I Contadini (The Peasants)

by Lester S. Taube

  Anthony had been unusually quiet since his arrival home. The news of Michael’s death by such violent means was a shock that affected him as deeply as the incident in the West Virginia mountains. For some strange reason, which he could not yet identify, the knowledge that Michael had murdered men affected him remotely. Perhaps he was capable of accepting the fact of a fait accompli of murder as being more tolerable than the swift, mind-boggling, irrevocable change in a family which seemed eternal. He had felt this way at Mama’s death. As though he would lose his mind. Maria’s demise, however, had not driven him to any great depth of emotion. In a subconscious way he resented her birth as the cause of Mama dying. But the passing of Michael was not an exchange of one life for another, as in the case of Maria, nor the completely unnecessary waste, as in the case of Junior, but a gigantic upheaval of the very fibers of existence.

  It struck Anthony while Vincent and Paul were speaking why he was affected so strongly. That Anthony, priest, servant of God, brother of man, was first, last and always a DiStephano. That over the years his true security rested not only on the pillar of Christ but also on the foundation of being a DiStephano, of being joined to this family of blood by a bond which filtered down through cells to protoplasm, nuclei, enzymes, into the unweighable, indescribable, indestructible soul. That here, in this very soul, he was forever a DiStephano.

  He sat stricken as he realized the implication of this sudden thought. Did the soul belong to man or to Christ or to both? There could be no compromise here, no give or take, no splitting down the middle. Was it the breath of God loaned for a barest spark of mortality, or was it part of the dust from which we came and to whence we go? Abruptly one faced truth, the alpha and omega, the beginning of infinity, the end of eternity. One was suddenly confronted by the awareness that down below the protoplasm and enzymes was the indelible print of his birthright.

  He sat shattered, hardly able to breathe.

  “Are you all right, Tony?” The words bored into his fixed concentration. He looked out of eyes frozen in hypnotic intensity to see all at the table watching him closely. His subconsciousness recognized the voice of Vincent.

  Anthony grasped control of himself with an almost audible effort. “No, I’m all right.” Under the table he pressed his hands together to keep them from trembling. “I was just very sad. It’s like coming home to a house which was never there, or returning to a love that never existed.”

  “What do you mean by that, Tony?” asked Rose.

  He smiled shyly at her. “I just realized, Rose, how deeply I do love all of you.” He turned to Vincent. “Vince, Paul spoke of the possibility of Bonazzi seeking revenge. It must not happen. There have been enough deaths in the family. You must speak to him, explain to him the absurdity of continuing this vendetta. If necessary, beg him to stop.”

  “Shall we ask him for forgiveness too?”

  Anthony’s head swung round to Carol. Her eyes were blazing. He wanted to reach out to console her heartbreak, but he didn’t know how. “No, Carol, I would not ask that. What is essential is to protect the remainder of the family. All else is secondary.”

  Paul was regarding Anthony quizzically. “What’s going on, Tony? If I didn’t know you, I’d ask if you were getting religion.”

  Anthony smiled wryly. “You were always the one to sink in the spur, weren’t you, Paul? Is there anything wrong with wanting to stop waste?”

  “Not at all. But the way you’re saying it sounds as though the family is as important as the Good Book.”

  “Perhaps it is the same.”

  “If so, it would be a major concession for you.” Paul held up his hand. “Don’t take it wrong, Tony. I like very much what I’m hearing.” He looked over at Vito. “What’s your opinion, Vito? You’ve been sitting there with deep thinking written over your face.”

  Vito was never the one to equivocate. “I think we made a mortal enemy of Bonazzi. I’ve suspected it from the start, which is why I wanted Papa to bring in outsiders to help. But there are certain points which give me pause about him. First, to my knowledge, he has never been associated with violence. From all evidence, he moved up through organized crime as a money man, concerned only with investments. He is called Don by the Mafia Dons, but it’s a left-handed sort of title. Somewhat like a line officer, such as you, Paul, looks upon a finance colonel. Nonetheless, he wields enormous power. The second point is that the only attack against us has been the incident involving Vincent. Bucci’s reaction in France was defensive. His possible trap in London could well have been another warning. The action at Quebec was also defensive. His threats in Papa’s office may have been due to losing his cool. My opinion is that if we lay very low, this might blow over. But I don’t suggest that we lower our guard.”

  “What do you mean by laying low?” asked Vincent.

  “To be blunt, I suggest that I buy a large yacht and all of us take a year’s trip around the world.”

  “That’s a rather extreme measure,” said Vincent. “After all, we are the injured party.”

  “To us, yes. To Bonazzi, perhaps not.”

  “Well,” said Vincent. “Let’s talk it over with Papa when he rests up a bit.”

  Bonny tapped lightly at the gleaming white door, opened it, then stepped inside. Dominic grinned as she came in. He raised his lips to be kissed. When she leaned down, he slid a hand over her buttocks.

  She grinned back as she slapped playfully at his hand. “You must have been looking at Farewell to Arms on television,” she said.

  Dominic eased himself up on the pillow, grimacing as he moved. “What’s wrong with patting a delectable butt?” He motioned towards a pack of cigarettes which had fallen from his bed stand to the floor. “Do you mind, please.”

  She picked them up, lit one, and placed it in his mouth. It was a beautiful day in Manchester, and all of it was flowing through an open window carrying myriad scents of an Indian summer. “You look better,” she commented. “The doctor said two days ago that you didn’t have enough blood left inside to make it worth while for your heart to pump.”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t know about all that wine and booze I’ve been storing away. They work better than blood.”

  She smoothed out the sheet covering him, pulling one end over a foot dangling out. “I spoke to Vito an hour ago. He phoned me from a pay booth, just in case. Everyone sends their love. I’m also to get your story on how you reached Montpelier.”

  “Well, the nearest state to Quebec is Maine. I figured the fuzz would check that pronto. The best way is via Montreal down into New York. That also seemed risky. So I took a back road to Sherbrooke, which is sorta between the two, then a secondary road going south that ran parallel to a railroad line. When it neared the border, I parked the car and walked the tracks at night into Vermont. The next morning I hitched a ride to Montpelier to rent a car, but all of a sudden nothing seemed to function anymore - my hands, my legs. So I checked into a motel, passed out for a few hours, then phoned you when I was lucid enough.”

  “I’m glad Vito told me what happened. I hadn’t known how deeply involved your family was while I was visiting there. It’s a wonder your father allowed me to stay at your house.”

  “We had to work hard to keep that pretty nose of yours out of it.”

  “You were lucky, Dom. The doctor said the infection was quite serious. That taking out the bullet compounded the danger.”

  “I should know. The nurses shoot my tail with penicillin every four hours. Well, another couple of days, then I can get the hell out of here.”

  “A couple of days! The doctor said it will be a week before you should move about.”

  Dominic didn’t argue. He knew he would just get out of bed when he felt the time was ripe and hit the trail.

  “Where will you go when you leave here?” asked Bonny.

  “I haven’t decided yet. Maybe Peru.”

  Bonny brushed ashes off the sheet and set the ashtray containing the snuffed-out butt of Domin
ic’s cigarette on the bed stand. “My anthropological society would be pleased if you joined our Uruguayan expedition. Having you along would aid us immeasurably.”

  “When do you take off?”

  “In five weeks. There is a great deal of preparation we must do first.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. But waiting around that long would drive me up the wall. Anyhow, the longer I stay in the States, the greater the possibility of the fuzz catching up to ask some questions.”

  “We have a home on the Cape. In a couple of weeks most of the summer residents there will leave for their winter homes.”

  “Hell, I would stand out like a sore thumb. I’ve got an idea. I’ll leave a message in Uruguay at the correo in Mercedes. You’ll certainly start your expedition from there. If I’m in the area, I’ll come to see you.”

  She leaned over and kissed him. “Okay, wanderer. Now, get some rest. I’ll come by tonight to visit again.”

  When she had gone, Dominic turned to one side and was asleep in a minute. He slept deeply, without dreams, his body soaking up energy and restoring itself with each heartbeat.

  The warning bell, when it sounded, was loud and clear. His breathing continued deep and steady, but his mind was wide awake, his reflexes taut and coiled. He heard the sound again, then a slight movement. He tensed the muscles in his eyelids, drawing open a curtain slit to allow in light, but there was only gray-black. At once his mind registered the fact that it was nighttime, that he had been asleep at least four or five hours. He drew his eyelids up another sliver. A figure stood by the door, listening. The figure took a step towards the bed, then another. A lamppost light from the street or a bulb from below sent up rays which diffused throughout the room. The figure raised an arm. A beam of light bounced off metal in its hand. The figure took another step forward. It stopped to identify the body on the bed.

  Dominic lunged! His feet caught in the bed sheet, and instead of leaping on the figure, he fell against it. His hands shot out at the gleam of metal, one wrapping around a silencer on the barrel of an automatic pistol, the other around the finger on the trigger. The barrel trembled. A heavy blow struck his thigh. He gave a sudden wrench with his hands. A sharp bark of pain sounded from the figure. The figure pulled away, dragging Dominic off the bed. Dominic let his weight hold down the pistol until he got his feet under him, then he stood upright and twisted the intruder’s hand with full force. There was a snap and a louder bark of pain.

  A fist thudded against his face. He lowered his head and butted as he pulled sharply on the gun. It was perfectly done, bringing the face directly in line with the solid bone of his skull. He felt a splitting jar and stars flashed in his head at the impact, but he knew his opponent was more severely damaged. He twisted the pistol again. It came loose.

  The door to the hospital room opened, admitting light from the hallway. Now Dominic could see his enemy, a man down on one knee, shaking his head to clear it. Dominic glanced at the entrance. Bonny stood there.

  “Close the door!” he snapped, then leaning forward, he brought down the pistol savagely on the temple of the man.

  Bonny had great presence of mind. Swiftly she shut the door and snapped on the light. Her eyes widened at the sight of Dominic standing in the middle of the floor with blood welling from the reopened wound in his side and pouring from his thigh. At his feet was a tall, heavily- muscled man, his face bleeding from nose and mouth, his left forehead split open.

  Dominic sat on the edge of the bed. “Get Doctor Hartmann. Nobody else. Tell the nurses I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Let me stop your bleeding first.”

  “Later. Go get him. Now, move, Bonny.”

  She was out in a flash. He hoped Hartmann was on duty. Vito had passed the word that the young faced surgeon would take any orders and cover any of his actions, especially since it was a private hospital owned by Hartmann.

  Dominic picked up a face towel from the bed stand and wrapped it around his thigh. He could see from the blood flow that the bullet had not hit an artery and could feel it had missed bone.

  The man on the floor stirred. Dominic lifted a pitcher of water and threw its contents into his face. The man shook his head, then blinked his eyes. Dominic waited patiently until he came to his senses.

  “Get up and sit over there,” he ordered the man, gesturing with the pistol. The man rose awkwardly to his feet and slumped into the chair, his face in his hands. “Can you hear me?” asked Dominic. The man nodded. “I want you to know you’re dead. I will be killing you soon. Maybe in a few seconds, maybe in five minutes.” The man uncovered his face and looked up. “Before you die, perhaps you’d like to tell me your name and who sent you.”

  “What difference does it make,” mumbled the man weakly.

  “Come to think of it, none.” He raised the pistol.

  “Hold it!” said the man anxiously, casting off his weariness. “I must be in the wrong room. So-help-me, I don’t even know you.”

  Dominic shot him in the abdomen. The force of the bullet knocked him over the back of the chair. He rolled into a ball, his hands clasped to his stomach, low moans spewing from his mouth.

  Dominic hobbled over to him. “There’s a doctor coming in a few minutes. He can save your life. Take your pick now. Talk or die.”

  The man bit his lip and moaned as shock waves struck at him. His face was beaded with sweat, the whites of his eyes gleamed large with pain and fear. “All right,” he finally said. “I’m....Bill Auburn, from the Bronx. Al Gorden gave... out the contract.”

  “Where does Gorden hang out?”

  “In... the Bronx too.”

  “Who paid Gorden?”

  “I don’t know. I.... swear it. Christ, get me a doc. I’ve told you....everything.”

  “He’s coming. I need him too. Who fingered me, wise guy?”

  “I don’t know. I got the....name of. ...the hospital and the room... number from... Gorden.”

  “All right, just lay there and keep your mouth shut. Make any kind of noise and I may forget to let you live.”

  Dominic hobbled back to his bed and sat on the edge again. The door opened. Bonny came in. Her hand rose to her mouth when she saw Auburn lying on the floor with blood seeping through his fingers held to his abdomen.

  “What about Hartmann?” asked Dominic.

  She could not turn her eyes away from Auburn. “He’s coming. He’ll be here any minute.” On the tail of her words, Hartmann came in carrying a medical bag. He took one quick look at Dominic’s wounds, then examined Auburn’s. He went directly to the telephone. “Get me Doctor McCord, right away, please.” In a few seconds he was connected. “Mac, get the operating room set up immediately for an abdominal wound. Pick the patient up here in room nine. Maximum discretion required. Move it along.” He hung up and turned to Dominic. “Down on the bed, Mr. Dee.” He made a careful check. “The bullet went through. I can patch it up here. Is that all right with you?”

  “Fine and dandy, Doc.”

  A doctor and nurse wheeled in a cart. Hartmann gave them a hand lifting Auburn onto it, held open the door for them to push it out, then came back to Dominic. From his case he drew out a syringe and a bottle of morphine.

  “I’ll give you a shot now to ease the pain,” he said, injecting the drug. Once that was completed, he lifted the phone again. “Doctor Beems, please. Howie, bring everything over to room nine. We have another repair job.” He grinned. “No, not the wound we worked on. He’s acquired another one.” He started laughing. “Ask him,” he said, and hung up.

  Dominic was grinning too. “I like your services here, Doc. No questions, no aggravation, good visiting hours.”

  The doctor flashed a peace sign. “We aim to please.” He turned to Bonny. “Care to wait outside, Miss Winston?”

  “May I help? Or if not, may I watch?”

  “Up to Mr. Dee.”

  “If you let her hold my hand. Hey, Doc, I don’t want that bird you took out of here getting
to any phones for a while.”

  “No problem, Mr. Dee. We’ll keep him occupied for a couple of days at least. That is, if he survives the operation.”

  “How does he look to you?”

  “It’s hard to tell. But I’ll know as soon as we get inside. What name shall I use?”

  “Bill Auburn. But don’t give it out. You may receive a call about him before long. Nobody knows nothing. Frankly, if he lives, and I don’t give a damn if he doesn’t, I’d get rid of him pronto. He’s trouble.”

  Doctor Beems and his nurse worked on Dominic a lot longer than he thought necessary, but an hour later he was properly bandaged and lying back hooked up to an IV. Dominic asked Beems to have Hartmann stop by when he was finished with Auburn, then waited until the doctor and nurse left the room before motioning for Bonny to come close.

  “Bonny,” he said in a low voice. “I’m getting out of here pronto.” He held up his hand to forestall her expected protest. “Auburn knew exactly what hospital I was in and my room number. There’s a leak somewhere as large as life, and our friend Bonazzi must have let out a contract big enough for me to do the job myself. Do you want to give me a hand?” She nodded at once. “Okay, get a bag packed and rent a car. Don’t rent it here - get it far out of town. Be outside the hospital at three a.m. sharp. That’s....” he looked at his watch, “....in five hours. There’s money in my pants pocket in the closet.” She smiled at him. “What’s so funny?”

  “I guess the family didn’t tell you I have a good deal of money.”

  “No, they didn’t. Fine. Keep it in good health. When I run out of bread, I’ll hustle you. Until then, in the pant’s pocket.”

  She was a good person to have around, for she didn’t make any silly comments, just took the money and left.

  A short while later Hartmann came into the room, in surgical gown with a mask hanging around his neck. “How are you doing?”

  “Great,” said Dominic. “Beems did a first rate job. How is Auburn?”

  “He’ll live, minus a few pieces of intestine and a spleen.”