newsmen, family friends, and the usual sensation seekers. Paul had flown in a day before, and Anthony had come in by train.

  When the family returned home to the eating and drinking that custom demanded, it was amidst an air of shocked silence. There was no attempt to be impolite to the well wishers who came in to distract the mourners’ thoughts from the sad fact of death, but the family was not overly polite. They responded only when absolutely necessary, and it became so evident that the family wanted to be alone that the visitors left long before they normally would.

  The family gathered around the huge kitchen table, as they had such a short while ago.

  Ettore cleared his throat. “The room seems so much emptier without Junior.” He wiped his nose. “Junior died to save Dom and me. Bucci would have killed us all, there is no doubt of it.”

  Paul was about to mention that Bucci had been provoked, but decided to remain discreet.

  “Now we have two of the family to avenge,” continued Ettore.

  Vito said, “I still think we should get help.”

  Ettore shook his head sadly. “Then we would be as bad as those we hate.” He looked over at Carol, Michael and Eleanor. “If you want to go back to Texas, I will understand.”

  Carol’s hands became fists on the table. “There is something to be done here first.”

  Paul sat up more erectly, a frown slashing the harsh lines of his face. “Carol, do I understand you to mean that you agree to this vendetta?”

  “Yes.”

  Paul looked about the table, astonished. “I think you people are insane. Junior’s death was not necessary. And you can bet there will be more violence unless you come to your senses quickly. Vince’s experience should have warned you not to play around.”

  The defense came from an unexpected quarter. Vincent lowered his head like he was about to charge. “What should we do then, Paul? Cut our losses like a businessman who manufactured a product that doesn’t sell? Or maybe,” the irony sounded loud and clear, “have one squad hold ‘till the last man to let the platoon slip away?”

  Paul was not dismayed. “What’s wrong with that, Vince? It makes more sense than continuing with a fight you cannot win, morally or legally. Of all people, I would have thought you’d be the principal exponent of doing things legally.”

  “Papa is right,” said Vincent sadly. “We’ve become too polished, too dependent on Big Brother, too vegetated to call ourselves men. I’ve almost forgotten how to really love - and how to hate. Tell me, Paul, who would someone have to kill to touch the primitive in you?”

  “A battlefield is not a chessboard, you know.”

  “Come off it. It’s sanitized, sterile. The men fight because they are carried along. But here we have no uniforms or medals or a license to kill from Big Brother. We have pure hate. Being beaten up taught me one thing. All Papa’s money and all Vito’s power and all the big, tough DiStephano boys didn’t mean a thing to those punks. Bonazzi killed Maria. There was no reason for that side to react so strongly against us unless they felt we might uncover something if we kept prying. The law isn’t going to punish them or prevent them from attacking us. And it isn’t going to stop them from protecting the murderer of Maria, nor make them pay for having worked me over, nor suffer for gunning down Junior. We will.” He turned towards Anthony. “Well, Tony, what are you waiting for?”

  Anthony gazed wistfully at Vincent. “I don’t remember looking up to any person more than I have to you. Either I’ve been mistaken all of my life, or you see something I don’t.”

  “Ashes to ashes, Tony.”

  “What do you mean by that, Vince?” asked Michael.

  Anthony waved a finger as if instructing a class. “He means that man is elemental. That if you rub the skin hard enough, you find the pelt of an ape.”

  Paul stood up. “Who wants a beer?” A number nodded. He opened the refrigerator, then stopped and turned. “You people are beyond me. Outside this house you represent all the finest things that civilization has developed. There isn’t a man here who isn’t envied by his peers. Even you, Dom, have had experiences that most engineers would give their eyeteeth to list on a resume. But here in this house you turn into absolute freaks - nuts - weirdoes. We just buried a kid that had everything in this world to live for. He never experienced love, or the thrill of accomplishing an unusual deed, or of learning so many of the wonderful things that are just for the taking. Instead, because you are freaks, he got a bullet in his head. And instead of mourning this loss, you are preparing more tragedy. I don’t know this family any more.” In the stillness, he brought out bottles of beer and distributed them around.

  “Well,” Ettore final
ly said. “Let’s leave the subject for another day or two. By then, you and Tony will be back in your own worlds and we will concentrate on ours.”

  CHAPTER 9

  August enveloped Chicago with a mantle of heat. Those who were able to, fled the City for the lakes in nearby states or up into the Canadian mountains. The DiStephanos stayed put. They had remained close to the house for the first two or three days out of respect for Junior, then Vito had passed out assignments. Dominic roved the city like a wraith, seeking information of the whereabouts of Bonazzi, drinking at bar after bar, joking with the dart players and hookers and standing treats for barflies. In each he made friends, and many were the times he received tips that changed him from a rollicking, carefree drinking companion to a tight-faced, narrow eyed hunter. Although each lead led to a blank wall, he was not discouraged.

  Michael patrolled the restaurants and country clubs and golf courses as relentlessly. Bonazzi had been a gay blade, a man about town, and was no stranger to the exclusive or exotic spots, so it took little effort for Michael to compile a list of Bonazzi’s favorite haunts - and it was a long list.

  Ettore and Bob prowled the local government agencies, the labor unions, the politicians. Here was the second most important source for information, for Vincent, arm in sling, a cap covering his wounded head, an adhesive patch on his cheek, moved in the circle where the greatest action was found - with fellow judges, attorneys, and law enforcement officials.

  All of them took pains to guard against a repetition of Vincent’s beating. They avoided dark places, lonely areas, unfamiliar locales. Now and then, when Dominic stayed overtime in a bar, he would phone home before walking out. Waiting at the curb would be one or two of the family to escort him to his car. He chaffed at the safety restrictions imposed by Ettore, for every nerve in his body tingled for action, but he obeyed them.