by Gian Bordin
Friday, 8:55 p.m.
As we are driving out to Hampstead Heath, I’m quieter than usual.
"Is something wrong, signorina," Fausto queries.
I assure him that all is well, that I’m maybe just a bit apprehensive about the gravity of what we plan to do. This seems to satisfy him. I’m not going to tell him about my worries over the sudden appearance of Silvio’s wife. But it reminds me that I need to set that aside for the time being and concentrate fully on the tasks ahead.
The mailbox of the house next to Garland’s is still overflowing, telling us that nobody has returned in the last three days. Fausto parks the car next to the garage, out of sight from the Garlands. I’m dressed in my old dark running outfit. I even wear dark shoes. Fausto also wears dark. He procured some burglary tools, where and how, I don’t know, nor do I want to know.
I turn off my iPhone. Better to miss a call than having it ring at the wrong moment. Then we pack our gear and track toward the back of the property. What I vaguely glimpsed while we drove along the fence gets confirmed. Several lights are on: outside over the entrance, in the salon, and in an upstairs room, presumably one of the children’s.
"You think they are in? Would they leave that many lights on while away?" questions Fausto.
"No way of telling. Shall I go in to check?"
"No, I should go. I have more experience for this."
"Right."
Once more, I rig the rope around the overhanging branch, and Fausto clambers across. Three minutes later he reappears. I guess that he saw people in the house. When he is back, he whispers: "There is somebody loitering along the entrance. I heard the bell ring several times. Nobody answered, so I guess nobody is in the house."
I vaguely remember seeing a lone man walk along the road before we reached Garland’s property. No Garland means our operation is off. "So, we leave and try again Sunday night."
"Yes, but I suggest we wait until that guy disappears. It may be a burglar. One of the ways to determine if nobody is home is to ring the bell several times."
"If he tries to scale the fence, he will trigger the alarm, unless he knows about that. If that happens, we shouldn’t be around. Why should it be suspicious if a car comes out of an adjacent driveway?"
"Yes, you are right."
Thee minutes later we turn into the road. As we approach the gate to Garland’s property, our car lights illuminate a man balancing on top of the gate. He turns his face toward us. It hits me like lightening. For a moment, I hope that I’m mistaken. But no, it is Carlo.
"Oh, no. My brother. Stop the car," I shout, already opening the door and jumping out before Fausto has brought the car to a complete standstill.
"What’s the matter," he calls after me.
I rush across the street. Carlo is frantically trying to untangle his pants that are caught in the spikes atop the gate. What’s he doing here? races through my mind.
"Carlo, come down," I shout in Italian.
He recognizes my voice. "Oh Ceci, it’s you. Fuck, you scared the shit out of me."
Using swear words liberally is a sign that he is either on a high or on withdrawal. I don’t like the thought of either.
"Come down now, before another car drives by. You may have triggered the alarm."
He finally manages to free his pants and gingerly climbs down. By then, Fausto has joined us. "Who is this guy?" he questions, an edge to his voice.
"Carlo, my younger brother."
"What’s he doing here?"
"I don’t know." Turning to Carlo, I order: "Into the car, now, and then you’ll tell me what this is all about."
"Don’t be pushy, sister."
"Do as she says," snarls Fausto, ready to intervene.
Carlo raises both hands, palms facing forward. They are trembling slightly, another sign of withdrawal. "Fuck man, hold it. All right? I’ll come. No need to bite, all right?"
He picks up a sports bag, his usual baggage, climbs into the back seat, and I follow after him. "Fausto, park somewhere else, please."
Fausto drives us past the roundabout at the end of the road and parks in a side street under trees, shaded from the streetlights.
"Now Carlo, what were you doing there? And no lies." Do I really expect that in his fragile state he will even be able to distinguish between truth and lies?
"I have the same question, sis. What are you doing here with this guy? Your new boyfriend?"
Fausto reaches back, grabs him by the top of his jersey and pulls him closer. "Answer her!" he growls before letting go.
I almost intervene, but then decide against it. Maybe my brother needs a bit of stern encouragement.
"Who is this guy, sis?"
"Just answer the question. Why are you here?"
"I was going to pay somebody a visit." He hiccups several times, the way he usually does when coming off drugs. "Any law against that?"
"The guy who lives in that property?"
"Yes."
"What’s his name?"
He raises a trembling hand to his face. "What the fuck is it to you?"
"What’s his name?" I repeat more forcefully.
"I don’t remember. Something like Garlick … no Garland. What does it matter?"
"And why do you want to see this Garland?" questions Fausto.
"Man, that’s none of your business."
Fausto reaches back again, grabbing his jersey. "It so happens that I make it my business. Answer?"
Carlo turns to me. "Sis, call him off."
"No, answer as he tells you!"
"He owes me money, lots of money and I need it now."
"Why does he owe you money?"
"I did him a favor, a big favor."
"Carlo, I’m losing my patience too. What favor? Spill it, all of it, now."
"I signed some papers for him, an application form to a bank, I think, or maybe it was something else. I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember. How could I refuse, sis? He offered me a thousand pounds for my signature, fuck, just for a signature, and promised me more. I needed the money. I need some now, badly."
As he speaks, pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Carlo’s handwriting is similar to mine, particularly the way he writes ‘Walker’, a bit feminine. So the ‘C. Walker’ signature on the application form to open the I-Consolidated account with UBS is his. And the windfall he mentioned last time he came to dinner was the money Garland paid for it.
"Carlo, do you realize that I got arrested because of that signature?"
"No, you wouldn’t. Why should you be arrested because I signed some papers, just some fucking papers?" He slumps back in his seat, eyes closed, racked by the occasional hiccup, retreated into a sort of catatonic state. I know it takes another hour or two before he will be more coherent. The trembling will take a day or more to disappear.
Fausto intervenes: "Signorina, will you please explain what this is all about?"
I do.
"So, that proves that Garland is the one who pulled the scam on Ventura. Our problem is solved."
"Is it?"
"Yes. I can now put the screw on Garland; make him refund il capo."
"And how does that clear me? The police accuse me of being the perpetrator. Even if Carvaggio gets his money, that does not exonerate me. No, Garland has to do more than refund the money. He has to admit that he did it. Only then will I be cleared for good. Unless he does, even if I’m not convicted, the suspicion of fraud will continue to hang over me for years to come."
"All your brother has to do is to go to the police and tell his story. That will get you clear."
"Fausto, you seem to be a man who values loyalty to family highly. Would you go and force your brother or sister to confess a crime or felony to the police in order to get yourself cleared? … No, you wouldn’t and neither will I." Unless it were rape or murder, I add silently.
"Yes, signorina, you are right. I’ve always seen you as a woman of honor."
The faint sound of a police
siren can be heard in the distance, gradually getting louder.
"Your brother triggered the alarm, signorina," Fausto comments.
"Carlo, you realize that if we hadn’t stopped you, the police would probably have caught you inside the property?"
"Fuck the police," he mumbles. "Anyway, I doubt that. No, I would be talking to Garland and he would explain that it was a false alarm. He’d better do."
"Except that the Garlands aren’t at home. They’re often away over weekends in their house on the coast." Turning to Fausto, I say: "Fausto, please take us to my apartment. My brother needs food to settle him and then a bed, and we must talk strategy for what to do next."
During the trip home, I attempt to question Carlo about how he got to know Garland.
"Your boyfriend, Gary, he introduced us."
"My ex-boyfriend. We split a while ago." It’s not that long ago, the internal voice that insists on truth reminds me. "When was that?"
He doesn’t react, leaning back again, eyes closed.
"When?" I repeat a bit louder.
"Leave it. I don’t remember."
I shake him. He opens his eyes, looking at me as if I were a stranger. "When."
"Last month. Sis, leave it."
"September?"
"Yes."
"And then what happened?"
"He invited me for lunch."
"Who invited you for lunch?"
"Gary, that’s where I met this guy Garland."
I’m getting there slowly. "And Garland asked you for that favor then?"
"No, a few days later."
"He invited you to his house?"
"No, we met in a pub; the Grosvenor or something."
"The Governor near Trafalgar Square?"
"Yes, that’s it. Sis, please leave it. My head is killing me." He presses both hands to his temples.
One more question he has to answer. "And how did you find out Garland’s home address?"
"Gary; he told me."
"When?"
"Tonight."
Carlo saw Gary tonight? And why would Gary tell him where Garland lives? But another thought forces itself on my mind. Gary betrayed me while he still pretended to love me. He must already have planned then to dump me. It feels like a violation that he had sex with me after that. And I contemplated to propose marriage to him then. What a bad judge of character I was. And is the Porsche was the payoff? Is that also why he suddenly panicked when the police began suspecting him of being my accomplice? These are the self-recriminations that assail my self-esteem.
Friday, 11.10 p.m.
The first thing I do after reaching home is to make coffee for all of us.
"Signorina, make it strong," begs Fausto.
"Is there any food?" Carlo asks opening the refrigerator, the tone of his voice already more normal.
"Sit. I’ll prepare something for everybody," I reply. I still have some of the Italian cold cuts Silvio brought on Wednesday. Together with other delicacies it adds up to an appetizing supper.
Carlo has regained much of his usual charm and begins to engage Fausto in small talk. I’m rather surprised when he asks him outright: "Fausto, you’re a mafioso, right? Send here to straighten out my sister?"
"Yes, but your sister doesn’t need straightening out. And you, I presume, are into drugs. You need straightening out," is his equally blunt response.
Carlo shrugs his shoulders.
"You should take your sister as a role model."
"She’s strong, always has been. I’m weak. Can’t help it."
Yes, that has always been his excuse, hasn’t it?
I set the table with the selection of cold cuts, cheeses, tomatoes, black olives, a crunchy baguette, and a bottle of red. Fausto breaks into a pleased smile. Both he and Carlo dig into the food.
"Now, Fausto, lets discuss how to proceed from here. First, I think it would be unwise to let Carvaggio know right away that we have discovered who did the scam. He might again try to speed up things by interfering. Don’t you agree?"
"Yes, signorina, but we can’t let him wait too long."
"I obviously want that he gets his money quickly, but I also want to clear myself, and for that I need a few more days. He’ll just have to wait that long. Although my brother doesn’t deserve it, I don’t want him in trouble with the police. So far, he has a clean record. So, I want to find a way to achieve both without involving him —"
Carlo interrupts: "You give me the money for the airfare plus some more and I will go to mother and promise not to return to London for a long time. Then I’ll be out of your way and you can do whatever you want."
I can’t help laughing. He is already up to his old tricks of fleecing me.
"What’s so funny about that?" he asks, annoyed. "I thought you wanted help?"
"What’s funny is that you always find a way to extract money from me. The trouble right now is that I’m very short myself. But I’ll buy you a ticket to fly to Milan, and make sure you’re actually on the flight, and give you some money, not much, for the train trip to Lugano and to tide you over."
"Sis, I’m sad that you never trust me."
"You know perfectly well why I can’t, and I don’t believe you’re sad. You accept what I offer, or else we’ll take you to the police and you confess."
Carlo turns to Fausto. "You see how tough she is with me. It’s so unfair. She makes thousands of pound with every deal she does."
"That’s a huge exaggeration, and right now I’ve no income, and all my funds with Lewis have been frozen. So, do you agree to the deal I offer you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
To my surprise, Fausto intervenes: "No, you don’t. Your sister is going out of her way to protect you. It would be much simpler for us to take you to the police."
Carlo grins. "Man, you got me."
How can I not be disarmed when he defuses any aggro with such easy charm? Even Fausto does not manage to suppress a smile.
"All right, Carlo. I guess you’ve no other place to crash tonight, nor do I want to let you out of my sight. You now go and take a hot shower and then go to sleep in the spare bedroom. Fausto and I and need to talk alone."
"You see, Fausto. She treats me like a child," he comments, rising from the table, as he empties his wine glass, and then disappears in the second bathroom off the entrance corridor.
"He’s trouble," Fausto says in a low voice. "Why do you tolerate it?"
"Yes, he’s trouble, but he is my only brother."
"Lugano is where your mother lives?"
"Yes." He doesn’t need to know it is a village outside.
"Will he go there? I could arrange for one of my friends to pick him up at the airport and put him on the train, if you think this is advisable."
"I think he will. Once he is on the plane with little money, he’ll have no choice. But thank you for your offer."
"I only wanted to help."
"I know, and I’m grateful we understand each other so well. Let’s now talk about how to get Garland to confess."
"Carvaggio would want me to offer him the usual encouragement, you know," he replies, grinning. "The man might cave in."
"Yes, that’s one possibility, except that he is smart and may want to strike a deal, namely that he only refunds the money without confessing to the police." Nor do I want that you frighten his daughters, but I don’t voice that.
"I could make it clear to him that there’s no deal and that he needs to do both."
"He knows Carvaggio and he will simply bypass you and negotiate directly with him. My fate will hardly be of much concern to your boss. He’ll prefer to make a deal for a quick refund of the money. Is that a fair assessment of him?"
"Signorina, I’m afraid it is. He may even relish leaving you in the stew after the chiding you gave him the other day."
Yes, that may have been unwise, but what’s done is done.
"How about threatening your ex-boyfriend," Fausto picks up the thought once more, "tel
ling him that your brother confessed. Once he has left the country, even if the police get to know that it is his signature, not yours, they’re not likely to go after him."
"I doubt they would bother, except that he may never be able to come back into the country without risking arrest."
"So what about going after your ex-boyfriend? He deserves being punished."
I meet Fausto’s earnest expression with a smile. Yes, Gary deserves punishment. The question though is: would it achieve the desired result of getting Garland? The Gary I know is stubborn. He will deny everything. He may even go to the police, accuse me of sending a mafioso after him. I’m sure that Somes would delight in getting a reason for revoking my bail. No, revenge on Gary will have to wait a bit longer. I voice these concerns to Fausto and then conclude: "I think we may just have to go back to our original plan of searching Garland’s office for evidence, and that will have to wait until Sunday night."
Before leaving, Fausto begs me to demonstrate how to use the Google maps. Just to show him that what’s on the Web now renders even the Mafia more vulnerable to snoopers, I choose Carvaggio’s street address and show the 360 degree rotation, zoom in on the ornate gate of the villa, and then call up the sky view of the grounds, zooming in on a figure standing on the steps of the villa.
"Wait, signorina. Can you enlarge this further?"
I do, stopping just before the image becomes blurry. It’s a man, dressed in a cream-colored suit, wearing a checkered hat and holding a cane.
"This is il capo," he exclaims. "He always dresses like this. He won’t like that at all. Can anybody see this on a computer?"
"Yes, the whole world can see this." I print the enlargement on my color printer and give it to Fausto. I hope he will show it to Carvaggio and cause him some worries.
At the door I ask Fausto to wait a moment. I fetch the pistol I took off him some ten days ago — only ten days? I want to give it back to him. I don’t like the idea of having a gun in the house with Carlo here. Fausto is surprised.
"This is proof that you trust me, signorina."
"I do, Fausto." He doesn’t have to know that this is not the primary reason for wanting to get rid of the gun.
I still have a task to do before going to bed, namely, book Carlo’s ticket to Milan on the first available flight, no matter the cost. I manage to get a booking on an Alitalia flight for Saturday noon, and print out the electronic ticket. That will get him to Lugano by dinnertime, since the train from Milan to Lugano takes just over an hour.
