Scratched

by JJ Partridge

  A waiter brought dishes of marinated artichokes, roast peppers, olives, and sun-dried tomatoes with toasted bread rubbed with a seasoned oil. From a multi-page menu, skipping the pasta, Benno ordered salimbacca alla romana, I chose a special abbacchio al forno, and we found a wine from Puglia to honor Gianmarco.

  When the waiter left us, Benno continued. “Gianmarco figured that at some point, the family found Maria’s kid and got him into the fringes of a ‘Ndrangheta cell in Rome. Putting two and two together, among the cells of the gang,” he raised his hands, fists out to me, “I figure the right hand—New York—didn’t know what interests the left—Basilicata, and vice versa. Each is territorial, didn’t know of their joint interest in Palagi, until Maria spilled the beans and then,” he delved into the antipasti, spearing olives and peppers, “somebody came up with the idea for a triple score. Get a piece of whatever Vittorio could extort out of Palagi now as a destitute son, then use the threat of the vendetta for a big pay off, and lastly, pick Palagi’s bones by Vittorio making a claim as to his estate.”

  His precise description of the extortion made it seem an ingenious plan. I wasn’t so convinced; it seemed fitful and happenstance and I said so.

  “Explains a lot,” he snorted. “Say you’re Palagi. You’re threatened. You borrow the funds from Zito, the strazzino, the loan shark, to pay the vendetta. You return to Italy, you’re told by your worthless son that the blood money didn’t get to the Ruggieris, the debt of honor remains outstanding, you’re still in danger. You figure the New York cell stole the money but the Giambazzis should protect you from the Basilicata gang because the A-4 account remains in your name. It is your ace in the hole against retribution. But you want to check. So you contact the investment guy who tells you ‘Sorry, that account has been closed.’ There goes your protection. You are out of money, maybe the Ruggieris will enforce the vendetta, you start carrying the Beretta.”

  My thoughts bang into one another. “So, where are we? Did the ‘Ndrangheta kill him?”

  “Not what I said. The ‘Ndrangheta wouldn’t knock him off after a payment like that. Not while there was still the opportunity to squeeze him even more.”

  49 Thursday

  THE NEXT MORNING, ENZO’S cousin placed our carry-ons, now augmented by Benno’s new clothes in a separate bag, in the trunk of the Lancia. A slightly hungover Benno, in the non-descript suit he arrived in, appeared to have abandoned his new persona.

  Avvocato Maurizio Musumeci’s office was not on Rome’s ‘lawyer row,’ the Viale Castro Pretorio, but in a less than prosperous area, on the Via Galvani in a building that could have been designed by a Mussolini era modernist, a box with veneer columns in a concrete façade webbed by poorly repaired cracks.

  The pokey elevator groaned its way up one floor and opened directly into an office suite and a red-eyed receptionist, her chestnut hair frizzy, who might have arrived directly from a long night of clubbing in Testaccio. Even so, she seemed aware that these Americanos were important enough to greet with a smile that cracked through her makeup. In Italian, she informed us that the lawyer would be with us momentarily, waved a bangled hand at some uncomfortable looking chairs under faded landscape prints, and inquired if we desired coffee. We declined and she went to her desk where she concentrated on varnishing her fingernails a bright pink from a tiny bottle.

  This being Italy, it was not surprising that we were required to wait an appropriate interval of time for the sake of Musumeci’s prestige. Benno stared ahead in detective mode while I used the time to refocus. Palagi’s probate estate had been reduced to his Providence condominium, any personal property, a miniscule income stream from the Forza novels and license fees; his trust held title to his Italian apartments and a worthless claim against Ravensford Capital. Palagi’s letter of affirmation which had fortified our case was now of questionable value because it was likely in Claudia Cioffi’s handwriting. Which meant for the small potatoes, I had to put up a good fight, which in turn meant, without leverage, I had to bluff it out.

  After ten minutes, we were ushered into an overheated room that smelled of yellowing paper. The lawyer’s back was to two dusty windows facing south toward fog-laden hills, putting his jowly features in semi-shadow. An overhead light barely exposed a threadbare carpet, smudgy glass-fronted cabinets, newspapers, and piles of folders on his desk. He made a gesture of half rising from his chair as I introduced myself and Benno as my consultant in various aspects of the Palagi estate. The lawyer responded in passable English and pointed to two chairs in front of his desk. Somewhere in the room, a fly buzzed.

  The lawyer’s head was too small for a thick neck which seemed to pop out of his white shirt and green tie; dusty lenses in black frames hid his eyes. His thin lips held a cryptic smile as he clasped his hands over his stomach and sat back, apparently waiting for me to plead my case; after all, I had come to him.

  I reiterated our position as to his client’s claim and our determination to require a forensic affirmation of paternity through DNA testing. As I went on, Musumeci appeared to be more interested in the fly’s circumnavigation of his desk; it swooped by his head several times and landed on a folder, its legs rubbing against one another. As I finished, the fly was dispatched with a well-aimed copy of La Republica. Satisfied with his victory, the lawyer replied, “We need no testing here. We rely on Signor Palagi’s acceptance of his son in an instrument I prepared and witnessed, and which has been accepted by appropriate officials.”

  “In Rhode Island, our court will require a test, I assure you.”

  “I have been briefed extensively on these matters by eminent local counsel,” he said brusquely. “I also understand that considerable assets were lost in a fraud in which the University was culpable, permitting his funds to be negligently invested, losing what should be my client’s inheritance. The University is culpable.” The Lucca theory. “And there are other assets, like his condominium, whatever else he owned. In any event, and particularly as to Italian assets, Italo Palagi was a citizen of Italy and the laws of Italy protect a son’s interest. You know our successione legittima? Our quota legittima?”

  I had been advised by Eustace Pine that under Italian estate law, a son would be entitled to not less than a fifty percent share of Italian real estate owned by his father, the successione necessaria.

  In emphasis, he hunched forward, his eyes holding mine like magnets, sizing me up, his face screwed up in impatience. “You came all this way and you offer nothing?” he grunted. “You waste this time?” and in expressing his determination to fight the University, reminded me of a Providence lawyer noted for his blustering threats and once described to me as gas-filled, and with as many tentacles, as a Portuguese man-of-war.

  After his bluster receded, I said, “The University would agree to sell the apartments here and share proceeds to the extent required by Italian law for a son, if paternity can be proven, in return for a release of any and all claims against Palagi’s estate or trust, both in Italy and America.”

  “You offer what we own, nothing else,” he growled and the lawyer twisted in his chair to stare at the shelves of books. “And you ignore our client’s considerable expenses, both here and in America, including my representation of him before his father’s death and the taxes that will be due, the imposta sulle successione.”

  Before I could reply “your problem,” he continued, taking off his glasses, his eyes in a narrow squint that hinted at cunning. “Your proposal is totally unfair, and it will take, in any event, too much time to sell the apartments in these difficult days. And what of other claimants? Are they to be satisfied? Do you first pay them out of the remaining U.S. assets so I do not worry about their claims here?”

  The other claimants? Father Pietro’s suggestion as to a possible Roman arrangement came to mind. If Palagi’s probate estate in Providence did not have the ability to pay Claudia Cioffi’s legacy in full, the difference, she likely had let it be known, had come out of whatever Vittorio Ruggieri
and the ‘Ndrangheta collected from the sale of the Italian apartments. Since she was determined to come out whole, Avvocato Musumeci needed our cooperation for a prompt resolution. “All depends upon proof of paternity,” I said sternly and grabbed the arms of my chair as though about to leave.

  Before my bottom left my chair, he countered, “We could not settle on such a basis. If you drop this testing idea, agree to take Palagi’s acknowledgement of paternity, I might advise my client to withdraw our claim in your court, provided you acknowledge Vittorio as his son, the apartments are sold, and we are assured other claimants are paid from funds in the US. And you will need to cover my destitute client’s legal expenses,” and quoted a number that was outrageous.

  With my elbows resting on the chair’s arms, my fingers went to my chin, hopefully expressing both interest and disappointment. I said that I’d have to check the value of assets left in Palagi’s probate estate after payment of debts and expenses. Purposefully, I did not mention that his debt to Heritage Finance might bankrupt the estate; that was for later. As to Musumeci’s bills, I offered a fraction of his exaggerated, if not fictional, fees and expenses which he brusquely rejected, and it took more palaver to reach a tentative accord: thirty percent of his questioned fees from off the top of apartment sales proceeds, all Italian taxes, fees and expenses of the sale to be split, Lucca’s and Puppy Dog’s fees to come from Vittorio’s net share, all subject to approval of our respective clients and execution of suitable documentation and releases. Neither one of us made the offer to conclude our negotiation with a handshake.

  “We are leaving Rome later today,” I said. “The University must have your client’s assent within a week of my return. Or, we begin our pursuit of assets.” I gave him my business card. “E-mail me at this address.”

  He nodded and rose from his seat. Our business having been concluded, likely profitable to him, if not his clients, I stood to leave when Benno said, “It would be useful for you to be aware of certain facts before you discuss the proposed arrangement with your client.”

  I was taken aback; we had discussed no such interjection.

  ‘What is this?’ Musumeci’s eyes questioned, ‘we have completed our business!’

  I returned to my chair as Benno explained he was a former member of the Rhode Island State Police, that’s like the carabinari, retained to investigate the circumstances of Italo Palagi’s death, in Providence and in Basilicata. He said Vittorio knew of the vendetta against his father, and as a confederate of the ‘Ndrangheta, tried to extort funds. The lawyer’s attempts to interrupt ended at Benno’s repetition of ‘Ndrangheta. “Such a criminal act would destroy his legal position here in Italy or in Providence.” And he added in disgust, “Should an Italian son do that to his father?”

  Musumeci had become physically agitated, his hands waving at me, his face contorted. He blasted Benno in Italian vernacular for his calunnia, spittle spraying his desk. Benno remained impassive, which further infuriated Musumeci who now appealed to me. “Your investigator. I dismiss his speculative, inflammatory allegations as provocative and threatening to our agreement. I ignore him.” He turned away from us and I signaled Benno it was time to leave.

  We left the lawyer’s office with something of a swagger in our steps. Benno’s unexpected intervention seemed to have locked up our deal. That more than paid for his trip. A mission accomplished, I thought, until I remembered the Heritage Finance obligation that might torpedo the deal. How was I going to deal with that?

  We approached the waiting Lancia and I was about to commend Benno when he pointed to a street sign on the wall of an adjoining building. We, the representatives of Carter University, were parked at the cross street of Via Cristoforo Colombo.

  50

  OUR RETURN FLIGHT WAS hours late departing Rome but was otherwise smooth, lunch heavy, and uneventful. Benno had returned to his taciturn self and watched a movie before napping while I finished The Leopard, taking away the thought that so much of what the Prince lived through remained: a listless economic spirit, political dysfunction that grinds on, a society based on personal allegiances, one with the ability to recognize societal ills without the will to change. Italians, I concluded, still live in two linear levels, one is family, Italian culture and creativity; another fends off government, taxes, social responsibility to a united nation which squanders opportunities for the future with reliance on favoritism and tolerance for the status quo. Palagi was a poster child of that society.

  Upon arrival at Logan, I checked my cell phone and noticed an e-mail from Direttore Carvo from the Banco di San Paolo. Palagi’s letter of instruction as to the administrative fee arrangement would take longer to retrieve than expected. I smelled a rat. In the limo back to Providence, I texted Nadie that I would soon be home but didn’t get a response. On Congdon Street, where I left Benno in the limo, I asked for a write-up on the information from Basilicata, thanked him for his excellent service, opened the front door to the house, and shouted triumphantly, “I’m back. On Thursday, on schedule!”

  No reply. No movement heard. No rush to the head of the stairs for the loft.

  Nadie was on the sofa, a Vanity Fair magazine was unopened on her lap. She was holding a wine glass in her right hand across her breasts, like Katherine Hepburn or Bette Davis would hold a cigarette in a late thirties movies. She said neutrally, “Your ex-wife sent us a wedding gift. Champagne glasses. Tiffany.”

  She finished the wine, a drop landed on her blouse, but she didn’t notice, which meant it was at least a second or third glass. She placed the glass on a table, perhaps so she could berate me with both hands.

  “She would,” I muttered.

  “Did you tell her?”

  I took a deep breath, sat, struggling for the right words. “Remember, in New York, I interviewed a potential witness from Ravensford? Turned out, he’s represented by Jocelyn. I had no clue she was his lawyer until I walked into the meeting. Couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t seen her in years and she waltzed into my life.”

  Nadie’s eyes had a martini olive color that was at once opaque, frosty, and filled with danger. “Are you going to meet her again?”

  “It’s all Champlin & Burrill from now on.”

  “What did she say about us?”

  “‘Congratulations.’”

  “What about her?”

  “Said she was dating.”

  “How did you feel?”

  “Ambushed. But, I was pleasant, our session with her client was businesslike.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I should have.”

  “When I mentioned her later, on the train, you still didn’t tell me.”

  “I was embarrassed. Sorry for …”

  “She’s devious, isn’t she?” Nadie mused, picking up her glass, her eyes focused somewhere behind me. “Probably knew you would struggle with telling me about her sudden re-appearance right before our wedding. She wanted to embarrass you into hiding something from me. So, she sent the gift to spring her trap.” Nadie was buying into comments I made over time about Jocelyn’s deviousness. “She’s a big deal in politics, a successful lawyer, but she lost you. You are an itch that she has to scratch. She must have Googled you once she knew of your interest in her client.” She finished the wine. “The bitch!”

  “It’s all about her ego,” I suggested, pushing Nadie to conclude that Jocelyn’s gift was meant to poison our well. I moved closer to Nadie and touched her arm. “I should have told you right away.”

  She looked at me, her face clouded. “I knew that the faculty senate would be asked to abolish Columbus Day. I didn’t tell you. Not too much different, is it?” Sternness melted from her face. She stood and we kissed like two love-starved kids. “Let’s not get ourselves into something like this again.”

  As I unpacked, Nadie became chatty, telling me that the wedding arrangements were settling in, her wedding dress would be delivered tomorrow to Temple House, there was a last meeting with the cater
er tomorrow morning, another with the band leader, the Renaissance Hotel had to be checked to be sure that the Shoot-Out’s pro tournament that began today hadn’t disrupted our guests’ reservations, and that all fingers were crossed for an outside ceremony on Sunday. One late entry into Nadie’s panoply of concerns was the family dinner for the Gershowitzs and Temples on Saturday evening in one of the Hope Club’s private dining rooms.

  “I had a dream last night that the dinner was an absolute disaster. Ida, the boys, started to argue about the loan. Your brother got involved, more as a referee, but they remained loud and boisterous and unfeeling, your family could see how boorish they can be, and when I tried to get them to stop yelling at one another, and at you, they wouldn’t, and that’s when I woke up. A premonition?”

  While I showered off three thousand miles of travel, I was hoping my timely return would negate Nadie’s pledge of chastity, but when I returned to the loft wearing only shorts and a splash of musk cologne she liked, she was sleeping. Her hair was spread on a pillow gently caressing her head, framing her face, one lock created a peekaboo effect. One hand was stretched toward my side of the bed. I could not take my eyes off the blush on her high cheek bones, knowing that her skin would feel like velvet. Should I wake her? Risk a later recrimination?

  A car approaches throwing up gravel in its tire treads. The slot through to the rear seat fills with the glare of headlights and blue and red strobes.

  My stomach tightens as I hear the crackle of a police radio, a car door opens, footsteps.

  I am screwed, here comes the publicity, the dreaded notoriety. Nevertheless, I yell, “Help!” and hear the surprised response, “What the f—!”

  The driver side door opens, the interior light is on, showing the open slot in the rear seat from which my voice bellows, “Get me out of here! Keys on the front seat!”