White Shotgun

by April Smith

  “Was she?” I ask.

  “I did not hire a detective to find out,” Cecilia says sarcastically. “Nicoli apologized a thousand times, offered to do anything to make it right. There were so many nights we both just cried. Once you go through something like that, no matter how much you try, the marriage is never the same. At one point I was going to leave him, take my son back to El Salvador, but that would have been too hard on Giovanni. We break apart, we heal, we continue. Nicoli pays for my clinics and pulls the political strings necessary to get the permits and paperwork and all the rest of it. Without his influence, we could not be of service to our poorest patients.”

  “Is that what Nicoli meant about not being a good father? Was he talking about his influence with the mafias?”

  Cecilia shuts it down.

  “Things are as they are.”

  When we get up to the surgical floor, an old man is standing in the hallway outside Giovanni’s room. He wears discreetly checked trousers and a raincoat thrown over his shoulders. A young muscular fellow wearing a T-shirt and a jade disk on a leather thong around his neck helps the old man into his raincoat. He needs help because he has no hands. In place of his hands there are two black prostheses—medieval contraptions of polished stakes and wooden levers. Dressed, the old man nods politely at us and says “Arrivederci,” as they pass.

  Cecilia’s eyes widen. She bursts into Giovanni’s room. Giovanni looks no different; a sixteen-year-old full of life who isn’t moving. Eyes closed, the machine breathing for him. She swiftly checks the monitors that show his vital signs.

  “Cecilia—what’s wrong?”

  “Do you think that man was inside this room?”

  “Who? The old guy in the hall?”

  I scan the place. The only sign of another’s presence is the big chair where visitors sit. The shawls and pillows Cecilia brought for napping are in disarray on the floor, as if someone has thrown them off quickly.

  “It looks like someone was here. Maybe Nicoli. Let’s call his cell—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” my sister interrupts quickly. “Giovanni’s okay. He’s okay,” she says again, to reassure herself.

  “You seem afraid.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “He scared you. Why? Who is he?”

  She wets her lips. “Just a confused old man.”

  The door opens, startling Cecilia, but it is only the nurse, a squat, large-breasted woman speaking nonstop Italian. Cecilia listens, and stares her son, who is apparently in a deep, drugged sleep.

  “She says Giovanni is responsive. He squeezed her finger, just a few minutes ago!” Cecilia says. “She called my cell, but we were in the basement with no service. This is wonderful news! We can take him off the ventilator!”

  The nurse smiles widely, showing gold teeth. Then she rams Cecilia with her bosom and crushes her in a euphoric hug.

  TWELVE

  “His name is Cosimo Umberto, but they call him Il Fantòccio, the Puppet,” Dennis Rizzio says on the phone from Rome later that night. “Worked his way up to capomandamento, head of a district of mafia families.”

  “How did he lose his hands?”

  “When he was a young picciotto, out to prove himself, he had the bright idea of blowing up Parliament. Unfortunately, all he’s got is some half-assed ordnance from World War Two, so needless to say, the thing goes off while the schmuck is holding it. But they like his courage, so they make him a bag man for ’Ndrangheta.”

  “A bag man with no hands?”

  “He scares the devil out of people. You own a falafel joint, and the Puppet shows up, wanting a protection bribe. You gonna argue? The guy is a success story; we should all be so blessed. What was he doing at the hospital? My guess? Putting the squeeze on Nicosa. They’re telling him, ‘We know where your son is at’—the implication being that anytime they want, they can pull the plug on his kid. Here’s the thing. Cosimo Umberto is out of his territory. He should be working extortion for ’Ndrangheta, on his usual beat down south in Calabria. But suddenly we find one of their top coglioni pressuring Nicoli Nicosa, a major industrialist in Siena. Whatever was said in that room could change the picture of mob penetration of the north. You’re in a unique position to know.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Talk to your sister. She knows exactly what’s going down, or she wouldn’t have freaked when she saw that guy.”

  “Now isn’t the time. Her kid is still critical. Palio starts tomorrow and she’s hyped about that—”

  “Stop making excuses. You’re in, and we want you to stay in.”

  I am talking to Rizzio from the far side of the pool, out of sight of the family. The underwater lights are on, heat still rises off the pine duff like a woodland sauna, while I pace the deck and consider betrayal. It’s one hell of a postcard.

  “You know what, Dennis? I shouldn’t do this.”

  “You’re the only one who can. You’re in with the family; that’s a tremendous plus.”

  “Let’s do it right and bring the heat. Infiltrate with an undercover from the Bureau, someone fresh. I’ll help them establish a cover, and then I’m gone. It doesn’t feel right, and you know when that happens, it’s time to go home.”

  There is a space of silence.

  “ ‘Home’ is a relative concept,” Dennis finally replies. “From what I understand, the door is not exactly open.”

  “Where? Los Angeles?”

  “Like I told you, Bob Galloway and I are buddies from the old days. He filled me in on your situation, fingering Peter Abbott, deputy director of the FBI, for obstruction of justice.”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “Me? Not at all. Peter Abbott is a private-school prick like we used to beat up on the subway. But there’s no way he’s going to plead guilty and go away.”

  “You never know.”

  “You think Peter Abbott’s just gonna roll over?” Rizzio asks skeptically. “That’s what family money and connections are for—obstruction of justice!”

  He laughs.

  “The Bureau is in for a tough battle in the courts. God forbid the trial goes south, and after a huge investment of time and money, it turns out the evidence you provided isn’t all that solid. All I’m saying, Ana, is that it’s easy enough to stay in their good graces.”

  I shake my head.

  “I know how this investigation of Nicosa will proceed,” I insist. “You’ll want intel. Hard evidence. Pretty soon there are surveillance cameras planted inside the abbey, and I’m wearing a wire. Now we’re involving family members. It’s just too complicated for me.”

  “Are they really your family?”

  “Kind of.”

  He hears my real hesitation. “Because I would never ask you to do something like that.”

  “I know.”

  “It seemed like since you never met these people, maybe it would fly,” he goes on. “But say the word, and I’ll send a new u.c. in tomorrow. If you have an emotional conflict, that’s a nonstarter.”

  Dennis knows that admitting to an “emotional conflict” is a ticket to the community outreach squad, and that I’ve already gotten my teeth into this case. But part of his question is sincere. I can’t call Cecilia my sister in the real sense. It hasn’t been instant chemistry. Our lives are completely different. We’ve known each other for just a few tumultuous days. I entered her home with a role to play. She reached out precisely because I am an agent. I want to help, but we are more bound by circumstance than blood.

  “There’s no conflict,” I say at last. “But I need you to take extra precautions.”

  “Fine. How long is your nephew in the hospital?”

  “He’s out of the coma, so hopefully not too much longer.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. The safety of the family won’t be compromised. I will personally make sure Giovanni has protection 24/7. I’ll have Inspector Martini post a cop outside his room. No more creeps in the hall.”

  Ther
e’s still something that feels out of joint. I slip off my shoes and swipe the water in the pool with a bare foot, kicking up a splash of frustration.

  “Any news on the attack in London?”

  “We had some progress,” Dennis says. “The number for the guy who bought the Ford used in the assault turned out to be a disposable phone, so the Brits kicked the investigation up to the Counter Terrorism Command. They have the resources to trace calls received by that number. Four calls were placed from Calabria—the last one a few minutes before they assaulted the restaurant. It was a mafia-ordered hit, which explains why the car was dumped in Aberdeen.”

  “Funny, I thought Aberdeen was in Scotland.”

  “Don’t be fresh,” Dennis advises. “Aberdeen has become a landing point for the penetration of the mafias into the U.K. Go down to Sicily any day, and you’ll see kids waiting at the docks, hoping to get on a boat with direct service to Scotland. For the up-and-comers, it’s a promotion. The shooters dumped the car in Aberdeen because that’s where they have protection. What I’m telling you is, these folks you came up against in London are well organized and connected to the Italian mafia syndicates. So be alert.”

  “I get it, but none of this has anything to do with me. The fact that I was there at that restaurant is totally random.”

  “Maybe,” Dennis says. “Enjoy the Palio.”

  The surface of the pool has stilled. I’m looking at my reflection, not recognizable, just a play of darkness and light.

  IL PALIO

  THIRTEEN

  Palio, Day 1—FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 5:45 A.M. The reflection of the empty ironwork bed slides around me as I open the doors of the mirrored armoire and pull out a linen skirt Cecilia has loaned me, wrapping it around my waist and slipping on a white T-shirt and leather sandals. I tie an Oca scarf around my neck, letting the point of the triangle hang down the back. Day by day, I seem to be losing my L.A. edge and looking more like Cecilia.

  She and Nicosa were leaving at dawn for the tratta, or “choosing of the horses,” that begins the festival, when I cornered her in the second-floor arcade. She was dressed with conservative elegance in an Oca-green suit with an opalescent sheen. I was still wearing pajamas with rockets on them.

  “Cecilia, look. I know who he is.”

  “Who?”

  “The man with no hands we saw outside Giovanni’s room. He’s mafia,” I said quietly. “It’s obvious.”

  She squinted at the soft light filling the archways.

  “What are you trying to do?” she said at last.

  “Protect you and Giovanni. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me he wasn’t the Puppet, a mob boss from the south.”

  She seemed very busy with the contents of her purse, so I went on.

  “You don’t think the idiots who attacked Giovanni aren’t watching the abbey?”

  “Giovanni is safe in the hospital under police security, is he not?” she said, making an inventory of her makeup case, sunglasses, keys, cell phone.

  “Yes, but believe it—now they’re watching you. They know every time you come and go. They are very capable of taking both you and your husband out in a heartbeat, and where would that leave Giovanni?”

  “I know they are capable. Every day in my work I see people capable of the worst possible things.” Her dark brown eyes, moist and troubled, met mine. “I will tell you the truth. When I started out to look for you it was because of my duty to honor my mother’s wish—to make sure Miguel Sanchez’s daughter had her rightful inheritance. When the detective found you in the FBI, I thought it was a sign from God. I know that my husband is under the thumb of the mafias, and I don’t see how he will ever get out. I thought you could help me. Really, I am still a stranger here. I didn’t know what to do. You see now why I have been desperate, especially now that this beast—” Her voice was trembling. “He comes to my son’s hospital room—”

  I wanted my notebook very badly to write down every word of her confession, but if I lost her, with Palio about to begin, it could be days before I got her back.

  “Let’s sit down,” I said, indicating the carved wooden chairs along the terra-cotta-tiled corridor.

  “I can’t. The tratta is starting.”

  “Just tell me—how is Nicoli under their thumb?”

  “I don’t know for certain. It must be that he’s paying bribes, like everybody else, and wants it to stop. He has tried to get out and they won’t let him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That is my belief. When his mistress went white shotgun, he changed. He was very distant, even frightened. I see that today, but at the time I was so angry I could not see anything. And now, with Giovanni—I am afraid one day they will just kill us all.”

  “What does Nicoli say? Have you talked about this?”

  “He won’t speak about it. He says not to worry, that we are protected.”

  “By whom?”

  She shrugged, holding back tears. “I don’t know his connections.”

  “I can help you,” I said firmly. “But you have to tell me everything you know about your husband’s business. It’s possible this all traces back to Lucia Vincenzo. You know she was laundering drug money for ’Ndrangheta? Maybe he is, too.”

  “Yes. Okay. I will tell you what I know. Maybe we can get inside his computer.”

  “We can do that,” I say, almost choking with excitement.

  “Will you go to the provincial police? You have to be careful. They are also in the pocket of the mafias.”

  “We’ll take it step-by-step. But I need more information. When can we talk?”

  “During the feast is impossible. Every hour is taken up with one ceremony or another, and Nicoli and I are always in the public eye. He is waiting for me now. I have to go.”

  “You need more protection than just his word. I’ll go with you.”

  “It is not necessary. We could not be safer than to be in public, surrounded by contrada members.”

  Composure back, Cecilia struggled to look confident.

  An hour later, Sofri pulls up in the courtyard, steamy exhaust wrapping around his little black Renault. Excitement has been building in town all week—kiosks festooned with brilliant colors, drummers in medieval costumes calling men to arms, the unfathomable buzz among the Sienese. As we leave the abbey, the flare of day is just striking the hills.

  My elderly guide is all decked out in an Oca-green blazer with a white shirt and a red bow tie. The white mustache and flowing hair make him look like a yachtsman for the green team, but today he is il professore. We’ve scarcely said “Buongiorno” before he launches into a monologue about the tratta, the arcane system by which each contrada receives its horse by random draw—just three days, mind you, before the big race. A veterinarian is at this moment checking out all the horses entered in the pool, because the rules say a contrada cannot give back its fated animal, even if it turns out to be lame. However, attempting to poison the steed of your enemy is an honorable tradition.

  We park outside the walls of the city and hurry past Ethiopian traders opening their stalls of Chinese-made contraband handbags. There aren’t many tourists yet. It is barely 7:30 a.m. and the sun is already burning. We climb up hills, then down into the Piazza del Campo. Police are posted at the many entrances. After the empty streets, it is a shock to pass through the archways and discover a massive gathering of thousands of contrade members, as if the entire city had been herded into the plaza.

  Sofri puts a hand at the small of my back, guiding us through the crowd to the doorway of one of the private palazzos that overlook the Campo. He unlocks a forbidding outer door, and then we enter a cool tiled lobby, climbing four stories to the top-floor apartment, a large open space dominated by an arch. Beyond is a fireplace with a window on either side from which you can see the square.

  “Please. Be at home.”

  Home it is, with warm yellow walls, mismatched wing chairs, a red-and-white-peppermint-striped sofa for rainy afternoons leafing th
rough the books and journals on the coffee table. A brass telescope stands in silhouette against the brash white light coming through the open shutters; there are stag horns on the mantelpiece, above which a Napoleonic portrait stares out.

  “Take a good look,” he calls from the kitchen.

  The view is vertiginous and astonishing. The Piazza del Campo is shaped like a shell made of pink brick and gray travertine, rimmed with cafés at the foot of seven-story buildings that are joined together shoulder to shoulder. As the sun rises, their windows take on a glow like the amber eyes of the wolves that are the symbol of the city. Over the past few days, citizens have shoveled yellow earth off a truck and covered the outer ring of the Campo, transforming it into a racetrack. Sofri says it is good luck to touch la tèrra, the holy earth, which is as soft as powdered mustard.

  “When you hold la tèrra in your hand, you hold the miracle of rebirth. Il Palio is about to begin. There is a saying, whenever we find ourselves fretting over something small and insignificant: ‘Don’t worry, because there will soon be la tèrra in piazza—earth in the piazza.’ The cycle of life will go on.”

  I find myself staring down at thousands of men surging toward a small arena where ten unsaddled horses held by grooms are pulling nervously. The crowd seems young—average age thirty—ordinary men in short-sleeved polo shirts with cowls of their contrada scarves, excited to a fever pitch. I can see TV cameras and the flat white caps of local policemen. But from an FBI point of view, the Campo is a security nightmare.