by Peter Watson
Whereupon Parker took the rifle from him and placed its barrel next to the head of the man who had moved, Vito Liotta himself. He fired one shot into the Sicilian’s head.
Just then they heard shooting from inside the prison. A second group of men had found another set of Sicilians. Parker walked back across the yard. He entered the building and climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the shooting had come from. He found the men, standing in front of three corpses. Except they weren’t all corpses yet. Gino Fazio was still moving.
That gave Parker an idea. “Take him outside,” he said to the men with the rifles. “Let the others see him, do with him what they will.”
For a moment the riflemen hesitated.
“Do it,” said Parker. “Then we can all go home.”
When Silvio reached the church of the Madonna dell’Olio, it was deserted. To judge by the exchange between Smeralda and the other woman in the courtyard, he had two hours’ grace. It was now just after nine and the rehearsal, he knew, was scheduled for eleven.
He let himself in and inspected the inside of the church. Like much else in Sicily it had hardly changed. The walls were still plain white, the apse was still undecorated, the attraction of the church lay in its uncompromising simplicity. The last time he had been here was that day when Annunziata had stormed out from a wedding, when Father Ignazio had denounced her relationship with Silvio.
His one problem now was his lack of a gun. The other men would certainly be armed. What if Alesso didn’t arrive at all, alerted by the police in Santo Stefano? There was little he could do about that, but he had ensured that Smeralda and her companion would be late for the rehearsal, by stealing their carriage, abandoning it halfway, and then taking just the mule onward, for speed.
He chose his observation point. At the rear of the nave was a small gallery, reached by a wooden staircase. The gallery had a round window that afforded a view of the approaches to the church. He sat where he could see without being seen.
The minutes passed. He was so close to fulfilling his goal now that he thought he would be nervous. Yet he was strangely calm. Either it would work out his way, or it wouldn’t. In any case he would see Annunziata and she would know he was doing all this for her.
He tried to put New Orleans out of his mind. He was so close to success now, here in Sicily, that he couldn’t even imagine failure in America. He had to concentrate.
At about ten-thirty he saw people coming along the track from Bivona. Was it three figures—or four? As they drew closer he saw that it was three men and a woman—Annunziata! Soon after that he saw that’ one of the three men was a priest, but not Father Ignazio. What was going on?
The four people approached the church and entered: Alesso, Annunziata, the priest, and a man whom Silvio recognized as Alesso’s guard. He was presumably also the best man. Despite what had happened at the auction, Alesso still walked with a swagger. Annunziata was as fair as ever, as beautiful as ever. That almond skin. No one looked up. Why should they?
Alesso and Annunziata sat in the front pew while the bodyguard sat on the other side of the aisle and placed his lupara by his side. The priest busied himself for a while, finding his place in the Bible, rearranging his surplice and his prayer book. Then he said, “I don’t see your bridesmaid, Annunziata. Will she be here soon?”
“I hope so,” said Annunziata. “Kostanza knew the time. Smeralda is bringing her.”
It was the first time Silvio had heard her speak since he had left so many months ago. Her voice brought back those nights in the bivio.
“I think we’ll begin,” said the priest. “We won’t wait for them. We want to be finished before it gets too hot.
“Now, I shall be here tomorrow, of course, although Father Ignazio will actually be taking the service. He’s very weak, as you know, but insists on coming, so we shall make the service as short as possible. I hope you won’t mind.
“Now, Annunziata, you stand here, and you, Alesso, there.” He indicated a spot in front of where the bodyguard was sitting.
In fact, the priest now addressed himself to the bodyguard. “Giorgio, this is a wedding, a sacrament, and this is a church. No weapons, please. There’s no need.” He opened his prayer book and looked for the service.
Giorgio looked across to Alesso, who nodded. Giorgio picked up his lupara and made for the back of the church.
Silvio saw his chance. He watched Giorgio place his lupara in the shade of an almond tree near the church. Quickly, Silvio crept down the stairs from the gallery and ran to the back of the church, where the door was. He had just reached the end of the aisle when the priest raised his eyes from the prayer book and saw him.
“Hello? Hello there? Who are you? I say, what are you doing?”
It was too late. Silvio had reached the door, closed it, and bolted it with Giorgio still outside. He took the key from the keyhole. Now he had Alesso where he wanted. He turned to face the others.
Annunziata was the first to react. “Silvio!” she gasped. “Please God, no!”
But Alesso wasn’t much slower. “Randazzo!” he cried. “My God!”
Silvio walked down the main aisle. As he did so he took from his pocket the object he had been careful to bring all the way from New Orleans. A garrote.
When he was about fifteen feet from Alesso and Annunziata, he stopped. Giorgio could be heard banging on the church door.
“Silvio,” breathed Annunziata. “Why are you doing this?”
“Zata, how can you ask? He set me up. He betrayed us. He killed those children, Zata, not me. Thanks to him, Bastiano is in jail.”
“It’s not true!” cried Alesso. “He’s lying. The whole plan was his idea.”
Annunziata looked at Silvio.
“I talked to Ruggiero. There was a big meeting with the Liottas. They gave your fiancé Alia as a prize. The Liottas kept the narcotics. Alesso was to have been given Fontana Murata to run….” Silvio looked at Alesso and smiled. “I found out about the geological survey, and the coal. I told Luca Mancuso.”
Alesso looked shocked, but recovered. “You!”
It was the sweetest moment of Silvio’s life. “And now I’m going to kill you.” He moved forward.
The priest tried to intervene. “You cannot fight in a church.”
More bangs came from the back of the building as Giorgio continued hammering on the door.
Suddenly Alesso rushed to the back of the apse. Pocketing the garrote, Silvio ran after him. On his way, Alesso grabbed the metal cross from the altar.
“No!” screamed the priest.
Barely had he done so, however, than Silvio snatched at one of the brass candlesticks. This time the priest just gasped.
Alesso and Silvio faced each other. The cross was longer than the candlestick, but heavier, more unwieldy. The jewels encrusted in its surface caught the light and glittered, like pebbles in a stream. Silvio moved closer to Alesso. He had a cold confidence about him. This is why he had come four thousand miles across the Atlantic; this is what he should have done long ago. At last, things were falling into place.
He lunged forward with the candlestick, but Alesso parried his blow with the cross. Silvio tried a second time—with the same result. They were warily circling around the apse. Giorgio was still banging on the door.
Alesso’s breathing was calming down now as he adjusted to the situation. Silvio could see the expression on his face changing as he began to think of a way out. But Silvio’s mood remained cold. He would outthink Alesso. There was no way out.
He lunged again—and Alesso parried again. But Silvio’s lunge was a feint and he snatched back the candlestick as soon as he had pretended to swing it. Too late, Alesso realized what was happening—but now Silvio changed the angle of his aim, bringing the candlestick down on Alesso’s wrist. He screamed in pain and dropped the cross.
Now, quickly, Silvio threw the candlestick at Alesso’s head, making the other man duck while at the same time he nursed his injur
ed hand. Silvio ran after the candlestick and hurled himself on Alesso. They fell to the stone floor, Silvio’s hands searching for Alesso’s throat. He was still perfectly cold. He had the upper hand; he knew what he was going to do. Alesso seemed to have gone limp. He was not resisting.
Suddenly Silvio felt a hot pain in his arm. Alesso had stabbed him! That’s why he had gone limp: he had been quietly groping for his knife. The knife Silvio had seen in Alesso’s boot that day at Fontana Murata.
Silvio rolled off the other man and got to his feet. Blood flowed down his forearm into the palm of his hand. Alesso couldn’t have known it but he had sliced into Silvio’s flesh in almost exactly the same place where he had been injured all those years ago on the Syracusa. The knife had missed the artery, so the bleeding looked worse than it was. But the pain was bad enough and now Alesso had the advantage.
Silvio stood for a moment, gripping his right forearm with his left hand, trying to stanch the blood. His mood was no longer cold. He was sweating, his heart heaved, and he was thinking hard.
Alesso got to his feet. He knew he had to press his advantage. He held the knife out and came toward Silvio. Silvio backed away. He ought to have remembered Alesso would have a knife. That had been a bad mistake.
They had by now traveled all the way around the apse and were again level with the altar. The priest and Annunziata were on the far side of the church, standing close together but not speaking.
Alesso kept coming forward. Silvio continued to back away, but he wouldn’t be able to do that forever. Both his hands were sticky with blood. Alesso maneuvered himself near the altar, where there was another candlestick. He didn’t need it now, but he was determined to make sure that Silvio didn’t get it either.
But in doing that, Alesso had allowed Silvio near the lectern. Silvio saw his chance. He grabbed the Bible and held it in front of him, like a shield. It was heavy but it was large, and thick. He found himself thinking that it was probably bulletproof, let alone knife-proof.
He heard the priest mutter again. The cross, the candlestick, now the Bible.
Alesso had halted. Each man was trying to outthink the other, to surprise his opponent.
Silvio didn’t dare look, but it felt as though the blood had stopped running down his wrist. The pain was still there, though, making him sweat. In fact, the sweat was running into his eyes. He would have to wipe them clear soon, but didn’t dare do that just yet.
Now Alesso was coming forward again, the knife held out.
Silvio stopped backing off. Alesso stopped, too. Silvio glared at him, their eyes locked in a ferocious exchange. Then, before Alesso moved forward again, while both his feet were on the ground, together, Silvio threw the Bible to the floor.
Its heavy bulk landed on Alesso’s toes and now it was his turn to scream in pain.
Silvio was on him, however, grabbing the wrist that held the knife with one hand and poking two fingers into his eyes with the other. Alesso screamed again as he was temporarily blinded. Silvio brought the other man’s wrist down onto the back of a pew. But Alesso’s wrist still held the knife. Silvio repeated the action. Still Alesso wouldn’t let go. Silvio bent his head and bit deeply into the flesh of Alesso’s wrist. The other man screamed again—and this time dropped the knife. Silvio kicked it away. Now they were even again, the way he wanted it.
But Alesso wasn’t about to give up. He ran back toward the altar again and grabbed hold of the remaining candlestick. He turned to face Silvio. Before he moved forward this time, however, he snatched at the candle and pulled it away, revealing a long, four-inch spike. He brandished that at Silvio. Now he came forward again.
Alesso was thinking fast—Silvio had to give him that. How was he going to counter this latest weapon, the candlestick spike?
Silvio backed away. As he did so he looked around the little church. Not even Alesso’s knife, supposing he could find it again, would be much help.
But the church was so plain. There was no decoration apart from the altar and the pulpit and there was nothing there—
Yes, there was! He turned and scrambled across the aisle to the pulpit. Alesso moved to follow, but Silvio was too quick. He ran up the few steps and found what he knew would be there: the incense burner. A small blue glass receptacle on a long chain. The priest, or the abbot, would swing this before and after services, but what mattered now was that the chain was strong.
Alesso stood below him, the spike of the candlestick pointing upward. Silvio held the chain. He began to swing it, in a circle. Probably his reach just outdistanced Alesso’s, but Alesso might be able to parry the glass receptacle, or even catch it if he wasn’t careful. Nonetheless the chain at least gave Silvio a chance.
Quickly he climbed onto the railing of the pulpit—and jumped down the other side. He stumbled as he fell, but Alesso had to run around a pew and by that time Silvio was back on his feet.
Alesso came forward relentlessly. He knew he had the edge. His weapon was longer, sharper, stronger. Silvio could swing the incense burner, but at some stage, unless he threw it at Alesso, he would have to get close if he was to win. And close up, Alesso had the undoubted advantage. Silvio had to outthink him.
Giorgio still banged on the church doors from time to time, shouting, “Alesso! Alesso!” He banged so hard, Silvio thought the lock must surely break.
That gave him an idea.
Alesso was still coming forward. Silvio was still swinging the incense burner, slowly, above his head. He backed away, down the aisle, away from the pulpit. He came to a break in the pews and moved to one side. Alesso followed, the spike of the candlestick all the time pointing at Silvio’s heart.
Silvio retreated to the side of the church, passing one of the stone columns that supported the roof. Immediately he moved forward, back in the direction of the altar. There were no pews here, just a passageway to allow people to get to their seats.
As he moved forward his shoulder brushed the pillar. It was perfect for what he had in mind.
Now he stopped.
Alesso, just rounding the pillar, stopped also for a fraction, immediately alert for any trick of Silvio’s. But Silvio still continued to swing the incense burner slowly. He gazed into Alesso’s eyes. Alesso’s eyes were brown, like Silvio’s, and wide open, taking everything in. Perfetto.
Silvio stepped backward. Alesso moved forward, his body now abreast of the stone pillar. In one movement Silvio took the chain of the incense burner above his head and swung it hard, very hard. At the last moment he let go of the chain and flung the glass receptacle at the stone pillar with all the force he could muster. He watched as Alesso’s eyes followed the receptacle for a moment—and then Silvio saw no more. As the incense burner smashed against the stone pillar, he closed his own eyes and put his hands over his face.
The receptacle shattered into smithereens, tiny splinters of blue glass ricocheting in all directions. Silvio couldn’t see, but heard Alesso scream in pain as his open eyes were caught by tiny fragments of glass that sprayed out from the stone pillar. Alesso was virtually blinded.
Silvio took his hands from his own eyes and leaped on Alesso. The other man had dropped the candlestick and was rubbing at his eyes, crying and gasping in agony.
In no time, Silvio took out his garrote and had it around Alesso’s throat. At last!
It wasn’t as easy as he had thought. His fingers were still sticky with blood and it proved hard to hold on to the garrote. Worse, Alesso, though still blinded, had found the chain of the incense burner where it had dropped after hitting the pillar, and was now wrapping that around Silvio’s throat. Each man was trying to garrote the other.
And so it came down to a trial of strength. Who would give way first? Silvio’s garrote was cutting into Alesso’s neck; he could see the other man’s face going red. But Silvio was growing weak, too, as the chain was pulled tighter around his throat. Worse, he felt his grip slipping as the blood on his fingers acted like grease, or soap. Alesso might be blinded
, but he was getting the upper hand in this last-Suddenly something warm and sticky spattered across Silvio’s face and he felt the weight of Alesso’s body slumped across his. The other man wasn’t moving. At the same time the pressure on Silvio’s neck had eased.
His eyes cleared. His breath came back and the strength began to return to his body. He looked up. Annunziata stared down at him. She was holding the crucifix. It was covered in blood.
Silvio threw Alesso’s weight off him. The other man rolled to the ground and lay still. There was a deep gash in his skull and his hair was matted and caked with blood. His eyes were open. He was dead.
The priest stood a little way off. He looked terrified. Giorgio was still banging on the church door.
Silvio struggled to his feet. He was still weak. He put his arm around Annunziata. She dropped the cross, which clattered onto the stone floor for the second time. Her body began to heave as she sobbed and sobbed.
Silvio looked down at her and kissed her. Her lips were salty. “You are free to come to America. We are free.”
But she looked at him as though she were terrified.
“Zata!” he cried. Then, more gently: “Zata … what is it?”
She shook her head. She was still sobbing.
“Smeralda said you would never marry me. But she wouldn’t say why—what is it?”
Gently, she pushed him away. She wiped her eyes and her nose. She pushed her hair back into place. Eventually she composed herself enough to say, “Come. There is something I must show you.”
Gino Fazio’s body was lifted from the stone floor and carried down the stairs and out toward the shattered gate at Treme Street. A huge roar went up as the Sicilian’s crumpled figure came into view. He was passed from the riflemen to the crowd, then passed over their heads farther and farther back. The roar seemed to follow the body as it was transferred from one person to another.
The crowd now extended to St. Ann Street, on the corner of which was a tall street lamp. Someone threw a rope over the arm of the lamp and made a noose. The noose was placed around Fazio’s neck, and then he was hauled up to the top of the lamp. Blood dripped from his wounds sustained in the prison shooting and the rope bit into the flesh around his neck. His head sagged to one side.