Scratched
Page 32
Young Jimmy found that an influential friend could help secure a favorable loan refinancing, and with his earnings and winnings during the Shoot-Out, coupled with recovering patronage at the restaurant, he paid Heritage Finance every last penny shortly before Zito disappeared. To keep his occasional color commentary spots on ESPN’s pool matches, he rid himself from any connection with the sweaters who came after him for a rematch with Harley Smoot. His ego was in good stead, as was, after weeks of penance and reconciliation, his marriage.
Cosimo Brunotti’s resignation was accepted, not with regret, but with relief. During the termination negotiations, he wrapped himself in a patriotic cloak. He soon was hired as a managing director of a Fiat subsidiary in Torino and recently was placed on an election list for Parliament by Avanti Forza, a rightist political party. Somehow, that fit. As to his possible involvement in Italo Palagi’s death, I concluded Brunotti was too smooth to involve himself, personally, in the old man’s death and had neither enough time nor perhaps courage to plan or execute a murder.
The Institute never fully recovered from the Ravensford debacle and the Columbus Day fiasco, although it retained some loyal donors. An Italo-American scholar became its new executive director and reduced the scope of its activities. Ironically, only last week, the publisher of the Forza novels indicated a desire to reissue the series, maybe updating them as had been the case with the James Bond novels, even thinking of sequels in graphic novel form. Maybe Caesare Forza once again will provide the Institute with substantial royalties.
Father Pietro informed me of Claudia Cioffi’s death in Rome. He sent me a funeral card of remembrance that had a picture of Blessed Virgin of Loreto, without a comment. In a subsequent e-mail, he said Claudia Cioffi left her considerable estate, augmented by Palagi’s legacy and the insurance policy proceeds, to a charitable foundation for seminary scholarships in memory of her cousin, Giovanni Strozzi.
Palagi’s estate filed a claim against Ravensford Capital in its bankruptcy but received little besides Champlin & Burrill legal bills. The disbursed A-4 account funds simply disappeared into the Italian banking system. From there, who knows?
Aunt Ida continued to reign in Brooklyn and was solicitous of her sister’s every need. Zelda Winokur enjoyed Palm Beach last winter for six weeks at the Brazilian Court. People keep dying, allowing the Gershowitz funeral homes to pay bills, the trust fund to become balanced, the investors, mostly, paid off. The loans were current, although our accountant fought every month with Arnie for accurate information.
Algy’s Autorama now has a Nissan Leaf hybrid, with a battery charger, which has survived two Nadie fender benders over the past year. For myself, a super-charged red Camaro ZL1 replaced the Charger.
Nadie is nauseous most mornings and wonders aloud if she will survive her pregnancy. The thought of pushing into my late sixties when he, it is a he as identified by an infinitesimal smudge on an ultrasound, will be entering Carter University, is unsettling.
As to the death of Italo Palagi, Nadie said maybe, it was all a “bit of bad business” to be gotten through and forgotten, even if a part of me remained uneasy.
That was, until …
I have been blessed with excellent, even robust, health. I rarely, if ever, have to think about opening a childproof, tamper-proof, prescription vial. One night, Nadie, suffering with the flu, asked me to get her medication from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, which I did, and try as I might, I couldn’t open the goddamn pill vial! Only then did I remember that the prescription bottles in Palagi’s medicine cabinet were all without caps. Not a one had a lid. And why? Because Palagi couldn’t open them. Palagi’s bout of Guillain-Barré cost him strength in his fingers. If the pill vial was shaken under Claudia Cioffi’s nose, as she claimed, the vial had to have a lid. That night, Palagi didn’t smash the vial open to get at his pills; the vial Benno found by the river didn’t bear a crack. Someone opened the pill vial for him when he sat on the slab of granite by the river or shortly before. Who would have been there to do it?
Sal? Possibly, but he was more of a stomp, kick, and butt kind of guy. A drug-soaked resident of the shanty town interested in stealing a walking stick? No way. An agent of the ‘Ndrangheta suddenly in town to complete the vendetta? Not likely. Certainly not Brunotti.
I returned to bed that night painting this scene in my mind. Claudia Cioffi watched Sal emerge from the fog, returning to the Bentley. She ventured across the street and saw Palagi on that slab of rock. Maybe he fingered his pills or the Beretta in indecision. As determined as a Harpy, she managed to get down the slope and confront Palagi. That’s when she reviled him in his rape of her cousin Giovanni, delivered her challenge to die, goaded him to commit the deed that would damn his soul. She opened the pill vial that Palagi could not have managed, and watched him ingest his poison. Was there a last, spiteful, ironic laugh from the cancer victim as he swallowed his pills knowing his enemies would soon be suspects in a murder he designed for them? Was that, in the last analysis, why he ingested the pills, to spite them all?
What eventually settled my mind was a lunch with Father Pietro upon his return to Providence at the Carter Faculty Club. I said to me the most interesting thing about Italo Palagi was his death and told him of my theory.
“If so, my friend, we must admit he was artful? See what has happened. Brunotti, a fraud, discovered, and terminated from the Institute. The son, unworthy certainly, cheated out of his estate by his own wrongdoing. And Claudia, his agent in his final act of spite. Very Italian. And for you and to me, it was ‘you have pained me, you will now be my agents to cause my enemies downfall.’”
For the first time in months, I thought of Don Fabrizio’s deathbed in The Leopard, as his life eases away into darkness, anticipating the last journey, still wondering how he became a prisoner of his own making, at the last seeing his life as one of tragedy and disappointment, a life as bare as despair.
“We shall never know. Perhaps teaching us a valuable lesson? We are never free of temptation even to the last.”
Other Algy Temple Mystery books
by J.J. Partridge
Available online in print and Ebook
Acknowledgments
First to my agent, Paula Munier, for her diligence and faith in my work, I appreciate her patience and attention.
To my manuscript readers, Norah Christianson, Jack Manning, and Jim Taricani, for their time and helpful comments.
To those patient enough to answer questions and give advice and guidance, such as Barnaby Evans, the creator and impresario of WaterFire, Father Brian Shanley, O.P., President of Providence College, and Deborah DiNardo, Esq. for legal background on American and Italian law.
To AnnMarie Pedro, a nine ball player extraordinaire and the folks at Snookers, for background on Rhode Island pool and tournament action.
To readers of Carom Shot and Straight Pool and booksellers worldwide who encouraged the continuation of the series.
Especially to Donna Beals who was so patient in working through the drafts.
To David Partridge for his sense of humor and critical eye.
To Ruth Clegg for my professional photograph.
To Joe Coccaro and Courtney Davison from Köehler Books for their valuable support.
Finally, to Regina who lost me after many dinners and weekends as I worked with Algy Temple and his friends and foes. The hours together were missed. “At least, we had Rome.”
I also recommend di Lampedusa’s The Leopard (translated by Guido Waldman, Pantheon Books) for a thoughtful, beautifully written novel on Southern Italian culture and history and The Salamander by Morris West for the idea of postwar conspiracy in Italy and its aftermath.
z-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share