by Mike Ashley
His son nodded.
“We are correct to be concerned about O’Hara and his cronies. They are dangerous people.”
Again, Vito nodded.
“With the plan I am about to outline for you, you will defeat them. After that, the Ghilini family’s position will be assured.”
Papa had outlined his strategy for Vito who grasped the subtlety of it even faster than Papa thought he would.
Glancing down the pew, Papa studied his son for a moment and permitted himself a private smile. Vito was going to be just fine. Papa could step down now, knowing that the empire he had spent his whole life shaping would live on for years after he was gone, in good Ghilini hands.
Cardinal Vincenzo Micelli stepped forward to lead the Veneration of the Cross. Though Papa usually paid close attention to the sacraments of his faith, again he found his mind wandering.
Vito had been astonished to find out that Toshiro was his nephew. Losing both his brothers had been difficult for Vito to endure. To find out now that he had family he was unaware of invigorated his son like nothing Papa had witnessed before. But it also seemed to knock him off balance.
“And you never told anyone he was your grandson?” Vito had asked.
“To tell anyone that Toshiro was family would have put him in danger. Don’t you see that?”
Vito shook his head. “I’m your son. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”
“It’s not a matter of trust, Vito. If I had told you about Toshiro before this moment, your behavior, no matter how minutely, would have changed toward him. Someone might have been able to figure out why, and that would have placed Toshiro in mortal danger.”
“I would have protected him.”
Papa did not argue. “And now you will. Until today it has been my job to protect Toshiro, and the rest of our family as well. Now, my son, that job will fall to you. I’m stepping aside. You will oversee everything from now on.”
Vito had been as shocked by that pronouncement as he had of learning of his new nephew. Papa had only smiled at his son’s surprise.
“Don’t be concerned, Vito. You are ready.”
The words still rang in Papa’s ears. He believed what he had said to his son this afternoon. Vito was ready to take over the family.
Cardinal Micelli stepped to the altar. His voice carried to the far reaches of the church, even though it seemed, to Papa at least, that His Eminence was speaking in a conversational tone. “We are gathered here today to give thanks to our Holy Father for his gift to man. The Lord so loved his creation that he gave his only begotten son to sacrifice himself for our sins.”
Papa glanced at Monsignor Rossi who stood to the Cardinal’s left. The priest was listening patiently. That talent was, Papa decided, Monsignor Rossi’s greatest gift.
“It was on this holy day,” the Cardinal continued, “that Pilate washed his hands, leaving the mob to decide the fate of Jesus.”
Papa bowed his head.
“The soldiers stripped Jesus, put upon him the scarlet robe, then placed upon his head the crown of thorns.”
Unconsciously, Papa ran a hand through his hair.
“They placed a reed in his right hand, bowed before him, and mocked him, saying, ‘Hail, the King of the Jews.’ Then they tore the reed from him, spit upon him and beat him.”
Papa felt a single tear slide down his cheek.
“Then they tore off the robe and led Jesus into the streets. They bade him to bear his own cross, then marched him through the streets to the jeers of the mob. Then, along with the thieves, he was crucified. The soldiers cast lots for his garments. Above his head hung a sign that read, ‘This is Jesus, King of the Jews.’ Even the thieves tormented him, saying, ‘If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross.’ But he did not.”
As the Cardinal went on, Papa could feel himself shaking. No matter how many times he heard the story, it never failed to touch him. Papa turned to look at Vito again. His son’s eyes bored into him as Papa heard the Cardinal say, “My God, my God, why hath thou forsaken me?”
Then Vito smiled at him and Papa felt a warm glow that had not coursed through him for a long time. Not since before Paulo died. Papa’s plan was in place, and the threat of O’Hara seemed about to be neutralized. As Papa made his way to the steps of the altar to accept his communion, he realized that the radiance he felt was, of all things, happiness.
As the choir sang the hymn, Papa moved to the communion rail, eased himself to his knees, and clasped his hands in front of him. Father Rossi stood just across the rail. An altar boy placed the paten under Papa’s chin and he accepted the host when the priest laid it upon his tongue. Praying silently as he heaved himself back to his feet, Papa made his way to the outside aisle and back to his seat.
He noticed the Cardinal was sitting in a straight back chair near the altar. The man appeared to be weary from the performance of the service. Papa turned his attention to the line of worshipers creeping up the aisle to the rail. As one group rose and moved away, others took their places and knelt. Papa noticed a thin, balding man in a dark suit. As the man rose and moved to Papa’s left, Papa thought he saw the bulge of a gun under the man’s jacket.
Papa watched the man make his way to the outside aisle on Papa’s left. He was sure now that the man was wearing a shoulder holster. Papa studied the man’s deep-set eyes, framed by high cheek bones; beak of a nose, what little hair he had left slicked down at the back of his skull. Papa watched from the corner of his eye as the man took an aisle seat in the smaller outside pew two rows behind Papa’s.
Vito looked toward his father and Papa tilted his head toward the gunman. He watched as Vito turned to eyeball the guy, then glanced back at Papa and shrugged. His son had not seen what Papa had.
The bald man packing a gun was not one of their soldiers, nor was he anyone that Papa recognized from O’Hara’s bunch.
As the Cardinal rose and moved to the front of the altar, Papa continued to watch the gunman from the corner of his eye. His stomach churned as he tried to decide what to do.
The Cardinal, hands folded across his stomach, said, “Lord, send down your abundant blessing upon your people who have devoutly recalled the death of your son in the sure hope of the resurrection.”
Alarm bells clanged in Papa’s head as he saw the bald man’s hand easing under his jacket.
“Grant them pardon; bring them comfort.”
The man was slowly rising now, and Papa wanted to yell but no sound would come out of his throat. His mind was screaming at him. It’s a hit! It’s a hit! But as Papa looked at the man’s eyes, he realized he was not the target. The assassin’s eyes were locked on the altar. Papa couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Someone was going to whack the Cardinal!
“May their faith grow stronger and their eternal salvation be assured.”
Papa was on his feet now as well. He felt Mama’s hand on his arm, but he didn’t look down at her. His eyes saw only the assassin and the gun coming out the hitman’s jacket in what seemed to be slow motion. There was no way Papa could get to the assassin before the man could get off a shot. There was only one other course of action possible.
Hurdling the rail with an agility even he found surprising, Papa leapt toward the altar.
“We ask this through Christ our Lord . . .” The Cardinal’s words trailed off as he saw Papa sprinting toward him.
“Amen,” the congregation said as one.
“What are you . . .” the Cardinal bellowed, his eyes wide with fear.
Monsignor Rossi was moving to intercept Papa. The look on the priest’s face told Papa that the man thought he had gone insane. The Cardinal took a step backward toward the cross as Papa shoved Rossi to the ground, a gunshot exploding from behind Papa as he knocked the Cardinal to the floor, echoing through the vast chamber.
Papa felt a tremendous jolt in his back. He’d been shot before and instantly knew that the assassin’s bullet had found him instead of His Eminence. The impact
drove him past the Cardinal and face first into the cross. He grabbed the shroud of the crucifix as he started to topple and the cross wobbled precariously. Realizing what was happening, Papa let go of the shroud but it was too late.
He heard the chorus of screams erupt as he fell backwards. Looking up, he saw the cross coming toward him and knew there was no way to avoid it. As the huge wooden crucifix tumbled, Papa turned his head and saw the Cardinal cowering on the floor, a look of utter disbelief etched on his face.
When the cross finally struck him, a whole world of color bloomed in Papa’s eyes. There was a burst of pain, then suddenly no pain at all. His head lolled to one side and the blossom of color disintegrated as he watched the assassin retreating toward the door of the church. Papa’s eyes fell shut. He was surprised at how much effort it took for him to open them again. As he did, he made out Police Chief Harry Hammons running toward the doors at the far end of the cathedral with his gun drawn.
“Help him,” Papa heard someone whimper.
Forcing his eyes to stay open, he saw Monsignor Rossi bending over him. The priest was holding someone’s hand, and though it looked a great deal like his own thick hand, Papa couldn’t feel the cleric’s touch.
Someone yelled, “Get the damn cross off him!”
Papa could see that several men, Vito among them, were lifting the cross off his chest. He was unable to understand why there was no difference in feeling when the weight was removed from his body.
“Is it bad, old friend?” Rossi asked.
Papa shook his head. The warm, sweet taste of blood filled his mouth and he coughed it up.
Rossi didn’t leave his side, but turned to the altar boy. “Get my sacraments,” he commanded.
“No time,” Papa said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Tears were running down the priest’s face. “You should have the Last Rites,” he said.
Papa tried to squeeze his friend’s hand but could not. “It’s all right, John. I’m at peace with myself – and with my God.”
Mama squeezed in on the other side and hugged him. Her cheek was wet and warm, but he felt no other part of her against him. That was all right, he told himself. He’d had the pleasure of her in his arms so many times before and that would be enough to carry him to whatever eternal judgment awaited him.
From outside the church came a sound that might have been a car backfiring, but wasn’t.
His mouth was close to Mama’s ear now. “I will always love you,” he said.
Vito appeared above him. His son’s face was clouded with anger and hate. “I’ll get O’Hara for this, Papa. Don’t worry.”
“No. I was not the target. Don’t forget your promise to me. That is what is important.” Papa’s body was wracked by another spasmodic cough and he felt more blood dribble onto his chin. When he could finally speak again, he said, “Only your promise. Remember, that is all that matters.”
The edges of his vision were growing dark. From that blackness, Papa thought he saw Paulo moving toward him. His eyes fell closed and behind his lids Papa could clearly see Paulo coming toward him with his arms outstretched.
From that other place Papa heard Rossi say, “You saved the Cardinal, old friend. He is all right. You saved . . .”
Paulo embraced him.
“I’m sorry, my son.”
“It is I who am sorry, Papa.”
Papa kissed his son. “I love you, Paulo. I always loved you.”
“I know,” Paulo answered.
Then there was silence.
Thus did a man of violence die in peace, unaware of the masquerade his son Vito had arranged, involving a hitman who now lay dead in the street, shot by a Ghilini soldier . . . a son (a brother seeking vengeance for a slain brother) who would bask in the posthumous glory of his martyred father who had, so predictably, thrown himself between God and a bullet. A terrible gang war would simply not have to happen, because this great out-of-date figure had given his life for the Cardinal.
And in the great cathedral, toward the back, a mother was gathering her two children, to remove them from this scene of horror. She tugged hard at the hand of her youngest, a boy who had lagged to pick up a small stone.
Beyond the Call of Beauty
WILL MURRAY
Will Murray is an expert in the history of pulp magazines, and especially those hero pulps such as Doc Savage and The Shadow. He’s been able to convert his passion into his job as he has written over 50 books, including 40 Destroyer novels and eight Doc Savages based on Lester Dent’s uncompleted stories. He has also contributed to the Executioner and Mars Attacks series, as well as numerous anthologies. His novel, Nick Fury Agent of Shield: Empyre (2000) predicted the operational details of the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks on America more than a year before they occurred. Most of Murray’s fiction has been hidden behind various house names, so it’s time he stood out for himself, in the following homage to Dashiell Hammett.
I heard her voice before I saw ever her face. She was murdering “Freddy the Freshman”:
Who’s wrecks all the parties?
And turns them upside down?
Fanny the Freshman
The freshest gal in town!
It was a smoky basement speak on Washington Street. A grimey bar. A few tables. Sawdust on the floor. A three-piece band. The granite block wall wasn’t enough to keep out the intermittent thunder of the Elevated trains shuttling in and out of Green Street Station, but they cut it down to a tolerable rattle.
As I took a corner table, the red-hot number on the stage kept belting out her inane ditty.
She plays the ukelele
She plays the saxophone.
And all the pretty babies
Just won’t leave her alone!
It was the usual crowd. Kids and co-eds from Harvard and Boston College. A sprinkling of more mature patrons. But collegiate types predominated. Hard to believe only ten years after the armistice a fresh crop had already sprung up. They had never known war. If the graybeards were right, they never would.
Who got bounced at Harvard
Princeton, Yale and Brown?
Inebriated laughter rippled and tinkled off the walls.
At one big table a gaggle of co-eds were living it up. A fresh-faced couple were going at it so hot and heavy that when they finally came up for air, I couldn’t tell which one was the male of the species. The sleek-haired boy in the vicuna coat and oversized pince-nez came away with so much lip rouge on his mouth that he might have been a girl.
I gave my attention to the evening entertainment.
Spooky Spookins – I didn’t for a minute think that was her real name – was up on the low stage dressed like Clara Bow impersonating Lindbergh. A sheepskin-collared leather flyer’s jacket bundled her superstructure. The leather cap and goggles covered every strand of bobbed hair.
Boola, boola, boola
She goes to school-a
Just to foola,
She loves to foola!
Sasparilla, sinfronella
She’s a swell-a, swell-a fella!
Rah! Rah! Yah-ta-ta!
That’s her college yell!
Baggy pants, crazy dance
It’s Fanny, can’t you tell?
The crowd roared its applause. Spooky Spookins bowed once and flounced away. She was all legs and silk stockings as the beaded curtain swallowed her.
I ordered gin, traded a dime for a pack of Spuds from the cigarette girl and thought back to what had brought me to this dim hole.
Donal Reynolds of the Reynolds Construction Company had come up the hard way, laying down one brick at a time until he had built himself up a formidable empire. He still carried his lunch to work in a galvanized pail – but in the back seat of his chauffeured phaeton now, not by streetcar.
He had amassed a sufficient fortune to send his only daughter to Harvard, but didn’t like the company that she had fallen in with. They had a row over it, and she had disappeared.
Old Man Reyn
olds had some choice words for the future cream of Boston society. Spoiled college girls. Inflamed youth. Heathen saloon singers. He was long on indignant invective but short on names. But when he wanted her back hard enough he put some heavy coin behind it.
I’d exhausted every contact in Harvard and Cambridge. All I’d been able to uncover was that no one had ever known the Reynolds girl to have a steady beau. So now I was hunting wayward co-eds at the end of Washington where the sun never shone.
The big table looked promising, so I moseyed over.
Laying down a snapshot of the missing girl, I said, “The name’s Norris. With the Weld Detective Agency. I’m looking for this girl.”
The merriment subsided like I had delivered a downpour from my hat.
No one volunteered a word. The sleek-haired lad did his best to look in every direction but mine. There was something about him I didn’t much care for.
“I recognize her,” chirped a turbaned blonde. “Helen Reynolds.”
“She’s been missing four days. Her father wants her back.”
“I think she eloped,” said a brunette whose headache band had begun drooping over one lazy eye.
“Yeah, she was talking about eloping with that guy. What was his name? Gosh, I’m so smashed I can’t work my little brain.”
“You can’t work your brain, potted or not,” snapped the brunette.
The sleek-haired lad had buried his face in his date’s strapless shoulder.
I addressed him. “Anything you’d care to add, Little Bo Peep?”
His voice was so soft I thought he must have been fresh out of high school. “Spooky might know. She knows everyone.”
“I’ll talk to Spooky,” I said, retrieving the snap.
“Yeah. But will Spooky talk to you?”
“Kit, you’re a positive scream!” the blonde burbled.
The table busted out in raucous laughter as I walked away.
It was such a swanky joint there was no one to stop me as I knocked on what passed for a dressing room.
