I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  It was a waste of time all about - Bonazzi had not been seen or heard of since he went to Europe.

  Ugi Farini had phoned Vito shortly after Junior’s death to say that Bonazzi, Bucci and the girls had returned to Italy the night of the incident, had taken rooms at the resort town of Albenga, then had dropped out of sight. The two girls had been swiftly traced to Lugano, Switzerland, where they were found to be not show girls or models but very high priced whores. Frightened out of their wits by the shooting, they had been paid off the following day in Albenga with a warning to keep their mouths shut, then they had returned alone to Lugano. From that time, the two men had gone out of their lives.

  A humid August weekend had been forecast. Michael, Carol, Vito and Rose took Bob, Eleanor and Bert to a lodge in northern Minnesota for a couple of days of hiking. Ettore, Dominic and Vincent remained at home. On Saturday night they were seated in the living room, Ettore and Dominic hunched over a checker game, drinking red table wine, Vincent relaxing in a deep chair reading a newspaper with a decanter of brandy at his elbow. When Vincent lifted the brandy glass with the arm still in the sling, Dominic chuckled.

  “You’re a phony, Vince.”

  Vincent looked up wonderingly, then he saw what he had unconsciously done. He began laughing. “Shows what Papa’s good brandy can do. But don’t tell Mario. He’s having a ball shaving me mornings.”

  “How does it feel?” asked Ettore.

  “It was great until Dom called my attention to it. Now it hurts.”

  Dominic made a move on the checker board that brought a growl from Ettore. Vincent turned back to his newspaper. His eyes locked on to an article, then he put down the newspaper and reflected.

  “Papa,” he said a few minutes later. Ettore looked up. “How well do you know the Congressman?”

  “Pretty good. Do you need him for anything?”

  Vincent tapped the newspaper. “It says here the passport division is swamped with applications this month. Maybe the State Department has a lead on Bonazzi.”

  “All right, I’ll give him a call Monday. Seems to be a long shot, though.”

  The Congressman phoned back a few days later to report that the State Department had no information about Bonazzi. But, he added, Bonazzi’s passport was due to expire in October, and it was quite likely he would renew it before the expiration date. Without waiting to be asked, the Congressman said he would stay on it until that time.

  A follow up call came quicker than anyone had hoped for. Early the next week the Congressman phoned to report that Bonazzi had in fact extended his passport for another five years about ten days previously. Ettore held his breath when he asked where this had occurred. London, England.

  The following day Dominic and Michael were on their way to London. Upon arriving, they checked into a hotel across from Hyde Park, and rented a speedy Jaguar. It took two hours of practice through the city traffic to accustom themselves to driving on the left side of the streets.

  Vito Donini had waved his wand of power again to obtain assistance in tracking down Bonazzi. But rather than have the brothers deal directly with an English investigation firm, he had Ugi Farini of Milano contact a Swiss attorney to order the search.

  “We must stay out of the picture,” he explained. “If you, Dom, or you, Mike, become involved in ordering or paying an agency to locate Bonazzi, it will certainly come to the attention of Scotland Yard if any incident should take place. The Swiss attorney will have other people front for him. They’re good at it. He’ll probably handle things by phone, pay by cash through a messenger, and set up the kind of shenanigans they dearly love. So if something happens, Scotland Yard will get no further than the Swiss people, for they won’t know the identity of the attorney.”

  Dominic had grinned his agreement with this procedure. The Swiss attorney’s contact had engaged an English firm, and their technique was relatively simple. They began by phoning all the better hotels in London, and continued working down the scale to the simple hotels. When that failed to do the trick, Dominic phoned Farini to have the investigators try the name George Bucci. A day later he was located residing at the Claridge Hotel. Soon afterwards a series of photographs were sent by the agency via messenger to their contact firm in Switzerland. The same evening, the pictures were placed in a pay locker at the Zurich railroad station, and the next morning the Swiss lawyer had them picked up for delivery by plane to Farini’s office in Milano. Farini himself flew to London to place the sealed envelope into Dominic’s hands.

  Dominic waited until Farini, properly complimented and thanked, left the room before opening the package. It was Bucci, all right. There were a dozen pictures showing him in various places; at the entrance to the hotel, in the lobby, at a restaurant, on the street. In none of the pictures was Bonazzi to be seen.

  The vigil began. Michael and Dominic took turns watching the hotel, hoping Bucci would lead them to Bonazzi. A week passed.

  “I’ve had enough,” said Dominic. “I don’t think Bonazzi will show up.” He slumped down further in the seat of the car parked a block away from the Claridge.

  Michael snuffed out a cigarette and lit another. “Me too. But I can’t figure out what he’s waiting for. He doesn’t go dating or gambling, just to a movie.”

  Dominic sat up straighter. “I’ve been wondering about that for days. Do you know what I think? I think he’s deliberately setting himself up. “

  “He’d be crazy to do that.”

  “You didn’t see that guy in action. He’s dynamite.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Like I said, I’ve had enough. I’m going to accommodate him.”

  “Okay. How?”

  “Notice that he never does anything by pattern. He always changes the times he goes out, eats, goes to the movies, and so forth. So it would be a fluke if we caught him on the wing. But there is one place he feels safe.”

  “In his room.”

  “Exactly. Let’s contact Farini.”

  In two days a hotel passkey had been forwarded from London to Switzerland to Milano, then brought back by Farini to Dominic. Another two days passed before Bucci left the Claridge. He ate supper at a nearby steak house, then walked directly to a motion picture theater. Dominic and Michael watched him go in before turning back to the hotel. They casually entered, went up by elevator to the ninth floor, and walked back down to the seventh. No one was in the corridor. Drawing on thin gloves, Michael slipped the passkey into the lock of Bucci’s door, pushed it open, and they quickly stepped inside. They stood silent listening. Dominic switched on the lights to inspect the room. They were alone. He came back to the door and checked it carefully. There were no threads of cloth or pieces of paper that Bucci had placed to signal that someone had entered while he was away. Michael was looking into the dresser drawers, under the pillow, mattress, and into the two suitcases stored on benches. There was no weapon.

  “Do we get him at the door?” asked Michael in a low voice.

  “No. If he is waiting for somebody to make a move against him, he’ll come through that door as wary as a cat. We’ll wait in the bathroom.”

  He placed Michael against the wall to one side of the bathroom door, then looked from all angles. There were no mirrors positioned to reflect his image. He moved him to the other side. That position also gave him concealment.

  Switching off the lights, they stood in the bathroom and waited, each in his own place, both longing to smoke, but that was out of the question. Dominic looked at his watch; two hours had passed. “He should be coming back soon,” he said.

  Michael just nodded. Ten minutes passed, half an hour, then an hour. “He’s not coming directly back from the movies like he did the last time,” he said.

  “That’s typical,” said Dominic. “Like I said, he’s a wary bird.” He suddenly motioned to be quiet. The soft sound of the lock turning caught their ears. Quickly the brothers drew out from their hip pockets lead pipes bound with friction tape. The door opene
d with a shallow whisper. Then silence. Dominic strained to hear. Moments later an abrupt movement. The bed light went on. Dominic and Michael pressed closer to the wall, their hearts pumping with excitement. Dull steps sounded in the bedroom. They became bolder.

  A figure walked into the bathroom. It turned slightly to press the light switch. Brightness filled the room.

  Bucci saw Michael facing him, the lead pipe held high in his hand. Even with the sudden shock, Bucci instantly crouched to deflect the pipe flashing down at him. He never saw Dominic lean forward and strike at the same time with a blow squarely on the base of his head.

  Bucci went down as if pole axed. The two brothers stood stock still, breathing heavily, ready to strike again. There was no need - the gunman was unconscious. Dominic drew lengths of cord out of a pocket. He bound Bucci’s hands and feet. Michael taped shut his lips. They dragged him into the bedroom and lifted him onto the bed. Michael closed the curtains while Dominic went through Bucci’s pockets and his jacket lying on a chair. A snub nosed revolver lay on top of the bureau, but that was of no interest. Dominic was looking for papers to indicate where Bonazzi could be found. There were none.

  Michael threw a glass of cold water on Bucci’s face and broke an ampoule under his nose. Bucci stirred quickly, and was soon fully awake. He stared up at the brothers without expression in his eyes.

  Dominic drew out a long switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. He placed the point against Bucci’s throat. “If you scream with that tape over your mouth, it won’t be heard ten feet. But if you try, I will slit your gullet before it even gets out. Do you understand?” Bucci nodded. Dominic leaned closer, his face cold and harsh. “We want Bonazzi. You mean nothing to us. If you don’t give us Bonazzi, we will kill you. It’s that simple. Now, where is he?”

  The sounds were muffled, but could be understood. Bucci said, “I don’t know.”

  “I guess you’re not afraid to die, eh?” growled Dominic. “Just remember, you die for a very long time. Maybe forever. Where’s Bonazzi?”

  Muffled. “I swear I don’t know.” Beads of sweat broke out on Bucci’s brow. He saw death in Dominic’s eyes.

  Dominic looked up at Michael. “I think you ought to wait in the bathroom for a while.”

  Michael’s face was as grim as his brother’s. “What makes you think I wouldn’t do the same thing?”

  Dominic nodded. “Okay. Put some more tape on his mouth.” While Michael was obeying, Dominic took out another length of cord, formed a noose which he placed tautly around Bucci’s throat, then lashed the other end to his legs drawn up tightly behind him. It drew Bucci’s back into a bow. Any movement would tighten the noose and strangle him. “Take down his pants,” said Dominic.

  Bucci began to shake his head vigorously as Michael complied. Faint sounds came from his taped mouth. The brothers ignored him. Michael ripped open his shorts and took out his penis. Dominic flicked on a cigarette lighter. He lowered the flame to the hair around the testicles.

  The sharp, ugly smell of burning hair and flesh filled the room.

  Bucci threshed violently, tossing his head for them to stop. Dominic kept the flame going.

  “He’s strangling,” said Michael, motioning at Bucci’s face turning blue.

  “Good. Let the bastard suffer.”

  Bucci passed out a few seconds later. Dominic immediately slashed the cord and loosened the noose embedded deeply in his neck.

  Michael leaned over the inert body. “He’s still alive.”

  Dominic passed over a cigarette to Michael, mouthed one for himself, then lit them both. “When will he come around?”

  “I’ll break another ampoule in a minute or two. But he won’t take much more of this.”

  “He won’t have to.”

  When they finished smoking, Michael brought Bucci back to consciousness and removed the extra tape covering his lips. Dominic leaned down. “Can you hear me, Bucci?” The man nodded, trembling with pain, his eyes clouded with shock and fear. “I want you to know that I can keep doing this all night long. After I burn off your balls, I’ll start on your asshole. You can stop me any time you want.”

  Muffled. “I swear to God I don’t know where he is.”

  “Why are you waiting here?”

  “He left me to draw you people away from him.”

  “Did he say he would contact you?”

  “No. His father sent another man to guard him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Franko. Ed Franko.”

  Michael bent down closer. “Why did Bonazzi murder Maria DiStephano?”

  Bucci’s eyes registered blankness, then understanding came and terror filled them. “I didn’t know!” he cried behind his gag. “Please, please believe me. I didn’t know.” Tears rushed into his eyes.

  Dominic straightened up. “What do you think, Mike?”

  “He’s telling the truth, the poor, stupid bastard.”

  Dominic walked into the bathroom and began filling the tub. He returned to the bedroom. “Go back to the hotel now, Mike.”

  “I’ll see it all the way through.”

  “Okay, take his feet.”

  Bucci made no effort to fight his destiny as the two brothers carried him into the bathroom and drowned him in the tub of water.

  The bizarre murder made the headlines in all the English newspapers the following day. Michael and Dominic read about it as they waited at the airport to board their plane for New York. Upon their arrival at Kennedy Airport, they found that the story was also a front page item in the Chicago papers, since Bucci had come from there. They learned that he had once been a top challenger for the light heavyweight boxing title, had won several medals with the Marines in Korea, and had been arrested four times for offenses ranging from assault and battery to suspicion of homicide.

  Vito’s plane was waiting at Kennedy for them, and the whole family gathered to greet them upon their arrival at the airport at Chicago. It was a sober welcome. Ettore kissed them as if they had been away a very long time and his eyes were full of pride. Carol flew into Michael’s arms and held him as though he had returned from the dead. Then she turned to Dominic and kissed him full on the lips.

  By tacit agreement, discussion of the torture and murder of Bucci was taboo in the house. The details in the newspapers had been sufficiently lurid and explicit for all of them to know exactly what took place. At the gathering for supper in the kitchen, Dominic and Michael spoke only of the conversation with Bucci.

  “Well, Vince,” said Ettore. “You hit upon it once, where do you think Bonazzi is now?”

  “The first point we should discuss is why Bucci was left in London. Mike and Dom said it was to draw in anyone who was after Bonazzi. That means us. The important question is what did Bucci intend to do if he caught one of us.”

  Dominic gave a wry, mirthless chuckle. “He would have killed that person on the spot.”

  “I don’t think so, Dom,” said Michael. “I think he would have waited for an opportunity to claim self defense.”

  “I agree with Mike,” said Vincent. “But regardless whether the act was to be murder or assassination by self defense, the important point is that he was deliberately waiting.”

  “Bonazzi père wanted to warn us again,” said Vito.

  “Exactly,” said Vincent. “Had he decided to fight us, he would have taken action here in Chicago and not go through all the trouble of planting Bucci in London. So Vito is right - we are being warned in no uncertain terms.”

  “Are you saying that old man Bonazzi is now completely involved?” said Michael.

  “He’s been in it since the beginning,” said Ettore. “A man like Bucci doesn’t take orders from a kid like Caesar Bonazzi.”

  “Then, Papa,” said Vincent, “we must understand right now that we’re in a different ball game. Killing Bucci is like throwing the gauntlet into old man Bonazzi’s face. He no longer considers a warning as being sufficient.”

  Every
one at the table grew quiet.

  “That’s all the more reason why we must get young Bonazzi as soon as possible,” said Dominic. “Otherwise, as you say, we could trigger off a war.” He turned to Ettore. “Papa, is old man Bonazzi a real Mafia don?”

  “I suppose he’s as close to being one as you’ll find. I don’t know whether he has killers at his beck and call, or whether he deals with dope or rackets. But I have heard that he has high gambling and labor union connections. Frankly, I think he may be the moneyman of the Mafia. He’s always buying property and going into partnerships.”

  “We should get help, then,” said Vito. “We certainly can’t go up against organized crime.”

  “We’ll wait on that, Vito,” said Ettore.

  “Vito,” said Michael. “Who could you get to help if it became necessary?”

  “I’m sure some of my people know other people who know mobsters,” he replied.

  “Don’t count too closely on that,” said Vincent. “Organized crime means exactly what it says. The Dons are not about to allow one faction to wage war as mercenaries against another faction. That would focus attention on them. After all the books and movies and TV shows, they’ve had enough notoriety.” He tapped the table to emphasize his point. “Dom has the best idea, to act as though we have drawn in our horns and get young Bonazzi at the first opportunity.”

  “That makes sense,” said Michael. “But one thing has been bugging me since you brought it up, Vince; if Bucci had been left in London to get one of us as a final warning to the rest, how did Bonazzi know we would go there?”

  Dominic looked sharply at Ettore. “Papa, only one guy knew.”

  Ettore sat back in his chair. “You could be very right, Dom.”

  “Who is he?” asked Rose, her curiosity driving her to talk during a man’s meeting.

  “The Congressman,” said Dominic. “He’s probably on Bonazzi’s payroll.”

  Upon that note, Ettore called an end to the meeting.

  CHAPTER 10

  Carlo Bonazzi stepped out from under the cold shower, slicking away the water from his face and chest. He took up an oversized, heavy-napped bath towel and dried himself vigorously. In the full length mirror on the bathroom door, he saw that his body was still as trim as a man fifteen years younger. He was sixty-five-years-old, an erect five feet nine, his thick head of hair without one gray strand. He would have preferred a certain amount of gray there, for gray drew respect in his world, especially since his virility was not questioned. And so far as the bimbos were concerned, a little gray was distinguishing, so long as he could perform in bed. But that was the least of Carlo’s concerns. He had always been proud of his ability to cover a woman to her complete satisfaction.