White Shotgun

by April Smith

  The lock slid open and a woman entered. The woman was ordinary. Middle-aged and silent. She had a mass of black hair and wore a cheap print dress. She brought a small bowl of garbanzo beans in olive oil and a piece of bread. She didn’t look at Cecilia but picked up the laundry basket and left. Cecilia knew better than to try to talk to her. Women can kill you, too.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Exuberant shouts are coming from the courtyard—sounds I’ve never heard in the abbey before. Sterling had woken early, leaving the sweet-pea bed with quick and economical movements, so as not to wake me. He told me he’s been dreaming about airplanes falling out of the sky, and I’m afraid that’s what got him up—although maybe it was also to avoid the possibility of sex. He has been uncharacteristically indifferent. “I’m kinda all wore out,” he said. Alone, the former monk’s room seems even starker than before, somehow even threatening. Without the safe harbor of his warm, accepting body, I feel like I’m the one falling through space.

  The morning sun lies in curtains across the inner space of the compound, warming the old stone. The electric torches are still burning, pale as the new day. Looking down from the second-story loggia, I see Sterling and Nicosa playing soccer, grunting and hooting. The taut leather ball sails off their feet with hard percussive pops. Giovanni, still on crutches, coaches from the sidelines. The sun plays golden notes in his dark curly hair, but his features are drawn.

  Mom is gone, and the boys are out to play. Somehow they found each other this morning—Sterling, the uninvited guest, lean and buff, wearing camouflage shorts and a black T-shirt with a dragon, and Nicosa, the host, in pajama bottoms and an undershirt. He is unshaven with unkempt hair, throwing sweat, not moving as fluidly as when he played with the flag, but with red-faced determination to stay in the game.

  Sterling and Nicosa go at it with competitive abandon. Nicosa has superior control, is good at disguising his moves, but Sterling stays on him, stealing the ball with a sharp inside curve. It rolls toward Giovanni, who gives a feeble swipe with a crutch. His shirt rides up, exposing a pale sunken belly and sharp hip bones.

  “Be careful,” I murmur to myself.

  Giovanni shouts at his father, “Vai così!”—Go this way!—but Sterling swings forward with a powerful strike squarely through the center of the ball and makes a goal between two potted palm trees. It’s a good shot, and everyone high-fives and cheers.

  “È uno spettacolo!”

  I clap also, yelling, “Bravi!”

  The result is that while the two men tussle over the next point, Giovanni’s attention is drawn to the second floor, where I am standing; he looks up at the same moment his father boots the ball. It hits the boy in the chest, the crutches fly, and he collapses.

  I run down the marble steps. Giovanni is lying on his back, gasping for air. Nicosa and Sterling squat beside him, talking rapidly and at cross-purposes in each other’s language.

  “Posso aiutare!” says Sterling. “Sono addestrato come un paramedico.”

  “My boy … he just had surgery, and he has a bad heart!”

  I assure Nicosa we know what we’re doing, and he steps back as I take the boy’s pulse while Sterling checks the airways. We lift his shirt, inspect the surgical scars. Intact. No visible contusions from the soccer ball. A nod between us says, All clear. We count to three and gently roll my nephew onto his side. Soon his breathing returns to normal.

  Nicosa has been watching with hands on hips, like the boss at a construction site. He smells of musty bedclothes and alcohol.

  “How is he?”

  “Had the wind knocked out of him is all,” says Sterling. “Like falling out of a tree, right, son?”

  “He’s done that, too. Sono così spiacente, mio figlio,” he says, repentance in his voice.

  “È giusto, Babbo,” Giovanni replies as we help him to his feet.

  Nicosa hands his son a rucksack that has been lying in the grass, then slowly walks back into the abbey with his head down.

  “Tu sarai giusto; giusto riposa il minuto,” Sterling tells Giovanni.

  “I’m okay,” Giovanni assures him. “Your Italian is very good.”

  “The army sent me to language school.”

  “Are those real army shorts?”

  “Nah. They look cool, but they’re not that cool. See this?” He pops a pocket in the waistband. “Yuppie iPod holder.”

  “Were you in Special Ops?” Giovanni asks, carefully pronouncing the words. “Is that why you learned Italian?”

  “Why not learn something on the government’s dime?” Sterling says genially. “I was just a ranch hand before,” he adds, leaving out a lifelong career in Delta Force.

  “He’s a real cowboy,” I point out. “Can’t you tell by those bowed legs?”

  Giovanni obediently looks at Sterling’s legs. “Do you have guns?”

  “Several.”

  “Is it true that everyone in America owns a gun?”

  Sterling smiles easily. “Lots of people do have guns. Just like everyone in Italy grows olives; is that true?”

  “Around here, yes.”

  “Where can we get some really fine olives?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “I mean, not a store, but where they grow the fruit and cure it. We raise olives in Texas, just like you. My dad’s a rancher, but he’s got a good-sized olive grove.”

  “You never told me that,” I say.

  Sterling raises his eyebrows, mocking my surprise. “You never had a need to know.”

  “Oh, you can see our friend,” Giovanni offers. “His name is Aleandro; he owns the farm next door. That’s where we get our olive oil.”

  Honking the horn, a kid driving a small car like Giovanni’s pulls into the driveway.

  “Are you sure you’re well enough to go to school?”

  “I would rather be in school than here,” he replies bitterly.

  Slowly, he makes it to the car, and it is amazing how his manner changes the moment he comes within range of his friend. Suddenly he’s a different person, all jokes and smiles, clownishly climbing inside, despite the weight of the pack pulling him backward, and the crutches awkwardly held in one hand.

  “Giovanni,” I call, “you’re not ready.”

  “You’re not my mother,” he says sharply.

  “If your mother were here, she would say you need to rest.”

  “You don’t understand. My father is crazy, and my mother ran away.”

  “Is that what she did? She ran away?”

  “Yes, of course, to get away from him. So why should I care what she thinks?”

  They take off, spraying gravel.

  Sterling is waiting alone in the courtyard.

  “Giovanni has no idea what’s going on with his mother,” I tell him.

  “Maybe it’s better that way,” he says as we head toward the front door. “Does Nicosa always look so wasted?”

  “No, usually he’s the king of cool.”

  “He still expects to get Cecilia back?”

  “He believes he’ll get a ransom call, and he’s waiting. Just waiting.”

  “When’re you gonna tell him the truth?”

  “Which is?”

  “If she was taken by the mob, they’ve most likely already killed her.”

  I let that one go by, like a wasp hanging in the air. If you don’t move, it won’t sting you.

  “We have no proof one way or another. We don’t have a big enough picture.”

  “What are we missing?” Sterling asks, just to humor me.

  “Here’s how I see it: there are three separate strands, one for each member of this messed-up family. The FBI believes Nicosa has ties to the mafias because he was sleeping with one of their players, who has disappeared and is believed to be dead. Mom pays bribes to the clans in order to keep her clinics open. And the son is caught receiving cocaine from a British expat who has since left the country. None of them has the slightest clue about what the others are up to—what makes them
tick, or where they go at night.”

  “The part that braids it all together is the boy,” Sterling muses. “Let’s see what comes loose when we pull that thread.”

  We find Nicosa in the kitchen, pouring a long shot of grappa into a short cup of espresso.

  “Forgive me,” he says. “I am an idiot.”

  “For what happened out there? It was an accident,” Sterling tells him. “Could’ve been me, kicked that ball.”

  “It is unbearable to hurt your own child.”

  Nicosa’s mouth is set in self-reproach. On the table is the morning paper from Rome. The photo of Cecilia on the yacht is on the front page with the headline, IL MISTERO DI PERSONA MONDANA MANCANTE IN SIENA!

  “What does that mean?”

  “ ‘Mystery of missing socialite in Siena,’ ” Nicosa says, as if resigned to the media onslaught that has only begun.

  I squeeze his arm in sympathy.

  Sterling scans the story, translating as he goes: “ ‘People are speculating about what happened to Dr. Cecilia Nicosa, wife of the well-known coffee entrepreneur. Rumors are that Dr. Nicosa has disappeared, like Signore Nicosa’s mistress, Lucia Vincenzo, a mafia associate whose body was never found … People are afraid … Nobody feels safe … If Dr. Nicosa has been kidnapped, it will be a daring assault on the upper class—’ ”

  “Enough,” says Nicosa. “I’ve read it.”

  Sterling pushes the paper aside. “The family should issue a statement. Put a lid on information getting out.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Nicosa says.

  He brews us two espressos, and we gather at the counter, hacking off pieces of yesterday’s bread, spreading them with honey and slices of pecorino cheese.

  “What do you do?” he asks Sterling, finally. “Are you also FBI?”

  Sterling picks a pear from a ceramic bowl and quarters it with the blade of his Leatherman tool.

  “I work for a security company called Oryx. I’m a private military contractor, Mr. Nicosa.”

  Nicosa’s eyes refocus. Soldiering, the military hierarchy, is something he understands.

  “I hired a company like yours in El Salvador to protect our coffee plantations.”

  “Did they do the job?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Good.” Sterling offers a crisp wedge of pear.

  “Why are you here?” Nicosa asks.

  “We completed the mission. I knew Ana was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by.”

  Nicosa eyes us back and forth, sniffing out the connection.

  “Do you know what Ana does?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. We’ve worked together before.”

  “Well, she lied about it to me. My sister-in-law, she sits at my table and tells me with a smile that she sells home alarms.”

  “I notice you still don’t have one,” I say pleasantly.

  Sterling sighs. “That’s the way they do it in the Bureau. You’ll never meet such lying bastards.”

  “Why did you hide it from me?” Nicosa asks.

  “Cecilia begged me not to tell you.”

  He is now pouring straight grappa. “Cecilia told you to lie? I find that hard to believe.”

  “She said you were ‘under the thumb’ of the mafias,” I reply matter-of-factly. “She thought I could help you and the family to find a way out.”

  “I don’t know where she got that idea.” Nicosa waves dismissively.

  “Maybe because the Puppet was in your son’s room. Was he there to threaten you?”

  “Not at all!”

  My cover may be blown, but I’m still on assignment. Sterling senses I’m about to push it, and he steers us back to the line of inquiry most likely to engage Nicosa’s cooperation: his son.

  “Sir, it’s Giovanni we’re most worried about. With all due respect, I just got here, but anyone can see there’re problems. Ana and I worked a case where young people came under bad influences, just like your son. I understand that you want to concentrate on your wife’s situation, so why not let us help untangle this mess with the boy? What do you know about his relationship with the woman who passed him cocaine?”

  Nicosa shrugs with his eyebrows, his shoulders, his whole body.

  “She’s just a local oddball. I don’t know what’s in Giovanni’s head.”

  I ask if he knew how much the boy had been using at the time he was found passed out in the shower.

  “He was buying painkillers from some little piece of trash who stole them from his grandparents.”

  “Giovanni told you that?”

  “Of course not. We hired a private investigator. The same private investigator my wife used when she was looking for you. Pain pills were nothing compared to what Giovanni was into. Our son was hanging out with heroin addicts. Nice kids. University students. The detective said it was a matter of days—hours—before we lost him forever. We got him away from his ‘friends,’ the hardest thing we’ve ever had to do. The rehab people came and took our boy in the middle of the night. There was no other way he would go. We had to tell everyone he was trying out another school. Cecilia was the strong one. She sees addicts every day; she knows what has to be done. I thought, you know, lock him in his room. Beat the crap out of him, like my father would have done to me. I didn’t know what we were up against. But three months later, they brought him back to us, and so far he’s been clean. Now we will always walk on eggshells. It’s my fault. You don’t have to say it.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that, because it isn’t true. It’s the mafias who control your lives,” I tell him.

  Nicosa shakes his head sadly. Hollow-eyed, he says, “The trouble is inside of us,” and bangs his own heart.

  “Be fair,” Sterling advises. “You’re up against a well-armed criminal organization. You live in a castle, but you’re in the middle of a ground war.”

  “What you keep calling a kidnap—it’s all for show, just a game,” Nicosa interrupts impatiently. “They ask for ransom, you pay, they give her back. It’s like a bank robbery. No one gets hurt.”

  This has been Nicosa’s stance all along. Sterling remains silent, but his face conveys the message: Let him have his little fantasy.

  Nicosa sees this, and it incites him to a fury.

  “If I believed otherwise for one minute, I would be on the phone right now to the prime minister of Italy. You don’t think so?”

  “I don’t doubt you, sir,” Sterling assures him.

  “One phone call to Rome and the military police would take over my wife’s disappearance. But I agree to play their game, because unlike you, I have patience, and I do not like war.”

  “I didn’t say I like it,” Sterling says quietly.

  “I am sending the clans a message. We are businessmen; we work it out.” Nicosa wipes his forehead, adding, “The president of a company, who kicks a ball like an idiot and almost kills his son.”

  His voice cracks and his eyes redden. Mine fill up just watching.

  “Let us talk to the private investigator who followed Giovanni,” I suggest. “He can help us understand some things.”

  “You can’t. The man is dead.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I believe it was a stroke. He had a terrible headache, his wife took him to the hospital, and he didn’t come out. He never finished the report,” Nicosa says. “I have what he left on the computer in my office. I’ll get it.”

  He seems relieved to have an excuse to leave. As the day breaks open, the kitchen is feeling more and more like a slow-motion hydrogen explosion. Sterling places both elbows on the table and digs his knuckles into his bare scalp.

  “Wishing you were back in the field?”

  “Not in that field, ma’am, no way. Texas. I’m wishing I was back in Texas, where at least they flat-out shoot you and put you out of your misery.”

  I laugh. “They’re pretty good at that in Italy.”

  “Man, these folks are into the pain. Christ on a stick! All this bitchi
n’ and moanin’, until you can’t see straight. He doesn’t like war? Boo-hoo for him. I hate to tell him, but he’s walking a freakin’ minefield.” Sterling stands up from the table with disgust. “First day of deployment, we tell the newbies, ‘If you plan on coming home alive, remember this—there’s a difference between a hard-ass and a dumb ass.’ He truly believes he’s the Man of Steel, the only one who can negotiate with the mafias.”

  “I believe Nicosa loves his son, and he’s desperate to get Cecilia back. He needs to be contained, that’s all.”

  Sterling shakes his head. “I’ll say this, I’d hate for the guy to take a bullet the size of his ego.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The dead investigator was at least a good dead investigator. His report included phone records, photographs, lists of my nephew’s teachers, friends, and relations living in Siena. Family members alone took up two single-spaced pages. It could be days before we deciphered who was who, and we had no time for that. The surveillance section covered the boy’s activities during ten days over two weeks in January of last year, detailing to the minute when he left the abbey for school and returned through the gates at night.

  We looked for patterns. Soccer, practicing the flag for Palio, chilling at the Fontebranda fountain in Oca territory—that was the norm. Then we looked for the exceptions, always more interesting. One jumped out at us: a cluster of encounters with a young Italian woman named Zabrina Tursi. Her photo showed a goth, raven-haired, undernourished university student who worked part-time as a waitress. A copy of a police report showed one arrest for the sale of marijuana, but she was placed on probation because she was a minor at the time.

  The dead investigator hired by Giovanni’s parents had discovered his relationship with Zabrina after following him and two male friends to the wine bar where she worked, situated in the Medici fortress near the bus station on the outskirts of town. He observed the subject first being served by Zabrina Tursi and then engaging her in conversation on the patio after the place closed. Two nights later, the young woman appeared at the fountain in Oca territory and made contact with Giovanni. There is a photo of them with other students at a café in the square. At 1:05 a.m., Zabrina and Giovanni left the café and went to her residence, a ten-minute drive outside the walls, where he stayed until 3:45 a.m. Then he returned to the abbey.