Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

  "Aye. Do you have word of Paddy?"

  "We'll talk when the lass returns and is gone."

  "So it'll be." They remove their caps and lay them on the table still with a grip on them with twisting hands. They wait, eyes flicking about for the perky barmaid to return. A dryness comes to their mouths at the same time, much like identical twins might experience. Heads twist and turn together, syncopated eyes dart about as one. They look at one another, then for the auburn-haired barmaid again. To Muldoon's eyes. And back. They sense. It is not a good word they'll be hearing. All this while listening to Conor, the zit, slurp his meal, gravy still on his chin and more on the table. The checkered tablecloth beneath the Pit Bull's bowl looks as though he has strained the stew up through the cloth. Mrs. Shanahan, the boys' feisty mother, would slap them silly if they were to eat like that at home. Or have 'em eat out of a bowl on the floor to teach them table manners, which she had done once or thrice when they were young.

  The wait is excruciating for the Shanahan lads. Their breaths grow short and their jaws tighten with glum anticipation.

  When Pisces and Anna finish dinner, Gina hastens to clear away the dishes nearly dropping one, and does let a fork clatter to the tile. Anna inhales sharply, shaking her head and hisses in Italian, "Inept peasant."

  Gina drops another. Utters, "Scusa!"

  Anna flicks her hand toward Gina as if brushing unwanted crumbs from the table.

  The supposed-to-be house mouse retrieves the forks and backs away muttering, "Mi dispiase." Then repeats herself in English to please Pisces. "I'm sorry."

  Pisces nods not wholly imperceptibly, smiles and says, "No mess. Not to worry. Bruno made worse," and he chuckles.

  Rocco makes an unintentional topic changing entrance with a tray holding a snifter and a short fine crystal drink glass. The snifter filled with an apricot brandy from a small family winery in Tuscany. It is their Chianti that Pisces also drinks. The glass has but a splash of Macallan fine oak 12 year scotch whiskey on the rocks for the Signora. Pisces more often than not complains about her drinking the fine whiskey on ice, but not tonight. This is whiskey imported by Rinaldi and sent to Anna. Rocco serves both and then places a new, unopened box of cigars on the table. As is customary, Pisces opens the fresh box of his Joya De Nicaragua cigars, wrapped in their stunningly beautiful Rosado-colored Nicaraguan Habana Criollo wrappers. Pisces removes one, and the wrapper. Fingers and feels it carefully. As should be it feels substantial, no bumps, no soft spots.

  Anna sits, legs crossed, foot twitching and finger quietly tapping on the table watching him. And by his way of things, not yet sipped her Macallan. Her thoughts are as always. This is his ritual. First the cigar and its lighting. Then the inhalation and taste followed by the intense, squinting gaze at the smoke. Then a sip of brandy. A nod that signals the tranquil leopard is satisfied and finished with his ritual, and the feline Anna may have a sip of scotch. Then wait to see what Pisces, her Roberto, wants to chat about, if anything. On occasion he says nothing, finishes his cigar and brandy and takes her here, on the table. Then another brandy and have her again or perhaps just have her perform her specialty. Anna awakens from her thoughts by blinking her eyes voluntarily several times and audibly exhaling.

  Roberto Catalano draws on the cigar as Rocco holds a lighted wood match. As expected the draw is easy, spot-on flawless. The first taste, in fact the first one-third palette, will be sweet with flavors of cherries and raisins. The smoke is a beautiful, consistent gray and twirls upward into the night air, and then appears to float from the veranda and drift down the mountain under the sea breeze. Catalano smiles in satisfaction. Rests his cigar-holding hand on the table, and takes a generous taste of his brandy with the other. Nods his head in fulfillment. Smiles. Pauses. He motions to Rocco, dismissing him. Then says as the man is leaving, "Rocco, have one of my cigars, old friend ... one mind you." He jokingly admonishes, "And a glass of brandy if you wish. The last of this. Then open another and set it out here."

  Rocco breaks into a broad grin, says, "Grazie mille."

  Catalano smiles then lets it turn sour quicker than warm milk. "Don't forget. Later, in the study." Pauses, growls, "Is it tidy?"

  Rocco says, "Yes, sir," and is gone, disappearing into the darkness of the villa. The only lights spreading warmth are in the kitchen, in the study, and on the veranda. From the veranda other villa lights stretch down the mountain blending with those of shops in town, and boats and yachts in the harbor below. One of the latter is Pisces' own 98 foot Benetti. It is a Fratelli Benetti design, built by this old prestigious firm and Italian registered. It has two engines with twin screws and a 600 nautical mile range cruising at 12K's. Carries 12,000 L's of fuel and about 8,400 water. It can sleep ten. All teakwood decking and the salons, lounges and bridges are furnished in mostly white leather. It has a crew of five, all hand selected by Rocco from the DeStefano crime clan in Calabria. Its name is the Sorridenta.

  Catalano turns to Anna and says, "Bruno is gone. Today was his last day."

  She frowns in feigned disbelief. Rattles the ice cubes in her Macallan, then rests the glass on the table casually, yet deliberately. "Why? I thought he was doing a fine job. And he was with us ... you for such a long time."

  "He broke my trust. When that happens, the person must go. Be dealt with, no matter the time, the relation or whom." He stares at Anna for seconds, watching for some reaction. She grimaces ever so slightly, more a twitch of her mouth, fingers her etched crystal glass then pulls her hand back in her lap. He continues, "You broke my trust. But, you're my wife so you get to stay." His eyes narrow and the leopard snarls, "For now."

  Anna stands, flushed, hisses, "Bruno did nothing. I did nothing. You insinuate everything with your eyes and tone of voice, your mannerisms." She stomps her foot hard on the tile. Seeing no reaction and with evidently no immediate response coming, she angrily shouts, "We did nothing you didn't bring on yourself. That you and that slut didn't do. I will not ..."

  "Shut up. He did, and you did. And have done for some time now. It will be the last time, or you will feel more pain than Bruno." He takes a sip of brandy and rises slowly from the chair as a leopard might when sensing danger or prey. "And don't think about leaving. You will leave only when I say. You have nowhere to go anyway. You are an orphaned peasant girl, remember. A peasant," reminding her she is no more nor less than the house mouse. "I took you in and made a life for you. A good one. Now, leave. Go to your room. I will be along later, if I choose. And do as I choose."

  She jams her arms tight to her hips and thighs, fists clinched, and comes to his end of the table. He methodically places his cigar in an ashtray. She moves to slap him, but Pisces is much too quick, catching her arm midway in motion. With his other hand, he slaps her across the face hard dropping her to the tile floor of the veranda. He reaches down, grabs her by the hair and snatches her to her feet. Growls, "Do as I say, now. Be thankful for what you have." He pauses stepping closer. "Your life."

  She snaps, "But you can have your slut, Gina. I can't ..." she screams as he slaps her hard again knocking her backwards, her feet slipping on the tile. She twists as she falls first to her knees, then her head crashes onto the ceramic hardness of the floor. This time she pushes and claws away from him on hands and skinned knees. Tears running from beneath her lids, nose dripping blood. She gathers herself, staggering to her feet. Her face shows a harsh redness from the two slaps, blood oozing from her nose, and a trickle from the right side of her mouth mingles with a tear winding down her cheek.

  He says, "Now go. You pushed your luck much too far tonight."

  She turns, wobbly on her feet, but her Italian temper and pride force her to stalk away, an angered strut, into the darkness of the villa. Pisces eyes trace her until he sees a bedroom lamp flicker on upstairs. Turns, sees Rocco watching from a study window. Roberto Catalano nods towards the bedroom, flicks his index finger across his throat. Then he points to the room with a demonstrative nod. The head movement is
returned in kind by Rocco, and he disappears from the window.

  Pisces prowls back to his seat changing his leopard spots as easily as shifting from low gear to drive. Catalano picks his cigar from the ashtray, not dropping an ash. The first one third has burned away. He takes a slow, easy draw and again watches the wisp of smoke circle and drift aimlessly in the night air. The second third of the cigar has the taste of mild Scotch Bonnet, pepper spice with a note of apricots and fresh almonds. Again he takes a generous sip of his apricot brandy which blends so well with his cigar. That or rum. Nothing else. He leans back allowing his body to relax, head resting on the back of the chair. Another draw. Another treat.

  With the latter thought processing through Catalano's mind, Gina, as silent as a bird walking on velvet, comes to his side. "Signore, is there something else for the Signore this evening?" She pauses a long moment, looks about again, whispers, "Is everything alright, Roberto?" The velvety words are followed with a coy grin.

  Catalano gently grasps her hand, sighs, "Yes, everything is fine. Fine. I will be out here for a time, with my cigar, my brandy and my thoughts." Then he follows with, "Non ti preoccupare."

  The coy smile is replaced with one of concern. She murmurs, "I won't worry." Then, purrs, "Roberto, ti amo," as she places her other hand on his neck where it joins the shoulder. Squeezes.

  He presses her hand, then lets it slide from his, grins and nods, gently pushing her away and says, "I know you do. Later you can show me how much." He brings the Joya De Nicaragua to his mouth once again. As she departs for the kitchen entrance, Pisces watches the young woman swing tantalizingly away. Long dark hair swishing and bouncing on her slender shoulders, she seems to float on her long thinnish legs yet distinctive calves and thighs. She has beautiful hands with long fingers. Like those of a pianist. Gina turns her head, peering back over her shoulder, a wide smile on her flawless face, a look of innocence, like a clear summer day. This affair has been going on for some time. Many times right here on this same table in the sun of early afternoon when Anna has left for town to shop, or to the beach or perceivably to Bruno somewhere cozy in town.

  Pisces leans back in his chair, relaxing, drawing and sipping. He glances up and sees the bedroom lamp still on. Sees a shadow pass from the study through the villa. It's Rocco with a tray with bottle, glass and ice bucket. And probably his personal ice pick. Pisces pours himself another brandy. Takes a sip.

  Murmurs, "Life is good. Maybe I'll paint tomorrow. The Mountain. Yes, the mountain."

  Hunter realizing that she is correct and going out to eat is not an option, asks, "So, what are we having for dinner? Do you want me to grill something out here?"

  "No, we're having leftover lasagna."

  "Leftover? From what?"

  "Always better the second night. Especially mine. A long-standing family recipe. None like it anywhere. Best restaurants can't touch it."

  "From what?"

  Dee smiles, shakes her head slowly. "Last night."

  "Oh."

  "I was going to have it last night. But, I lost a bet to ... never mind." She takes a deep breath, exhales, shakes her head. "Anyway, like I said, it's always better the second night." Pauses.

  Hunter frowns, "What?"

  "Damn, that didn't come out right either." Shakes her head, "Never mind. Get the drinks and I'll run over to my house and get the lasagna, bring it over and heat it here. We can eat out on the patio. How's that? Do you like lasagna?"

  "Yeah, sounds okay. I mean, you know, lasagna is lasagna. I've had it. All tastes the same."

  "Well, not mine, Marine. I make it with De Cecco lasagna, use both Jack and Mozzarella cheese, and cottage cheese. Sliced hard boiled eggs and great meat balls." She kisses her five finger tips. "Make them myself with ground steak, an egg, parsley and Parmesan cheese. And has onion, chopped garlic in it. Layered just right." She pauses again, tilts one hip, and with a hand on each, smiles and says, "If you don't eat two helpings, I'll give you the best bl...never mind." Laughs.

  "I've ever had. Yeah, right. I'll have seconds for sure. Believe me. Go. Bring it. Drinks on the way. Table will be set. See you back out here."

  "Grazie." She half-nods and twists her head. "First, I suggest you go see who that is peeking over your fence gate," pointing to the five-foot wooden fence between their houses.

  Hunter tenses, leaps quickly to the wall of the house, and bolts around the corner to the fence. Snaps open the gate and finds a young man standing there with a large box-like camera that newspaper photographers always seem to be carrying. Hunter snaps, "What do you want?"

  The startled photographer starts to reply when Hunter snatches the camera away, throws it on the narrow sidewalk pavement, and stomps it into more than its normal assembly groups. Then grabs the young man by the throat and slams him against the stucco wall of his house. Snarls, "I said, what d'ya want?"

  "I'm with the..."

  "Don't care. You're on my property. Trespassing. For all I know a thief, perhaps a demented peeping tom." Hunter drags the man by his jacket collar along the path between the houses to the front and onto Arcola Avenue with the young man scrambling to keep from falling. Hunter shouts to the still-on-duty patrolman at the cul-de-sac. "I thought Bradovich left you here for a reason. If it's to watch me, go home. If it's to keep people away, do your damn job." He shoves the young photographer further into the street. Hunter looks at the young man, "The camera is goin' in the trash. And you're leavin', now." Turns to the cop who is hustling over, hand on his nightstick. Hunter shouts, "Officer, he's yours. He was either trespassing on my property or he's a pervert peeping tom, or both." The young man stumbles the last few steps toward the officer. Hunter turns and strides back alongside the house and into his patio, stopping to pick up the trashed camera.

  Dee says, "My God, you have a violent streak or you're certainly not an especially tolerant soul. I sure hope my lasagna meets your approval."

  "Well, if it doesn't, I won't eat a second helping and then it could get interesting."

  They stand and stare at one another for a decade of moments. Then she laughs aloud. He follows the cue. Both leave for their tasks shaking their heads.

  The drinks are good. The lasagna is superb. Both helpings. The place settings are cleared away. Then both go inside their respective houses, change into swim suits and rejoin on the patio and slip into the Jacuzzi. Dee in a pink bikini. Hunter in swim trunks. Each has another drink. The same. He an apricot brandy; she a Limoncello which when she asked for a refill, Hunter raised his eyebrows and shook his head once. It is mellow but has a kick ... like a sneak right hand.

  Dee says, "Let's talk. Relax. It's time we know a little more about each other."

  "Why?" He senses Zachary's ghost rustling in his brain-housing group and the whispered, Hunter don't you do her.

  Dee senses either hesitation or hostility. Smiles, says, "Don't get hot and bothered. If we're going to work and travel together as writer and secretary, we should know one another." She moves from the opposite side toward Hunter, with a few slides of her hips or buns.

  Hunter says, "I see." And edges two cheek-lengths away. Now opposite one another again, one hand clasping the drinks along the edge. They settle with a moment of uneasiness. Then Hunter says, "Tell me about your family. Where they live? What they do? About your kids."

  "Children. Kids are goats, but that's a good start. However ..." Dee begins with her grandparents, explaining with obvious love and caring in her voice that they immigrated here from Italy. That they, her grandfather, Antonio Antonelli DeLuca and her grandmother, Signora Angelina Maria Celebresee DeLuca, owned and operated a winery in the Tuscany area. Her parents with them. After her mother died, and the political atmosphere in Italy was becoming unpleasant at the least, her father, Benito Antonio DeLuca, came here with the grandparents, her older sister Maria, and her. All now live in Napa Valley, running their family-owned winery, Per Sempre. "It means, 'Forever'," she murmurs. "DeLuca Vineyards are forever. After Mari
a and I, Dino and Anna, and after them, their children. Forever."

  "Maria?"

  "My sister. Beautiful. Smart. A little taller and slimmer than me but still has ... never mind."

  Hunter starts to respond, but Dee immediately continues in her rambling, bubbly style that is made still more enjoyable by her husky, contralto voice, saying, "It features premium wines. In Italy, wine is part of life and we want to make DeLuca wine part of people's lives here. Our premium wines include limited quantities of Sangeovese, Pinot Grigio, Rosato and a superb Estate Red Wine. A blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Sangeovese and Merlot. Wines that my grandfather and father are knowledgeable about."

  As Hunter listens, because of her style of speech he wonders how she got employed by the Agency. They, we, are so muted by the nature of their, our, business.

  Dee continues about her grandparents and her Dad sharing an old home on the sixty-two acres of vineyards and working winery. The house has a large pool, a guest cottage with a smaller pool. Also a wonderful tasting room. This room is a touch of Tuscany, a link with home, and is casual and warm in the middle of the vineyards with an indoor view of the barrel room. It also has a picnic area for tourists. She adds with a quiet laugh, "And it's dog friendly. Hadda' be." Dee laughs again. "My grandfather rides around the vineyards on his motorcycle with a side car... for his dog, Cab. Magpie's momma."

  She goes on saying that Maria, her sister, although stunning, is single and basically operates the business, while her father is in fact the Wine Master. She adds, "And my grandfather, besides his motorcycling, continues to add his wisdom, and most importantly, he persists in making his own apricot brandy. So, if you ever get a chance to meet him, the two of you will have something in common."