Nighthawks

by Lambert Nagle

  ‘That’s my conservator in Italy,’ Giuseppe said, determined to get the words out, even though his breathing was erratic. ‘He’s done work for me in the past.’ McCarthy knew the name.

  Giuseppe had amassed a considerable art collection over the years, much of which he kept in the house. He had confided that while Maria was alive, he hoped that Joe would keep his hands off the paintings and sculptures. As the old man sank back, deep into the pillows he murmured, ‘Luca. God took my son. And maybe I took the lives of a thousand other kids as payback. Retribution.’

  A father’s thoughts on his deathbed would be bound to turn to his favourite son, hoping, perhaps, to be reunited in heaven.

  When McCarthy began teaching Giuseppe about art, the mafia boss had insisted that the priest join the extended family for lunch once a month. These were large, boisterous affairs that allowed McCarthy to get to know the rest of the clan. Joe was only interested in himself, baseball and junk food. Luca, on the other hand, was already showing signs of high intelligence and an interest in the world around him.

  Giuseppe decided that he wanted to bring the boys with them when they visited galleries and churches. ‘It’ll be good for them to have an all-round education,’ he said.

  But McCarthy’s heart sank. The thought of dragging small children around an art gallery filled him with dread.

  They’d been standing in front of Rembrandt’s only seascape, Storm on the Sea of Galilee in the Stewart Gardner museum, when Giuseppe stopped, transfixed.

  ‘I don’t know what it is, but this…It’s as if God himself painted it.’

  McCarthy saw the light in Giuseppe’s eyes. All his teachings about the power of art to move the soul had been distilled into this one painting, as the storm threatened to overturn the ship carrying Christ.

  Luca, who was about nine at the time, stopped to look, equally taken with the drama in the piece.

  As they were ready to move on to the next painting, Giuseppe looked round.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’

  Luca had shaken his head and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I dunno.’

  Just then they heard a high-pitched scream and the sound of running feet. The commotion seemed to be coming from the internal courtyard which was visible from every floor in the museum. Visitors to the gallery were leaning over the balcony transfixed by the disturbance below. Another loud shriek drowned out the soothing sound of running water.

  Giuseppe started to run towards the disturbance, muttering, ‘Oh Jesus.’ Chased by two security guards, Joe huffed and puffed his way inside a sarcophagus, lay down on his stomach and started drumming his heels and bashing it with his fists.

  ‘Giuseppe Junior,’ the father shouted. ‘Vieni qui. Pronto.’

  It was on that third outing, to the Isabella Stewart Gardner, that McCarthy felt the penny had finally dropped with Giuseppe—there was a raging monster inside his youngest son that he was never going to tame.

  It was only now, years later that it occurred to McCarthy that the patriarch had also found out something else that day—that beautiful art was an addiction. And then it dawned on him—he had transferred his own infatuation with beautiful things onto Giuseppe.

  From then on, Giuseppe began to use art as a way of escaping his lavish, but sordid life. Just before Luca died, Giuseppe had set off for Italy. It wasn’t wholly a business trip, he confided in McCarthy. It was a surprise for Luca’s birthday: Michelangelo’s David in Florence, the Last Supper in Milan and the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City. Joe, though, had been left behind.

  There was mystery surrounding the circumstances of Luca’s death and Giuseppe had locked himself away for three months, refusing to see anyone, apart from McCarthy himself.

  McCarthy stood, strangely sad for the old man who had trapped him in this beautiful, fraught relationship for so many years. He recited the words of absolution, and anointed Giuseppe’s eyes, ears, nostrils, lips, hands, and last of all, lifting the sheet, his feet, already growing cold.

  ‘May the Lord pardon you the sins you have committed.’

  Giuseppe lifted his head one last time.

  ‘I’ve done some bad things. But you can help me make amends.’

  By the time he sank back and hit the pillow he had gasped his last breath. The machine by the bedside let out a piercing shriek. The nurse bustled back into the room, closely followed by Maria, Giuseppe’s once glamorous wife.

  When McCarthy had been promoted to Monsignor, Giuseppe had refused to call him by his new title. To the Russo's, McCarthy would always be known as Father. So it was Father McCarthy who gathered the tools of his trade, packing them swiftly but reverently into their travel case.

  Maria elbowed the nurse aside and threw herself to her knees by the bedside, sobbing. McCarthy placed a hand on her shaking shoulder just as Joe walked in, his powerful shoulders moving with all the grace of a belligerent ox. He took his mother’s hand and kissed it softly in the manner of a dutiful son, but he extricated himself when her fingers wound around his.

  ‘Mamma, would you like to sit with him a while?’

  Maria nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘I need you in my office,’ Joe said, gesturing McCarthy towards the door. ‘Go get that painting the old man gave you. I want to take a look at it.’ McCarthy went over to the corner of the room and picked up the painting. It wasn’t very big, roughly seventy by seventy centimetres McCarthy guessed, but it was surprisingly heavy. He carried it carefully, not wanting to drop it, especially in front of Joe.

  McCarthy followed Joe up the stairs. The exertion made him short of breath. While Joe wasn’t looking, he took a couple of puffs on his inhaler. He walked into what was once Giuseppe’s office, which appeared to have been taken over by the son while his father lay dying. He propped the painting up gently next to the desk.

  Luca had been dead over twenty years, yet the place was practically a shrine. There had been pictures of him everywhere. Giuseppe had insisted on having a death mask cast of Luca’s face so that he could commission an artist to recreate him in oils. The death mask was gone, and the framed photographs. Only the portrait painting was still in place, but someone, presumably Joe, had draped a sweatshirt over it.

  McCarthy, again moved by the old man’s death and by the sacrament he had administered, began to ask what had happened to the pictures, when Joe, wanting to control this first conversation he was having as head of the family, interrupted him.

  ‘The old man, he had a few sins to confess. Am I right?’ Joe said.

  ‘No more than anyone else about to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.’

  ‘But Pop’s done some seriously bad shit over the years. Sorry, Father.’

  ‘In the eyes of God, we’re all equal.’

  ‘Don’t give me that hypocritical bullshit, Father,’ Joe said, as sat down behind his desk.

  The premature rolls of fat protruding over his stomach made McCarthy wonder what his brother, the slender boy in the painting under the sweatshirt would have looked like, had his life not been cut short. Not like Joe, that was for sure. He looked so much like his father that every time Giuseppe looked at him, he would have been reminded of his younger self. And presumably, he hadn’t liked what he’d seen. Luca had taken after his mother, with all the height and grace of her northern Italian heritage.

  ‘Whatever he said to you goes no further,’ Joe said.

  ‘Confession is a dialogue between the penitent and God. All the priest does is act as a conduit.’

  ‘Just keep it that way, okay.’ Joe looked McCarthy up and down. ‘Now let’s have a look at that painting Pop gave you.’ Joe picked up the painting and stared at it. His lip curled in distaste. ‘It’s dirty,’ he said in disgust. ‘I don’t want it. But that note he gave you, I’ll have that,’ he said, snatching it out of his hand as McCarthy passed it over. He’d already memorised the name and the address.

  ‘If this guy checks out, maybe I’ll let you keep that crummy painting. For now
.’

  If there was one thing McCarthy knew about the patriarch, it was that he wouldn’t go passing a name on in plain sight of Joe, if the man wasn’t legit. Joe picked up the phone.

  ‘Hey, call this number in Italy will you and tell them they can expect a visit,’ Joe said, as he read out the phone number. He hung up and turned to McCarthy.

  ‘Tell me, is it painted by anyone famous?’

  Joe had never shown the slightest interest in art. So why now? Maybe he was jealous that it was McCarthy who’d received a gift from the old man and not him. McCarthy was going to have to be careful how he explained it.

  ‘A famous artist took on assistants to learn to paint in his style. They needed to practise. This painting is likely to be one of those.’

  Joe inspected his nails without once looking up while McCarthy was speaking.

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘He needed help to prepare the paints, clean up after him, or to paint a background that you wouldn’t notice when you viewed the artwork. The famous artist would only paint the parts that required a high level of skill, like the expressions on someone’s face or folds in the clothes. Then he’d sign it, as a work approved by the maestro himself.’

  Joe had started to pick off the hangnails one by one as McCarthy talked.

  ‘You’re saying that it’s got no signature so it’s a dud?’ Joe lost interest at that point. ‘Where were we? I remember.’ Joe opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope. The old man wanted to give you these as well. He must have liked you.’ He held up the envelope and opened it carefully and pushed the paperwork over to McCarthy. It was the deeds to his apartment.

  McCarthy was lost for words.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you both. I will forever be in your debt.’

  Joe gave him a cold stare.

  ‘You will, won’t you.’

  McCarthy felt a wave of fear sweep over him. Giuseppe had wanted to gift him the apartment years ago, but he had always politely declined. With the wildly unpredictable Joe now running the family empire, McCarthy was scared at what he was going to ask for in return.

  ‘Okay, I’ll relieve you of that burden,’ Joe said, giving a tight little smile. ‘I could do with a place in Rome. Be handy when I come over for business. Where is it again?’

  ‘Trastevere, across the Tiber not far from the Vatican.’

  Joe shrugged as though he didn’t care.

  ‘Would you like me to continue as the family’s priest?’ McCarthy ventured, hoping Joe would say no.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said, looking McCarthy up and down as though he was some lowly errand boy.

  ‘It’s been an honour to work for the family,’ McCarthy said, in as sincere a tone as he could muster.

  Joe waved away McCarthy as though he was a pesky fly.

  ‘The damp air in Ireland won’t do your asthma any good. Nor will hanging around with the wrong crowd.’

  McCarthy felt fear in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘If you catch my drift,’ Joe continued, a curt smile on his lips. ‘I’d hate for something bad to happen to you, Father so be careful who you have lunch with, okay?’ Joe said, leaning back in his chair.

  McCarthy’s face gave nothing away. It was a skill he’d honed after years of practice in the priesthood. Only, he couldn’t control his panicked asthmatic breaths. His mugging had been Joe’s doing and the guy had deliberately knocked him over to intimidate him, that much he understood.

  But how had Joe had found out he was considering a move back to Ireland? He didn’t recall telling anyone his plans other than estate agents he’d emailed and a few he’d had conversations with. Had one of them been gossiping, perhaps in the pub, and word had got back?

  As McCarthy was leaving Joe’s office, he turned around to see Joe take out a cigarette lighter and set fire to the deeds of the apartment. By the time he managed to extricate himself from the room, he noticed his hands trembling. He realised that no matter where he went, Joe’s network of eyes-for-hire wouldn’t be far behind.

  Chapter 11

  Rome, Italy

  * * *

  As soon as McCarthy arrived back in Italy, he put his new escape plans into action. He’d heard about a religious community for retired priests in La Paz, Mexico. It was within a monastery, where he could be alone or in the company of others when he wanted. When Joe did eventually catch up with him, there would be security and potential witnesses. Surely even Joe wouldn’t be stupid enough to wipe out an entire brotherhood, just to get to him? McCarthy had intimated to the head of the order that it was a matter of urgency that he withdrew from public life. The response had been swift and astute. He didn’t need to know in advance what his motive for the sudden move to La Paz was, as long as McCarthy would tell him once he arrived.

  McCarthy started preparing for his departure, letting it be known that he was going on holiday, to brush up on his Spanish, before his retirement. But first he had to overcome his dread of being parted from his beloved antiquities and the paintings he’d spent his life collecting. Could he persuade the monastery to take them as a bequest? He could offer to curate them as part of a visitor display attraction, where members of the public would pay to come and see them, and the income could go to funding the religious community and all its good works.

  Yes, this was the solution, he was sure of it. No-one would turn down a gift like that. If the artworks were going on display for others to see, rather than just for himself, surely God wouldn’t mind if he acquired a few more pieces before he left? Despite all the fears and anxieties of the past few days, those artworks Stephen Walsh had wanted his advice on still intrigued him. He’d have to be careful. Joe had specifically warned him off meeting the young Irishman. Why?

  And then of course there was the not so small matter of the painting Giuseppe had given him. He regretted now that he’d been distracted when they’d met six months before the patriarch’s death.

  He’d gone to Boston to tidy up his financial affairs, but Giuseppe found out and had pleaded with him to hear his confession. He knew he was dying and wanted to put his life in order. McCarthy had heard all his lies and excuses, from the killing of innocent bystanders to murdering informers in front of their children. McCarthy went through the motions, knowing they were going over old ground.

  After confession, Giuseppe invited him back for a drink. By then, Giuseppe’s mind had started to wander, which McCarthy put down to the powerful painkillers he was taking. He talked about how the best place to hide something was to hide it right under your nose. The way they tried to hide the Jewish girl in the attic in Amsterdam, even though there were Nazis everywhere. And in the midst of all this, he became suddenly lucid and began to tell McCarthy about his anguish at not being able to love his remaining son. McCarthy was taken aback: for once, it seemed, Giuseppe felt genuine remorse.

  Was Giuseppe so over-medicated that he had confused their chat with the act of confession? Or did the old man know by then that the damage had been done and that it was pointless going through the motions of contrition, when no actual atonement would take place. As the jet lag washed over him, McCarthy had struggled to find connections in the patriarch’s thought processes, made his excuses and left.

  Whatever had happened in those following six months, it seemed clear now that relations between father and son had deteriorated even further. He’d overheard Joe’s orders to his associates to pay his father’s conservator a visit. They would have threatened him and forced him into reporting back if he found anything of interest. McCarthy would go through the motions of setting up a meeting, then reschedule, using his holiday plans as an excuse. But in the meantime, he would quietly contact one of his trusted former colleagues from the Vatican Museums.

  The painting was still in its protective wrapping. He carefully removed the bubble wrap and, away from Joe’s prying eyes, he was able to examine it closely. He was familiar with the iconography: St Jerome in a cave, removing a thorn from t
he paw of a benign-looking lion.

  The drapery and folds of the saint’s red robe had been competently executed and the facial expressions of the two subjects indicated that this was the work of a diligent pupil in a well-regarded studio of its time in fourteenth century Florence. McCarthy measured the painting. His guess at the size was right: seventy by seventy centimetres exactly.

  There were no clues in the symbolism of the subject matter, or indeed the colours or the way the artist had applied the tempera. He couldn’t tell, without having the painting examined in more detail by an expert, what material the pigment had been mixed with. He guessed egg yolk, but it could have been any water-soluble binder. Nothing so far alerted him to anything out of the ordinary, until he turned the painting over. Giuseppe’s recommendation to have the painting restored was nothing of the sort. It was an instruction to remove the back and the frame. Joe who knew nothing about art, would have had no clue, even when he was listening in to every word of their conversation.

  McCarthy’s fingers trembled as he picked up his phone and punched in the numbers. He had his story ready. When his friend answered, McCarthy asked if they could meet. It was a delicate matter and he required the utmost discretion. He wanted to seek his advice over the authenticity of a painting. It had, he said, without being able to go into detail over the phone, a difficult provenance. They agreed a date and a time. His trusted colleague wouldn’t ask, but if he did, McCarthy had a story all prepared that the painting had been seized by the Nazis during the Second World War and that the owner had left behind some information about the painting’s history.

  McCarthy felt sick at the thought of having to tell the man such a bare-faced lie. But that was the cost of protecting his friend from what Joe would do to them both if he suspected his father had double-crossed him and given McCarthy something of value. And if he did have a valuable artwork this was the time he would need an art insurer. He knew one of those, but Joe had specifically warned him off going anywhere near him.