Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

  Roberto clasps her hand, smiles, responds, "Ciao." Then quickly in English, "Hello again."

  She nods, whispers, "Hello, again, it is." Her smile is as brilliant and soothing as the sun which is moments from resting its edge on the sea, directly beyond the villa. The tone and mood is set. It will be warm, two recent friends meeting again as if the acquaintance was lengthy as opposed to new, and both comfortable speaking English for the moment, Italian when necessary or perhaps in passion. The path is clear. Where it ends, one is perhaps unaware; the other, certain.

  They enter the villa with Chiarina leading followed by Roberto, and of course Benito lagging but a few paces behind, still watchful. The entry spills immediately into a moderately- sized living room with all white walls, dark wood trim everywhere showcased by the similarly trimmed huge panoramic windows overlooking the veranda and the sea. The vaulted ceiling with dark rafters gives the room both a vision of size and a feeling of comfort. It has a large, stone fireplace which sets on the tiled floor. The furniture, with the fireplace as the focal point, is all large, pastel-colored soft stuffed chairs and sofa. Chairs with foot stools, tables alongside with magazines that cry "read in comfort" and the couch whispers, "snuggle fireside". She inadvertently interrupts the room's ambiance by asking, "Would you like to see the rest of my home now or later?"

  Roberto, lost in the moment, fumbles with, "Why not now so you can show me where to leave my swim trunks. You did say to bring them?"

  "Yes. We'll see if you need them. But come, let me show you about."

  The dining room is also in white with dark wood trim and a table that seats five. The veranda can also be seen from here. This room leads to an enormous kitchen, galley really. Further, down a hallway beyond, in the back of the villa are three bedrooms, all with views of the coastline. The master also has a white motif with dark wood trim around the windows and rafters. A wrought iron king-size bed, matching tables. A dark wood dresser setting under a huge mirror. A large wood burning fire place and with the flowers, paintings, and pillowing, the room has a softness about it regardless of the white. It has a colossal master bath to include a large Jacuzzi circular tub with a view of the sea beyond.

  She shrugs, smiles, says, "I like to relax. Here, by the fire, and the sea view." She turns and says over her shoulder, "Leave your trunks in here. On the bed. Come," her hand trailing behind leading him and searching for a warm touch.

  One of the other two bedrooms is for guests. The other is obviously in use. The two share a bath, but the bath is definitely feminine. She and Roberto only peek in the doors of these rooms, and then she hurriedly leads him to the veranda, poolside to a small table in the corner, directly over the cliffs. The view of the coastline is colossal. She sits at the table, pointing to a chair for him. As he sits, a maid appears on cue. Chiarina says, "This is Estella; Estella Riebello, my aide, chef, helper but mostly a friend and confidant ... and frequently my dinner partner along with Benito. Stell, this is Signor Roberto Catalano."

  Pisces swallows hard. Grins, eyebrows raised. Estella is lovely. A petite but well-endowed natural redhead with greenish mischievous eyes. Pisces gawks, then quickly Roberto smiles, utters, "Ciao". The moment is instantaneous, and lost, except for the Pisces mind. Stell graciously nods with a hesitant impish smile, perhaps having noticed the momentary ogle.

  Chiarina says, "I hope wine will be fine. As I said, I do want you to at least taste our local wine."

  Roberto answers quickly, "That will be wonderful. Let's see now, it has a wisp of the arid Sirocco wind and a taste of the sea."

  "You listen well, especially to the romance of the grapes. An artist's trait and outlook I would think." She looks to Estella, "Two, and bring the bottle in the event we decide to relax for a spell." She tilts her head away from Roberto, toward Estella, says, "Stell my dear, what are you planning for dinner, and when?"

  "A tuna casserole. Fresh caught today, and Cannoli with ricotta cheese as you suggested. Served when you wish, Chiar. Signora." An ever so slight grin creases her face.

  Chiarina looks at Roberto, head now tilted toward him, and with a playful look on her face says, "Late, after dark and a swim?"

  Roberto nods approval. "Both, or more readily all. My favorites." Smiles and reaches over and gently squeezes Chiarina's hand. Estella floats away as soft as a wisp of the arid wind, leaving Pisces mind to wander. Wonder.

  I bet she's part of the package, the team. And at bat, a lot.

  Then Roberto grasps the moment and senses and sees only Chiarina.

  She says, "It is wonderful of you to come. To visit. And the timing is perfect."

  "Thank you. I have thought of it often since we met in Taormina." He pauses, asks, "How so? The timing?"

  "I'm leaving for Taormina the day after tomorrow. Going to look for a villa there. I am moving from here. In truth from Palermo, and my past I suppose."

  Roberto smiles. "This is such a scenic location. A warm home. It would be a shame to leave it. Not sure I would do that. But, perhaps I can be of service. You're welcome to stay as a guest in my villa while you search. My staff would be at your disposal. You could come and go as you please." The spider pauses, then, "It would be my pleasure to help."

  Chiarina sits pensively, gazing toward the setting sun on the sea.

  Weaving his web, Roberto adds, "Perhaps you should keep this as well. It's charming."

  After a few additional moments of pensiveness, the stunning widow smiles, nodding slowly. "Perhaps. It does sounds inviting. Let me dwell on the thought. Here comes Stell. I hope you enjoy this wine."

  "I'm sure I will." He watches, but not too closely, as Estella places the tray on the table, sets the two glasses, opens the wine, then pours a sip for Signora Russo's taste. Chiarina instead offers the glass to Roberto. He sniffs the wine, gives it unrushed swirls in the glass and takes a sip. Eyebrows up, and with a nod, says, "Wonderful. Sicilian. And it is of this region."

  Chiarina exhales excitedly, motioning for Estella to complete the pouring. When she does, she leaves as Chiarina and Roberto gently clink their glasses and both say at the same time, "To a warm friendship."

  Chiarina tilts her head in astonishment, laughs. "My word, what a coincidence, or perhaps an omen."

  "An omen. If so, a warm one too, or three perhaps."

  CHAPTER 21

  "To be sure of hitting the target, shoot

  first and call whomever you hit the target."

  Anon

  The Shanahan brothers sit in the car behind Paddy Collins' garage. Windows down as the elder Muldoon goes over the instructions once again telling them to drive to London's Heathrow airport and park in the long term area. Wipe the car down carefully as a precaution. Do not speed on the way; there is ample time for the 617 km trip. Inside Heathrow, go directly to the BEA counter and check-in. Sean interrupts, "What does BEA stand for?"

  Muldoon angrily replies, "Jesus, Joseph and Mary. May the saints ... where have you been, laddie? The British European Airways." Colin Muldoon wipes the drool from his mouth with his sleeve. "Where the blazes have ya been for the last ... ahhh, never mind. It will be a direct flight to the city with the ... ahhh ..."

  "Leaning tower. Pisa. And where I've been is here, fightin' the war. Here where it 'tis and well ought to be. Not where you got my brother, Patrick, killed you blundering, babbling, drooling baboon."

  Muldoon's son, Conor, leaps for the car window and is met with Sean's fist, knocking him back but not over. His nose red and bleeding and lip split, both a result of his usual eyes-closed, pit bullish charge.

  Sean starts to clamor out of the car as he shouts, "C'mon you over-stuffed cocker spaniel. I'll ..."

  His venting and fury is cut off by his brother Danny's hand clasped over his mouth and jerking him back into the passenger seat. Danny pins Sean's to his side. At the same time the elder Muldoon grasps his son in a bear hug with Paddy Collins stepping between the struggling and staggering Muldoons and the car. The raging Conor screams, "I get m
e hands on you, I be killin' ya as quick as lookin' at ya ... ya skinny pig-shit runt of an Irishman."

  The elder Muldoon has Paddy Collins, a monster of a man, pull and wrestle Conor away into the open garage. Colon goes on and finishes his instructions with, "Danny, after you get to Pisa, go to the hotel I wrote down on the slip of paper. Kerrigan should be there already or on his way. Others too, perhaps. They be all government people like we're useta dealing with and Jews, Krauts maybe. And a big Italian loot named Rocco. He's some kind of enforcer. Be careful of 'im. But if necessary, kill 'em all, but Kerrigan for sure. If 'tis messy, get out of the city and country anyway ya can. Hike it if ya must. If not too messy, take a train to Venice, and from there a train to the channel. Ferry across and get to the car. Be careful there that the car is not being watched. If that be the case, leave it. Then get home best ye can."

  Danny nods, says, "I've got it. We'll be off now."

  "And be bringing some of our money back if ya can."

  "I'll not be worryin' about money. You have a pint or two ready when we get back."

  The elder Muldoon is forced to grin. "Aye, then. And lads, be as courageous as lions and tough as whet leather." Muldoon winks and waves to the brothers. Then he turns to Paddy Collins and his son who is still mildly struggling in the garage, says, "Enough, Conor me lad, or it will be the back of me hand."

  The Shanahan brothers drive off. Sean says, "I'm goin' to kill that ape's son one day soon. When we get there we should kill Kerrigan and let the others be. They're not our business. Nor the business of the Army. They're Muldoon's personal business. He wants only to let it be known the Army has no boundaries, or better, he personally has none."

  Danny nods, "You may be right, little brother. We'll see. Ya know, it may be that this Kerrigan lad is not the one. He's Irish clean through I'd bet. It might not be him. It might all be Muldoon's doin' somehow and the tale is his nasty blarney. I don't trust 'em. He's up to more than Army business here."

  "Aye. We are of one mind then. Yes?"

  "Aye." Danny takes his eyes from the road for a second, glancing at Sean. "We are."

  Rocco unfolds a reason why he must leave to Adrianna. Tells her to pack everything. His and hers, and leave nothing here. Then drive home to Roma. He softens his tone and adds, "I'll call. I promise. Soona. Tell you where I'll be, and if you want to come, good. This time we will be together forever."

  In her eyes the welling tears overflow, streaming down her cheeks. She says nothing, only nods. She understands the nature of this man, and enough of his business. Adrianna whimpers, "I love you. I will come to you."

  They kiss and embrace. She holds tight, trying to make it last. Feeling it to be final. It lasts only seconds longer. Rocco pulls away, utters, "Yours." Points and motions with his head to a cash stuffed large brown envelope on the small phone desk. He turns and dashes out of the room slamming the door behind him.

  Rocco takes the exit stairs down to the basement level, then another separate stairwell up to the kitchen thereby avoiding the lobby area. He pushes through busy apron-clad chefs and uniformed servers to the rear entrance and out into the alley behind the hotel.

  The apartments where Antonio is holed up are less than a kilometer from the Hotel Duomo. Nice, upscale which leads Rocco to believe Antonio is there with someone, probably a girlfriend, and he has several. The young man is good at capturing hearts but not with keeping his lips sealed. He likes lira too much and would sell Rocco or his boss, Pisces, to the highest bidder, or any bidder. Antonio's problem is there are not many bidders in this city, and those few there are know of Rocco which makes Antonio's market place as empty as a beggars pocket.

  Rocco arrives and sees his informant casually smoking a cigarette in the doorway to the apartment building. The man drops his cigarette, grinding it with his foot as Rocco approaches. The man leans toward Rocco's ear, whispers, "305." Rocco shakes the man's hand and says, "Wait here. Be my eyes and I will pay you well," then squeezes the man on the shoulder in a gesture of loyalty and assurance and disappears through the apartment's outer door and into an entranceway with mail slots.

  All but a few have names. More important they all have apartment numbers. Across from them is a closed door with a sign "Manager" engraved on its tarnished brass plate. Rocco checks the mailbox again, sees the numerals 305 and a meaningless name. He mutters, "305. At the back." He strides quietly down the hall and uses the fire stairwell going up. He doesn't need the sound of the elevator to alert anyone, especially Antonio. Also not the likely snoopy manager. On the way up he takes his Ruger .357 out of his beltline and affixes the suppressor, the silencer. He slides the weapon in his front trouser waistband.

  At apartment 305 Rocco presses his ear to the door, a few inches below the imitation brass numerals. He hears nothing. Carefully tries the knob. It's locked of course. Presses his ear to the door again, and again hears nothing. He presses harder. After a few more moments he picks-up a muffled gasp or scream. Feels a slight bump but not from the door. A muffled thumping sound. He smiles. Takes a few steps down the hallway, runs his hand along the wall. The thumping is stronger, the noise is obvious, and the gasps are a mixture of groans, grunts and muffled screams. He smiles again.

  Bedroom to the left. Having a go. His mind slips away for a second thinking of Adrianna. A screamer. Smiles, then dead-pan instantly.

  Rocco returns to the door in three giant soft steps. Easily picks the flimsy apartment door lock. Pulls out his Ruger .357, and in silence opens the door. Steps in swiftly, eyes and weapon functioning as one searching the interior. Nothing but the diminishing sounds of spent ecstasy and ended satisfaction from the bedroom to his left. He opens the door and steps in, says, "Caio, Antonio."

  The young brunette sitting astride Antonio with her head drooping forward, hands braced against the headboard, emits a startled yelp and spins off her lover. She lands in a sitting position, mouth gaping open, eyes saucer wide and legs still spread open. Rocco adeptly moves the muzzle to the right. Pfsssst. Pfssst. A double tap. A professional, tight pattern like quotation marks without the swirl. She is thrown back on the bed. What's left of the back of her head clunks on the headboard just beneath the splattering of her blood, brains and bone on the wall, headboard and pillows. A collateral spray splashes the side of Antonio's head at his ear.

  Terror stricken, Antonio attempts to turn and get up. Rocco fires again, hitting the young man in his left shoulder joint. More blood and bone splatters. Antonio screams and spins back to his left. Before he can move again, Rocco has pushed the door closed and is sitting at Antonio's side with the muzzle of the weapon pressed hard directly under the chin. Rocco grasps the young man by the hair. He says, "Antonio, my man, we need to talk."

  He struggles to get up. Rocco puts a second round into Antonio's other shoulder. As powerful as the .357 is, the hollow point may go beyond the headboard, but not through the wall. Besides, Rocco knows this is the last room on the floor therefore on the other side of the wall is stone. Antonio lies in anguish, writhing in pain near shock but trying to grasp his shoulders with his hands. He can't. Rocco presses his hand on the boy's forehead, says, "Antonio, who have you told what you saw by the university? And at Alberto's?"

  Antonio, tears flowing free now. Eyes of a terror-stricken deer. He shakes his head vigorously. Gags while trying to speak.

  Rocco asks, "No one?"

  The boy trembles in dread, the blood oozing from both his shoulders pooling makes squishing sounds as he rigorously shakes his head, "no".

  "Antonio?"

  More of the same, sobbing, shaking of the head regardless of Rocco's grip.

  "And of me? Antonio?"

  The young man continues his energetic yet terrified denials. Whimpering. Trying to scream but Rocco has retightened his grip over Antonio's mouth after his severely animated "No's". The coppery smell of blood soaking the sheets and pillows saturates the room. On Antonio's left, it mixes with the girl's.

  Rocco says, "No one, h
uh? You know what? I believe you, Antonio. I do. If you had, you would be gone. Taken the money and ran."

  Antonio's face contorted with fear begins to become less tense registering a glimmer of hope. He is still trying to grasp his shoulders as the huge Italian stands.

  Rocco smiles, says, "But, I don't trust you." Pfstttt.

  The fifth of the six rounds in the cylinder hits Antonio in the center of his forehead. His side of the headboard now matches the girl's. It's less than hers, smaller in circumference. Not a matter of intellectual capacity but of the number of shots. Still it manages to spray off the headboard and onto the girl's face.

  Rocco takes out his handkerchief. Moves to the bedroom door and swipes around the spot where he remembers pushing it closed. Uses it to open the door, wiping as he closes it. Wipes the knob on the outside. Strides into the kitchen, rummages through cabinet drawers until he finds what he needs. Then with handkerchief still in hand moves quickly to the apartment door. Does the same with the apartment door after glancing up and down the hallway before exiting into the open. Then he dashes to the fire exit and heads down to the first level two and three steps at a time and not touching the iron safety railing. At the bottom he carefully and quietly opens the door a crack. Looks out. Sees nothing, enters the hallway and tiptoes to the front door, opens it and slides out joining his associate. Rocco nods a thanks and thrusts his lira stuffed hand out. The man clasps the money as Rocco hugs him, and buries an ice pick in the back of the man's head at the neck, ramming it up into the skull.

  The man slumps into Rocco's arms, and the big Italian lowers him to the white and black tiled floor. He leans over and fits his .357 in the man's hand. Wipes the handle of the ice pick clean. Then looks out the door, first one way, then the other. Sees nothing. Smiles, lights a cigarette and walks briskly away from the apartment toward the hotel.