A Thousand Tombs

by Molly Greene

  She was surprised to hear him talk like that, with so much conviction in his voice. “I’m in,” she replied. “And you were right about not using something shared in a vulnerable moment against the other person. I’m sorry.”

  “The past is hard,” Mack said. “I don’t let it out to just anyone.”

  “The past is hard for me, too, so I get it. And Mack?”

  “Yeah.”

  The last notes of the song played out and he stopped, still holding onto her, but drew back half a step to look her in the eye.

  “It works both ways,” she said. “You could have saved us, stopped me from walking away right then, told me there were no breaks. It looks to me like we both need practice.”

  His lips curved, and he took her hand as they went back to the table. “Like I said before, people come into your life for a reason, because you have something to learn from them.”

  “Oh?” Gen’s tone held a tinge of sarcasm. “Is that something you read on Facebook?”

  They sat for a while, then got up and danced until Gen’s feet couldn’t take anymore, then sat and talked until it was so late they both knew it was time to go. They held hands on the way to the truck, then climbed in and talked about life and Madison and Cole and their garden and a million different things.

  One minute they were laughing about Luca’s oh-so-nonchalantly sporting Oliver’s girly disguise, and the next minute they were making out like teenagers at the drive-in.

  Gen finally pulled away. “I have to go.”

  Mack didn’t protest, just kissed her again and slotted the key into the ignition and drove back to her car. “Are we good?” he asked.

  “Yeah, we’re good,” she replied. “I had a great time tonight, Mack. I’m driving up to Healdsburg in the morning. I’ll be back Tuesday, and I’ll call you then.”

  He reached into the glove box and pulled out an envelope, then tucked it into her purse. “Here’s the information you asked for. You be careful with this Giampaolino guy, he’s not pretty. And if it was him who hit you, he’s done enough damage already. Keep your head down.”

  He ran a finger down her jawline and over her lips. “I had a great time, too.”

  She pecked his cheek, gave him one last hug, then climbed into her own car and drove home.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mack’s envelope held a rap sheet that was complete enough to indicate that Rudy Giampaolino had made a decent career out of being a muscle-bound moron. He’d been picked up for assault and B and E, but nothing had managed to stick. It was like the guy was dipped in Teflon.

  She was standing in her living room early Sunday morning, drinking coffee and looking out the west side windows toward the ocean – which she could not see – and thinking about Mack and Luca and the whole shebang. She hadn’t slept well for the jumble of dreams that tramped through her head like so many tombaroli, probing for graves in the pitch black darkness.

  And Gen suspected that in her case, the tombs she’d been dreaming about were of her own design. Maybe she needed a shrink.

  And that made her think about Madison’s husband, Cole, Gen’s go-to counselor and a psych professor at Sonoma State. She hadn’t been up to visit for months, and she was looking forward to having a good chat with both of them.

  She looked at the clock. Eight a.m.

  Gen wanted to be in Healdsburg by two o’clock that afternoon. The drive time was barely an hour and a half, and she could pack her duffel in fifteen minutes. That left plenty of time for another cup of coffee, a walk, and a detour to Giampaolino’s last known residence, which was listed as an apartment in North Beach.

  What would it hurt if her route took her up toward Washington Park? She drained her cup, made a note of the address, and headed for the shower.

  Two hours later she was in North Beach, wearing trainers and workout gear. Her bag was packed and in the trunk of the car; she would leave for Healdsburg from here and change for the party once she reached Maddy’s.

  Something about Rudy’s address had seemed familiar, but she didn’t make the connection until she was parked out front. The apartment building was on the same street where they’d dropped Luca that first evening, the night this whole incident had spun onto her and Mack’s radar.

  Lucky them.

  Gen sat and thought about the coincidence, drumming her nails on the steering wheel. More duplicity? She thought about calling Luca and drilling him about it, but couldn’t see a positive. What use would that be? He and Vitelli both seemed determined to only say what they wanted.

  She passed on the call.

  Her thoughts segued to Mack and she wondered what he was up to today, but she switched off the thread. She was here about Rudy. Getting distracted wouldn’t help. But as much as she wanted to focus on Giampaolino, she realized the universe was telling her something when a familiar figure came strolling up the sidewalk.

  It was Ralph Zuccaro’s pawn shop employee, John.

  So her intuition had been right that day in the restaurant when she’d suspected John was pleased with Rudy’s treatment of Zuccaro. These two players were in bed together, she’d bet on it.

  But who was calling the shots?

  She put on a pair of sunglasses and grabbed her purse and a not-too-awful hat from the backseat, then stuffed her hair into the crown and slipped out the door.

  She was up the walk and into the complex when she caught sight of John across the patio, peeling open the screen door at apartment number thirty-two.

  Rudy’s place.

  She ducked into a passage between buildings, leaned against the stucco wall, and pretended to search through her bag as she pondered the possibilities. Could their connection be unrelated?

  Nah.

  The more likely scenario was that John had snitched to Giampaolino about the kid coming into the shop with the coin, then later about Zuccaro’s confab with Vitelli. And she may have been the one who supplied the tidbit that day in the shop, when she shot off her mouth about seeing Zuccaro and Vitelli together.

  Oops.

  Gen wondered if Ralph Zuccaro knew about the John-Giampaolino connection, and if so, why he kept him on at the store. She broke off the thought when the door of thirty-two swung open and the two men in question emerged, then sauntered across the courtyard and out onto the street.

  She counted to ten, then followed.

  They crossed to the opposite sidewalk, hands in pockets, moving like they were out for a Sunday stroll. She hung back and trailed them, keeping her head down and acting oh-so nonchalant.

  The boys cut through Washington Park and headed for Saints Peter and Paul, and for a moment Gen wondered if they were going to Mass. It was Sunday morning, after all. People did go to church.

  But they passed by and turned at the corner and continued on. Two blocks later they pushed through the door of the Italian Athletic Club.

  She didn’t formulate a plan, just took a deep breath and followed them in. She was no sooner inside than a hail of cries rang out in English and Italian.

  “No women!”

  She stopped and looked around.

  A waiter approached and grasped her by the forearm. “Members only,” he murmured, low, and his tone promised that there wasn’t an argument that could breach the rule.

  No doubt about it, he was going to toss her out.

  She could see Rudy and John across the room, hanging with a group playing cards. Rudy ignored her but John’s eyes narrowed, and Gen swore he was trying to figure out if she was who he thought she was. He whispered something to the player seated closest to him.

  He was an older man, and he twisted around to look. There was something definite about him, some aura that screamed leader. The guy stood out. He seemed to command respect from the group around him. It was subtle, but it was there. And his authority was crystal clear when he raised his hand and just like that, the stooge trying to rush her out the door dropped her arm like she was a leper.

  John and the man convers
ed in Italian for a minute, then the boss-type guy nodded like he got the picture and rose from the table and strolled toward Gen. His cronies watched for a minute, then lost interest and lowered their heads back over the cards and resumed their conversation.

  He was taller than he’d seemed sitting down, and as he approached he walked with a slight limp, favoring his right leg. His neck was reddened from years of sun, and his cheeks were marred by a web of tiny blood vessels just beneath the skin.

  “You cannot come in.”

  His voice was not unkind, and his English was tinted with an Italian inflection that sounded very much like Vitelli’s. “This club is for members only, and you are not a member. You will have to leave.” He placed a gentle hand in the middle of her back and gestured for her to turn, then opened the door and held it while she walked through.

  He followed her out to the sidewalk.

  “How do you know I’m not a member?”

  “Members are Italian only. Of Italian descent, you see? And men. Italian men only.”

  “Oh,” Gen replied. “Yeah, well. I guess that does count me out. Isn’t it illegal to have a male-only club in this day and age, Mister–?”

  “I am Angelo.”

  “Got a last name, Angelo?”

  He ignored her, simply took her arm and waved a hand up the street. “Shall we walk? I believe you have questions, aside from my name. And for you, I have a few words of caution.”

  She didn’t speak, just fell in step alongside and waited.

  “You are treading where you should not.”

  “That’s what everybody keeps telling me.”

  “And yet you do not listen.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she replied “I’ve never been real good about being told what to do. It makes me want to do whatever I’m being warned away from even more. It’s immature, I know, but there you have it.”

  “It is childish and dangerous. What can I tell you that will make you turn away from this and go back to your life and be safe and happy?”

  “How about you tell me what’s going on?”

  He smiled. “Nothing is going on.”

  “I’ve heard that line already. Like I asked the other guy who told me that, if everything’s cool, what’s with the thugs and the old man taped to a chair and the talk about illegal artifacts and the threats and the breaking into my house? Somebody owes me a new couch.”

  The man pointed to a bench across the street and they walked to it and sat. “I can tell you about my country,” he said, “and what the artifacts mean to the contadinos there.”

  “Contadinos?”

  “Country folk. Farmers.”

  “Okay.” She turned slightly toward him and stuck out her hand. “I’m Gen Delacourt by the way, Angelo.”

  “I know your name, Miss Delacourt. Do you understand the story of the tombaroli?”

  “Yes I do, Angelo. Everybody wants to tell it to me, so you can skip right to who the tombarolo in this scenario actually is.”

  His lips twitched as though she’d told a joke. “I suspect we all take what we believe is ours, do we not, Miss Delacourt.”

  “Did you do that yourself? Did you dig?”

  “I was the best. I dug for the tombs once upon a time and brought the beautiful treasures into the light.”

  “Your government says it’s illegal. They say you’re destroying history,” Gen replied. “That when you clear out the tombs, the evidence of how the people lived is lost. They can’t document anything.”

  “I know this argument, but I also know that the scientists would never have the time or resources to expose all these things. Without us, they would remain buried for another thousand years.”

  He made a gesture with his hand and Gen noticed his fingers were calloused and scarred, the result, perhaps, of his years of wielding a pick and shovel.

  “They gain enough knowledge of the past from the sites they find. They pour over them, grain by grain, for decades.” He shrugged. “Museums do not have the means to share all these beautiful things with the people of the world. They store them away in closets and cases and cabinets. Only a tiny portion is put on display, and the rest are forgotten.”

  Gen thought about Dr. Grayson’s archives. Angelo was right.

  “Our families have owned the land for centuries,” he continued. “If we had brought up the artifacts and sold them generations ago, no one would have said a word. Now it is forbidden, yet we believe we have the right to the treasure that lies beneath our fields and our villages.”

  Gen knew nothing of the politics or the laws or who was right or wrong, but she could see both sides. What she wanted to know was how it was related to what was happening in North Beach. “How are Vitelli and the boy involved?”

  “Of what boy do you speak?”

  “Luca Torello.”

  “I do not know him.” He stood and faced her. “I must go. I am told you have a good life, is this right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go back to it. Leave this situation behind, and you will continue to be happy.”

  He started to walk away, but returned and stood before her. His voice was soft when he spoke. “Do you possess something that does not belong to you?”

  She blinked and tilted her head from side to side, looking confused and deep in thought at the same time. “Yeah, I checked out a book from the library about six months ago and never took it back.”

  His expression reflected disappointed.

  “I take it that’s not what you meant.”

  “If I find out that you have what I seek, Miss Delacourt, you and I will have another conversation.”

  This time she just shook her head and told a semi-truth, sincere as a nun. “I don’t know what you’re seeking, but I can assure you I don’t have anything in my possession that isn’t mine. I’d like to know more, though, if you’d like to share.”

  He didn’t reply, just turned and left her sitting there.

  Gen crossed her arms and watched him stroll amidst the burgeoning crowds, his lopsided gait making him easy to follow through the throng. When he disappeared back through the door of the club, she stood and headed for her car with a tangle of thoughts in her head.

  She’d identified another player in this unnamed game, and this one had more or less admitted he was looking for the coins. And now yet another person was warning her to butt out. That made how many now?

  At this point, she’d lost count.

  As far as she could tell, Rudy Giampaolino, John the pawn shop appraiser, and Angelo the ex-tombarolo were pitted against Ralph Zuccaro, Mr. Vitelli, and Luca, with the coins and the Carabinieri team in between. Nobody was talking, nobody was pointing the finger at anybody – except the Italian cops at Vitelli – and they all seemed content to wait it out.

  What was going on?

  She stood up, then headed for the car and Healdsburg.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  She turned onto Lombard, then picked up the 101 and motored past Crissy Field and the Presidio and onto the Golden Gate. It was a clear day, lovely and cool, and the breeze was crisp off the water. Before she knew it, she’d flown past Sausalito and Marin City and the Tiburon off ramp and was closing in on San Rafael.

  Gen had gotten on the road earlier than expected, and, for the most part, the drive north was easy and the traffic light. Much of it was going the other way on Sundays, day trippers heading back to town to prepare for the work week.

  Her thoughts turned back to her audience with Angelo. Where did he fit in the puzzle?

  She was turning onto Dry Creek Road before she could formulate a theory, then through the wrought iron gates and up Madison’s driveway. She passed the little stone house with its raucous, overflowing beds of plants that looked so much like the billowing skirts of a dozen Victorian ladies. Thirty seconds later she pulled in beside the garage.

  Gen got out and stretched.

  The garden in back spoke to her and she followed its call, moving through the
gate and into the neat green rows. She knew enough to recognize that the fall plants were in and had taken hold.

  She held out a palm and brushed across the tops of lettuce that had gone to seed, then turned up another row and crouched down to look at the broccoli seedlings.

  Cole had been busy.

  She imagined Mack’s back yard would look similar about now, if Luca had kept at it. Once again she reflected on all the gardeners in her life, and drew her fingers through the rich loam.

  Just beneath the surface she uncovered a clutch of wriggling red worms, busy digesting the bits of decaying plant matter from the compost that Madison and Cole diligently added to the blend.

  She rose and dusted off her hands, thinking about the buried link between Luca and Vitelli. She knew they were confederates on some level, but she wondered how deep the tie actually went.

  “Hey, you’re early. Have we turned you into such a dedicated horticulturist you couldn’t stay away?”

  Gen was already smiling when she turned to give Coleman Welles a massive hug. She clung to him past ten counts, thinking how solid and calm and good this man was.

  Mack was a lot like him, in that way.

  Cole didn’t speak or ask questions. None of that, he just hugged her back. She was sure he had an inkling that there must be a reason she needed to be held, but like Mack, he didn’t pry.

  “I was just thinking that all of a sudden there are a lot of men around me who are keepers of the soil,” she replied. “Well, maybe that’s going too far, but you know what I mean.”

  She broke away and looked up into his face. “And me with not an ounce of proficiency at nurturing anything.”

  “That’s not true, Genny.” He smiled and regarded her. “Might one of the gardeners be the man you were interested in? The one you mentioned last summer.”

  She nodded.

  “And yet, you’re not ecstatic.”

  She shrugged. “Not at the moment.”