“Here? As in Bend?” Mario asked.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s start with that.”
“It reminds me of my home,” Mario said, shrugging. He dipped a thick piece of hearty bread into some golden oil in a small brown bowl and popped it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he looked up at the ceiling. When he swallowed the food, his throat bobbed. Smiling, he resumed the conversation. “Calabria has many mountains. It is obviously much closer to the sea than we are here, but I find it close enough. I have several homes on the coast, as they call it here. I need the smells and the sounds of the ocean. But, you see, the mountains have helped shape my people. Mountains are greatly misunderstood. Yet, they help sustain us. They have impacts on culture,” he said.
“But, I mean, why remain in America? There are mountains and oceans all over the place. If you find things so disagreeable here, why not leave? Wouldn’t your protectors like that idea?” Becca asked.
“Perhaps. But, to be honest, I don’t have much choice in the matter. My place is here. In a quiet little tourist town that no one cares much about,” Mario said.
“Why are you in witness protection?” Becca asked.
“I see you really do want to get to the heart of things. No enjoying each other’s company. Just straight to the point,” Mario said.
Becca smiled. She nodded. “Yes, as I’ve repeatedly stated.”
“Well, allow me to indulge you. Are you ready to listen?” he asked.
“Sure thing, boss,” she said.
“I am from Calabria. This means that I am 'Ndrangheta. There really is no other option in Calabria. If your father is 'Ndrangheta, you become 'Ndrangheta, as well. If you are not ‘Ndrangheta… your only hope as a Calabrese is that you can find one who likes you enough to throw you scraps. It is a poor region. We really are our own nation and people, quite separate and distinct from the rest of Italy. The mountains…” Mario cleared his throat and took a sip of wine.
“This is all important. So, listen. Don’t bother to interrupt me. I know you feel your time is precious, but this all ties in. Anyway, family is at the core of everything I do as a Calabrese. It is also the root of being ‘Ndrangheta. It’s the reason we’ve never had the troubles of those dumb farmers from the island,” he said.
“The Sicilians?” Becca asked.
“Yes, the Sicilians,” Mario said, practically spitting the word out. He took a moment to cleanse his palate with a gulp of water. “I hate those crop pickers. And they hate me,” he said.
“Okay, but how does that relate?” Becca asked.
“I am in witness protection for providing information on Sicilian organized crime families in Boston,” Mario said. “If you’d like to get right down to it, there’s your answer. You see, I could never betray my own family. But I have few qualms about using every opportunity to hurt my competitors. And, in this instance, doing so has helped both me and my family. I don’t need protection from some fat, arrogant guido. But it’s never a bad idea to have friends in the government,” he said.
“So, you’re using witness protection to get an edge with the cops?” Becca asked. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Something about the idea struck her as fundamentally wrong. It was far too cold and calculating. A part of her detested the idea of learning just what criminal activities it was that Mario needed protection for.
Mario winked. “A curiosity of the American system is that you will pay for someone to use you as a means of fighting the competition. And no one can easily admit it, because everyone wants to keep their own jobs,” he said. He chuckled heartily.
“How would it be done in Italy?” Becca asked.
The restauranteur laughed. “They put their hand out. We put money in it. And if we don’t embarrass them too much, they leave us alone,” he said. Then he grew serious. “Calabria isn’t a good destination for anyone looking to work in government. The smart ones get themselves transferred out. The ones that stay take their money and ignore us. For nothing in Calabria would be built, no business would function… The ‘Ndrangheta are the local economy. We don’t contribute to it. We ARE it. And anyone in the family who betrayed us would be so ashamed, they’d end up killing themselves. But if they didn’t, there aren’t many places in the world where one can hide. We’ve helped send messages to people in Guantanamo Bay. We started in blackmail, kidnapping, unions. It was all we had as poor Terrone,” he said.
“Okay, I admit, this is all fascinating, but what’s it got to do with your son?” Becca asked.
“Giovanni was a soft boy,” Mario said.
“What’s that mean?”
“He was gay, okay? You are too strong and up-front for a woman,” Mario said.
Becca laughed. “I assume this is another part of American life that you’re just getting used to?” she asked.
Mario tugged at his collar. He smiled ruefully. He cleared his throat. “He was gay. And I couldn’t bring myself to not love him, despite it. He could never become a ‘Ndrangheta. Which saddened me, since he was my only son. And I was embarrassed. It’s not a normal thing. I didn’t know what to do. We hated each other for some time. But I realized that I had an obligation to him. And my wife forced me to accept that I had to love Giovanni for who he was, not who I wanted him to be. It was not easy for me. It wasn’t easy for anyone in my family. But he tried to commit suicide so many times as a teenager. He got involved with some bad people who took advantage of him. None of us were willing to give up on our own family simply because we didn’t understand their love life,” he said.
Sniffling, Becca tried to digest all of that. Part of her wanted to feel proud. To be happy for Mario’s transition. He’d put family above any old-fashioned sense of what sex should look like. Yet, the rigidity of his views also proved repulsive. She elected to say nothing, since everything she’d managed to comment with up to that point had been counterproductive and mildly rude.
“I don’t know if a Sicilian or someone else had my son killed. Sometimes ‘Ndrangheta clans fight with each other, too. We deal with the Columbians, Mexicans, all sorts of people. But I’m assuming my son died because of me. And I want to find out who was responsible,” Mario said, his face going rigid.
“Why?” Becca asked, even though she knew the answer.
“So I can kill them,” Mario said simply.
“You know, that might be the only sentiment I can agree with you on. I’d probably want to kill anyone who murdered my daughter,” she said. “Beats the heck out of sitting in a prison cell, getting free cable and care packages for ten or twenty years.”
Mario nodded. “Well, at least we can agree on that,” he said.
“But, I mean, why me? I still don’t get that,” Becca asked.
“Why not you? It happened in your store. You have a vested interest. Plus, no one would easily suspect you. No, the truth is, I can’t trust the police. Even the ones I pay. The people here do not like or trust me. There are many who would use this tragedy as a means of trying to hurt me. Either drive me out of town or fully discredit me with the federal authorities. I am just one man. A fairly clever man with a lot of resources and the weight of my organization behind me. But still, just one man. I always tried to impress upon Giovanni that he was a fallible, mortal being. I wish he would have listened just once,” Mario said. And he suddenly erupted into tears.
“It’s okay,” Becca found herself saying, the words tumbling out awkwardly.
“It’s not okay. Someone killed my son. How can I rest, knowing that the coward who murdered my only son is out there, somewhere, enjoying their life? It’s not a good thing. The burdens are too great,” Mario said.
“Well, I guess that means I should ask where we should begin,” Becca said.
Chapter 9
The smell of cinnamon and warm chocolate hovered in the humid air.
Pausing just outside the kitchen, Becca leaned against the wall, closing her eyes and inhaling the wonderful aromas deeply. She immersed herself in the scent. The co
mmingled smells brought memories of home to mind. The flood of pleasant recollections offered her a welcome reprieve from the stress of the last day and a half. However, it wasn’t long before reality came crashing down on her. Looking around, she blinked, trying to focus. She needed to do a lot, and she didn’t have much time to do it. Her desire to lose herself in fond reminiscences of times long past would have to be put on hold.
Rounding the corner, she shrieked.
Tank stopped just in time, frowning as he tensed. Holding a heavy tray laden with crisp, golden-brown financiers fresh from the oven, he stood in the entryway, looking down at the cookies and then up at his boss. His white apron bore the stains of his work. With dark blue and purple smudges from various berries, thick brown clots from coffee, and an assortment slashes of pinks and other colors from piped icing and whatnot, his clothing revealed that the man had been devoting himself to his craft. “Hey, long time, no see,” he finally said, mildly embarrassed to have been caught in such a disheveled state. “Didn’t know you were headed over.”
Becca smiled. She wiped a stray strand off hair from her face and walked past her best and most-trusted employee. “I just couldn’t stay away. This place is my home. I just can’t get it off of my mind,” she said. “Plus, I was across the street,” she said.
Picking up a warm pecan butter tart from a tray on one counter, she popped it into her mouth. She groaned as she chewed, nodding her head vigorously and pointing at her lips. “This,” she said. “This is good.”
Tank delicately placed his almond-based financiers on a counter and took a deep breath. He smiled in acknowledgment of the compliment. “You know, I was actually thinking of trying something new. How would you feel about butter tart pinwheels? And maybe walnuts?” he asked. “A lot of people are on Walnuts now, you know? Omega-3s,” he said.
“Walnuts are getting more expensive,” Becca said. “You thinking of doing this regularly? Or a small batch sort of thing?” she asked. She turned and gobbled up another one of the butter tarts while she waited for his response.
“Oh, I haven’t priced anything just yet. Hadn’t given it much thought. Just crossed my mind. I saw a recipe somewhere. Thought it might be fun to expand my horizons, keep the menu fresh and all that,” Tank said. “But, since you’re here, I figured I’d go ahead and bring it up, see if you were amenable to the idea.”
“You know, I should really hire more vets. You really do take this job seriously. And I know for a fact the business is better because of it,” Becca said. “And my taste buds. Maybe not my waistline, but definitely my taste buds.”
“Well, Becca, you know I’d never try to stop you from hiring vets. I doubt most would necessarily want to be stuck in the kitchen all day. Not even many sustainment folks would necessarily want this. Pretty pogish. But I can see you expanding someday. You’ll need a warehouse, all that. There aren’t any military specialties that don’t have civilian applications. And I can guarantee there would be some worthy individuals who’d jump at the opportunity to drive a forklift for a good soul like you,” Tank said.
“Yeah. Hey, speaking of military stuff, do you think you could have a talk with David sometime? I just feel like he needs someone to talk to. Even if you and he didn’t necessarily share the same experiences, I still think he might be able to open up to you more. I worry about him,” Becca said. Then she snorted. She shook her head, the gesture laced with derision. “Not to mention that I can’t afford to keep him on the payroll if he can never show up and do what needs to be done,” she said.
Tank nodded. He used a dirty, frayed white rag that poked out of one pocket to wipe his bald head. “Sounds like a plan,” he said. Then he grew silent. A pensive frown crossing across his face, he stared at the floor for several seconds. He crossed his muscular arms across his chest. Shifting his weight, he chewed on his lower lip as if fighting to secure the right words for something.
Becca knew what was coming. She even understood Tank’s hesitancy. She probably would have been reluctant to speak up, as well, had she been in his shoes. Heck, she shared some of his reticence regardless. It wasn’t as if she particularly wanted to talk about the corpse or her investigation on behalf of a mafia snitch. If she’d had any choice at all in the matter, she would have continued on baking cakes and pies, blissfully unaware of the shadowy underbelly of Bend that existed just across the street from her only haven.
“How’s the thing going?” Tank asked.
Becca raised one eyebrow. Wry amusement twinkled in her eyes. She stared at her employee for several seconds, waiting for the man to look back and notice the silent mirth in her twin orbs. When he did, he offered an embarrassed smirk. “’The thing?’” she asked. She shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest. “You took all that time to summon the courage to ask me, and THAT was all you could come up with?” she asked.
“Well, you know, it’s… kind of odd,” he said. “I didn’t know how well you’d taken things. You seemed pretty shaken up yesterday. And there’s a lot of stuff going on, so, I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, Becca. That’s all,” Tank said.
“You’re very sweet. You know, if you weren’t happily married, I’d probably snatch you up,” Becca said. “You can hunt and fish, you’re fit, you were in the military, you’re sensitive and confident, AND you enjoy cooking?” she asked, whistling to punctuate her point. “You ever need help with your wife, you just bring her to me. We’ll have a little, old-fashioned sit-down, her and I. And I’ll set the record straight real quick,” she said.
“Thank you, boss. But, really, everyone is curious. Charlie was asking. Of course, her grandma was calling in constantly,” Tank said.
“Yeah, don’t remind me. I am SO fed up,” Becca said, sighing. She held up her hand, with her thumb and forefinger only slightly apart. “I am this close to just severing ties with that woman. I love Charlie, but, gosh, I can NOT stand her grandmother,” she said.
“Did you tell her to at least call you directly, rather than endanger our biggest contracts?” Tank asked.
“Yes, I sure did. And I also told her she needed to not contact me or anyone around me for two whole days,” Becca said.
“You did what now?” Tank asked, raising one eyebrow. He smiled. “You go, Becca.”
“I know, right? It felt really liberating,” Becca said. She went quiet. Then she began chewing on her nails. She needed to get moving. Her first order of business was to try and find Giovanni’s friend- who happened to be a girl- before the little thing panicked and beat feet out of town. Or before she got whacked, which, unfortunately, was within the realm of possibilities. Becca shivered as she thought of how sinister things had gotten.
“Have you ever learned something, something so hideous and ugly that you just wish you’d never known it? Something that just seemed to steal a part of you? Something that warped your fundamental sense of goodness?” she asked.
Part of her wanted to divulge the heavy secret. Becca didn’t like having to pretend that she’d learned the ugly truth behind Mario’s origins. She similarly didn’t want to have to act like she wasn’t quickly becoming an active co-conspirator. After all, she’d demanded to become business partners with the man. Sure, it had been before he’d unleashed his torrent of threats and history lessons in the nuances of Italian organized crime, but it wasn’t as if she’d gone into that meeting with Mario some naïve and unsuspecting novice. Between her intuition and everyone around her practically screaming that the man was a made man, it should have come as no surprise when he’d merely confirmed the truth she’d known all along.
“I was in the Army, boss. You ever want to hear about massive disappointments and learning things you wish you’d never learned, I could probably teach an entire class on the subject,” Tank said, laughing.
Becca sniffed. She shook her head. It wouldn’t do any good to pursue that particular line of conversation any further, she decided. The best thing to do was to move on. “You have any ide
a who that girl was? The one who screamed? Ever see her around or anything?” Becca asked. “I didn’t remember her as a regular, I don’t think. Anyway, that’s where I’m probably going to start,” she said.
“So, you suspect foul play, then?” Tank asked.
“I didn’t say that, did I?” Becca asked, again chewing her nails.
“No, but you implied it. I don’t know, but do you?” Tank asked.
“I think it’s too early to tell,” Becca said. She turned and began fidgeting with things, trying to keep herself distracted. She began rearranging poppyseed bagels resting on a wire rack nearby.
“C’mon, now, Becca. Don’t play coy. Surely, by now, you’ve at least formed some opinions you can share. I mean, did the guy ever tell you why he wants to avoid the police at all costs? You have to admit, even if it is a little cool and exciting, it is weird to ask YOU of all people to conduct this semi-official inquiry or whatever it is,” Tank said.
“Well, Mario had a very good point when I spoke with him. A lot of people around here don’t like or trust him. Seeing as he’s never been in trouble here, and how he’s actually contributed to the local economy in various ways, I can’t exactly see why so many locals haven’t embraced him, but…he has a point, Tank,” Becca said. “Could he be using me? Sure. We’ll see. I’m not one to be pushed around. So, if that does turn out to be the case, then we’ll deal with that when the time comes. Until then, I really do believe that he wants solid evidence of what happened,” she said.
Pivoting, Becca impulsively decided to do some improv. “You know how hard cases can be, these days. Sometimes the cops will have a mountain of evidence, and a D.A. still won’t take the case to court,” she said.
“Mario practically owns the D.A.,” Tank pointed out.
Becca frowned. She mentally chided herself for going off-script. “You do have a point there,” she said.
“Do you want my help, Becca? I know a guy who is friends with someone from CID. Uh, sorry, the criminal investigations division. I could try to make a few phone calls. I mean, should we be worried about you? You know, about your safety?” Tank asked.
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