White Shotgun ag-4

by April Smith

  Zabrina wiped the oilcloth on the kitchen table and checked the clock again. It was three minutes later. The shower was still going — just like their money, down the drain. They were two months behind on the rent and mooching off Simon’s personal food cabinet. He was a nice guy, but he had a habit to support, and living in paradise isn’t free. They were going to get kicked out, she knew it, but she couldn’t deal with that right now. Right now they were broke and crashing.

  Zabrina went into their bedroom, sat on the mattress on the floor, and fished a lipstick mirror from her bag. She was twenty, from Calabria — the child of an upholsterer and a seamstress — with a pug nose, light freckles, and dynamic black eyebrows. She’d come to Siena to get as far away as possible from the crime-ridden slums, but there was a weak place inside her that couldn’t support the weight of freedom. She was a part-time student and waited tables at the Tuscan wine bar inside the fifteenth-century Medici fortress on the edge of town. She had chopped two-inch bangs across her forehead and put red streaks in her hair because, she said, her alter ego was the devil.

  The girl lay on her stomach on the mattress and found her face in the tiny mirror, angling it to look at the good parts: the full lips and great eyebrows. With a little makeup, she could pass. The symptoms didn’t show. Her skin wasn’t even yellow. A couple of Valium would take care of the headache and the fiery abdominal pain until they got there.

  Her cousin, Fat Pasquale, who ran things back home in Calabria, didn’t like unhealthy pòrci—pigs. Human guinea pigs, that’s what they called the addicts who showed up for free hits when raw powder came in and they were testing the cut. Not everybody was desperate enough to spring for the Russian roulette of trying out a new mix. Only the most extreme cases showed up, often from far distances. By the time they got there, they’d be so strung out all they could do was lie on the floor. Then the guy with the hands would make Fat Pasquale find a vein in their feet and do it, which could be dangerous. Even the big shot mafiosi were afraid of AIDS. You could accidently prick your finger and be dead. Also, pòrci didn’t make great subjects if they were sick to begin with. The cut had to be good enough to beat the competition, but not so strong that it killed the buyer.

  Yuri came into the bedroom — dark-skinned, emaciated, with dreadlocks caught up in a rubber band. He slipped on jeans and sat on the mattress beside Zabrina and lit a cigarette. They spoke in Italian although Yuri was half African, half Albanian, and had only been in Italy a year.

  “I received a text from Fat Pasquale,” Zabrina said. “He’ll hook us up if we can get to Calabria tonight.”

  “Sto da favola!” said Yuri. “How? We don’t have money.”

  Zabrina, lying prone, took a hit off the cigarette and demurely crossed her ankles in the air.

  “Simon will lend us some for gas.”

  “He will want to go, too.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “Then too bad for him.”

  “If we take his money, he should get some.”

  “He’s not here!” Zabrina yelled. “I’m not waiting for that bitch.”

  Yuri nodded, said, “Yeah, okay,” and left the room.

  Now that she had convinced him to go, Zabrina felt dragged-down and tired. She always came up with ideas — like the sponge mop in the bathroom — but as soon as she thought of something good, it seemed to disappear and ceased to matter. She felt scooped out and empty. That feeling that nobody cared. Calabria was far away. She blinked at her cell phone. It was eight minutes later than when she had checked the kitchen clock. Yuri came back with the keys and all the cash he could find in Simon’s stash in the back of a drawer.

  Zabrina hauled herself up and by sheer force of will against an unfathomable weight of sadness, buckled on the sandals with the silver death heads. You could only think six hours ahead.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Later that afternoon, after the Commissario has left the abbey, Chris’s black Fiat pulls up outside the gates, covered with dust from the surveillance of Marcello Falassi, aka Il Capocuòco, the Chef. Sterling, looking even thinner and scruffier with a day’s growth of beard, gets out and crosses the courtyard, boot heels chipping at the gravel. I am still wearing my sister’s linen skirt. The sensuous feel of it against my bare legs as I walk toward him makes me hope this unexpected shot of femininity will strike up the old spark in his eyes. He gives me an appreciative hug.

  “How’d it go? What happened to Falassi?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t tell me?”

  “The Italian police got ahold of him. We were in position in the hide site, back up in the woods off the turnoff. At first light an unmarked car shows up, two plainclothes detectives get out. They busted through the iron fence and went on down the road that leads to the campsite. We figured our job was done. They were onto our man.”

  “They got there fast. I’m impressed. It was one in the morning by the time I spoke to the FBI legat in Rome. He must have gotten right to the Commissario. How did they get through the fence?”

  “Bolt cutters.”

  I nod approvingly. “They came prepared. Did they take Falassi into custody?”

  “Must have, because there’s only one way in and one way out.”

  “You didn’t stay to make sure? You didn’t wait until you saw them bring him out in handcuffs and put him in the car?”

  “Why risk getting made? By then it was full daylight.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. No, ma’am.” He takes my hand and kneads my knuckles, an overly bright expression in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “You were supposed to stake out the witness.”

  “Babe, we did. We were there all night. You said we’d have to turn the evidence over to the Italian cops eventually. They were on it, so we took the opportunity to jack it out of there.”

  I relent. “Okay.” My fingers yield in his. “Well, we had a hell of a morning.” I detail the confrontation between Nicosa and the Commissario. “He was about to arrest Nicosa for murder right there.”

  “On what evidence?”

  “Blood rivalry?”

  “That ain’t gonna fly.”

  “I guess the police are counting on what they find,” I say. “In the vat.”

  My voice falters at the memory, and then it is as if I am right back on the platform, staring down at the unbearable pink human stew. Sterling feels it and his grip tightens. He pulls me toward his chest, a disquieting tremble in his arms. We cling together, my silent tears staining his shirt, but somehow it isn’t me he’s holding on to; his face is turned away, as if he’s listening to something I can’t hear.

  “God have mercy,” he whispers.

  We step apart. I brush at my eyes. “Until proven otherwise, we have to keep going. We need to talk to that girl, Zabrina. See what she knows about Giovanni’s drug contacts.”

  “Screw that,” Sterling says. “It’s not about Zabrina, it’s the fact that nobody in your family knows what the other one’s up to. Time to clue them in.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Where is Giovanni?”

  “In church with his dad.” I indicate the chapel on the property.

  “Perfect.”

  I hurry after him. “Shouldn’t we wait until he’s stronger?”

  “If he can go to school with his friends, he can answer a goddamn question.”

  The doors to the small abbey church are open. Peering inside is like looking at the world through a candle flame. The interior is suffused with a sensuous orange glow, warming the walls of pockmarked stone, laying a gloss over a floor of centuries-old aqua tile. Above the altar there is nothing but a simple wooden crucifix. Cecilia’s touch is evident: the pews have been replaced by chairs slipcovered in peach damask and tied in back with bows, like dresses on rows of obedient churchwomen.

  When we step inside, Nicosa and Giovanni are receiving communion from the Oca priest
with the wire-rimmed glasses and dark hair. Otherwise the small space is empty. Afterward, the priest gathers father and son together and speaks earnestly. I wait uncomfortably, listening to the murmur of their voices, looking around and trying to spot the hand of the dead saint, but they must have it under lock and key. Growing up in Long Beach, California, I lived not far from a Catholic school, and once my friend Arlene and I dared to rap the golden knocker on the looming black-painted convent door. A nun opened it, with a stale white face and swirling batlike robes. Floating in the darkness high above was a round stained-glass window like the eye of God. Now, as then, I have the urge to flee. I tug at Sterling’s belt, and we remove ourselves to a bench outside.

  They emerge all together, Giovanni still leaning on a crutch, texting on his cell phone even before they are through the door. When everyone’s hands have been solemnly shaken and the priest has gone, we come forward.

  Nicosa eyes us warily. By now he knows we are not usually the bearers of good news.

  I try to soften it. “Was it good to talk to the priest?”

  “Where else can we turn? People are whispering about the awful thing in the woods. Giovanni keeps getting text messages and calls. Is that your mom in there? Disgusting.”

  Giovanni jerks his head away as Nicosa touches the boy on the chin.

  “There is evil, but I want him to know there is also grace. There is hope. What did you think of what Padre Filippo said?”

  Giovanni shrugs, and goes back to the screen.

  “What did the Padre talk about?” Sterling asks.

  Nicosa swipes at the cell phone. “Giovanni! Are you listening? Forget those people; they’re only trying to make you feel bad.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re trying to help, and yes, I am listening.”

  “Answer him. What did Padre Filippo say?”

  Giovanni recites in mocking singsong: “He talks about the Gospel of Luke. He tells us the parable of the shepherd who lost his sheep — as if I haven’t heard it a million times — that the shepherd will go looking for ‘the one’ even if he has to leave ‘the ninety-nine.’ ”

  “What was his point?” Nicosa prods impatiently.

  “That God will look for us if we’re lost. Like right now, Mama is lost, but God will find her. And we are supposed to pray the rosary. It makes no sense.”

  Nicosa rolls his eyes.

  The phone in the house is ringing. Giovanni volunteers to answer, but Nicosa tells him to let it go. He is sick of gossipy contrada members and newspaper reporters begging for news of the kidnapping.

  Sterling says, “Giovanni, we have to talk.”

  “I can’t,” says the boy. “I am meeting my friends.”

  The ringing inside the house stops.

  “It’s important.”

  “Your friends can wait. What is it?” asks Nicosa.

  “There’s a grocery bag in Cecilia’s trunk,” I say. “Would you mind getting it?”

  Nicosa looks at Sterling and me, and there is acceptance in his eyes. We have peered into the simmering, pink pit of hell and now have reached the Day of Reckoning, the end of lies. He walks back toward her car as we three sit on a bench beneath the pines in an eddy of coolness and shade, watching Nicosa go to the green Alfa Romeo, disable the alarm, and open the trunk.

  “What’s he doing with my mother’s car?” Giovanni asks.

  I don’t answer. Let him worry. Nicosa returns with the half-wrapped painting and the small bag of cocaine inside the grocery sack. He squeezes onto the bench and asks his son what he knows about this.

  “What is it?”

  “A painting by your English friend, Muriel Barrett. She left it for you at the Walkabout Pub.”

  Giovanni’s eyes shift toward the canvas and away. “She did? Why?”

  Nicosa looks at me. “You tell him.”

  “She had to make an emergency trip to London,” I say flatly.

  “This was inside the painting.” Nicosa shows him the bag of cocaine.

  The boy does not respond.

  “What about it, kid?” Sterling asks.

  “Non lo so.”

  “She left it for you.”

  “It has nothing to do with me. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “I was there when Muriel Barrett gave it to the bartender,” I say evenly. “She was all dressed up on her way to London. She gets out of the taxi and comes into the pub carrying this package. She makes a point of it, of delivering this before she leaves the country. Do you know what I’m saying? She says to Chris, ‘It’s a painting for Giovanni.’ I say I’ll give it to you. She’s not happy, but the cab is waiting.”

  “She left you holding a bag of shit,” Sterling tells the boy. “Any guesses why?”

  Giovanni shrugs — an unconscious, on-the-spot admission of guilt.

  “Here’s what I think,” Sterling says. “You, your mom, your dad — you don’t know it, but you’re all fighting the same enemy. Everything goes back to the mafias. That’s why Ana and I think this”—he shakes the bag—“connects to why your mom disappeared.”

  Giovanni is jolted awake, cheeks red as a four-year-old’s. “Where is Mama? What happened to her?”

  “We can find your mom, if you tell us the truth.”

  “I thought you didn’t know where she is.”

  “We have an idea. We need your help. Do you want to find your mom?”

  “Okay. It’s mine,” the boy admits. “The shit is mine.”

  Nicosa runs his fingers over his eyes, picks up the tears that have gathered there, and seems to rub them into his face.

  “Thank you,” he says hoarsely. “Now you kill me. You put the nail right here.”

  Giovanni ignores the display. “You should talk. You are the biggest hypocrite,” he murmurs. “Why should I tell the truth when all you do is lie?”

  “I am the liar?” Nicosa cries. “You are the one we paid for to go to a psychiatrist and a drug counselor, who said you were clean.”

  “I don’t use drugs, but nobody believes me,” Giovanni says. “So I stopped trying to explain.”

  “We’re listening,” I say patiently. “This is your chance. Why did Muriel hide cocaine meant for you in a painting?”

  “She was holding it for me.”

  “So you are selling?” Nicosa says.

  “No, Papa. I do not sell; I do not use. I am a bank. I am a businessman, like you.”

  Nicosa growls, “Is that right?”

  Sterling puts his hand out. “Let him speak.”

  “Everybody uses. It’s not even about getting high anymore, it’s just to do your stupid boring job and get through the day. The whole world is making money selling drugs, so why not Muriel, and other old people living on a pension?”

  “Mama mia, you take their pension?”

  “I make a smart investment for them. If you give me five hundred euros, I will invest it in the next drug lot and double your money in a month. The bank of cocaine,” he adds with authority, “is a much better deal than a regular bank.”

  “You are the middleman,” I say.

  “Cèrto.”

  “Who are your contacts?”

  “They come up from the south.”

  “ ’Ndrangheta?” Nicosa flinches.

  “What about the risk to the person who gives money?” I ask.

  “No risk. Their hand is not dirty, and the profit is good. Sometimes the investors are asked to do a small favor, like hold the drugs, that’s all.”

  It is now clear why Muriel left town. She knew the attack on Giovanni would lead the police toward mafia activity in Siena, possibly including the local branch of the bank of cocaine. I doubt very much that her partner had a recurrence of cancer. I expect Muriel and Sheila to be on the next plane to the Azores.

  “Why did they beat you up, Giovanni?”

  He clears his throat. “I am supposed to bring an amount every month, and I was behind. Muriel was my main customer, but she was drinking like a fish. Sh
e had no money to invest.”

  “You took the hit for her.”

  “I promise my customers to keep them out of it.”

  “Not only are you in danger of getting killed, but you are helping the mafias!” Nicosa cries. “You are giving them more money to buy more cocaine.”

  “That’s the idea, Papa.”

  The phone inside the abbey starts to ring again.

  Nicosa smashes the canvas across the bench, splintering glass and the wooden frame.

  “Bitch! Fucking English bitch!”

  “Hypocrite!” Giovanni shouts in return. “I only do exactly what you do! I learned from you!”

  “This is not what I do!”

  Giovanni screams at me. “Why did you tell him?”

  “Because they tried to kill you, for God’s sake! That’s why Muriel split. She was afraid it would come back to her.”

  “You are not my aunt! If you were my real aunt, you would be on my side!”

  “I am on your side.”

  “You’re FBI, that’s all you are!”

  “Giovanni—”

  “You and him together! Both liars and hypocrites!”

  Grimacing with pain, he lopes across the courtyard on the crutch, slamming the kitchen door.

  Nicosa is heaving. “That English bitch dragged him into it, you know that.”

  “I will make sure Muriel Barrett is picked up in London and interrogated.”

  Nicosa drops the wrecked painting at my feet. “Give her this.”

  The door opens and Giovanni appears, holding the phone.

  “For Signorina Grey!” he sings out contemptuously.

  Sterling says, “I need a drink.”

  When we get to the kitchen, whoever it was has already hung up. I ask if there’s a way to see who called. Giovanni grabs the receiver and punches two digits. The screen says Proibito.

  “What does that mean?”

  “ ‘Prohibited.’ You can’t.”

  He turns away and opens the refrigerator and just stares into it. I’m thinking it was a blocked call from the American embassy about the recovered evidence from the vat. Nicosa enters the kitchen, turns on the taps, and sticks his head in the sink.