Where Love Has Gone (1962)

by Robbins, Harold

  “Do you know where I can find them?”

  He put down the crabs and walked toward me. “You a reporter?”

  I nodded.

  “They’re at the funeral parlor. The funeral’s tomorrow morning. You come to interview the family?”

  “In a way.”

  “The boy was no good,” he said. “When he was a kid he’d never come to help out on the stand. He wouldn’t dirty his hands with the fish, like his brothers. He was too good for them. I told his father he’d come to a bad end.”

  “Which funeral parlor?” I asked.

  “Mascogani’s.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You know Bimbo’s?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Across the street from Bimbo’s, about a block down.”

  “Thanks.” I started back up the block toward my car. I found a place to park on Jackson near the funeral parlor. It was a white stone and marble-front building. I opened the doors and went inside.

  I stood in the dim, softly lighted foyer until my eyes adjusted, then walked over to the glass-covered directory on the wall. In a moment a dark-suited man came up behind me.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he said in a hushed voice.

  “Riccio?”

  “Right this way.”

  I followed him to the elevator. He pressed a button and the door opened. “I don’t know if the family is still up there. They may have gone to supper, but you can sign your name in the book just inside the door. Room A.”

  “Thanks.”

  The door closed. When it opened again I stepped out. Room A was just across the corridor.

  I looked in the open door. Through an archway at the far end of the room I could see the coffin resting under a blanket of flowers. My footsteps made no sound on the heavy carpeting as I walked toward it. I stopped alongside and looked down.

  So this was the man my daughter had killed. At first glance, he seemed to be merely sleeping. The morticians had done their job well.

  He had been handsome, with thick black hair coming to a slight widow’s peak on his high forehead. His nose was straight and strong, his mouth firm though even now slightly sensual. His lashes were almost as long as a girl’s. I felt a sense of pity well up inside me. He couldn’t have been much past thirty.

  I heard a sigh behind me, almost a groan. I turned, started.

  A little old man was sitting in a corner of the alcove, to the side of the archway, on a small straight-backed chair. I hadn’t noticed him when I came in, though I must have walked right past him. He looked up at me, his dark eyes glittering in the candlelight.

  “I’ma th’ fath’,” he said. “You knew my son?”

  I shook my head. I walked toward him. “My sympathy, Mr. Riccio.”

  “Grazie,” he said heavily, his tired eyes searching my face. “My Tony, he not sucha bad boy like they say,” he said. “He justa want too much.”

  “I can believe that, Mr. Riccio. No one is ever as bad as people say they are.”

  Voices came from just beyond the archway. “Papa! Who are you talking to in there?”

  I turned to see a young man and woman in the archway. The young man looked very much like the man in the coffin, though his features were slightly heavier and coarser. The young woman was dressed in black, the kind of black that only Italian women seem able to achieve in times of mourning. Her hair was covered by a lace shawl, her face patient with a sad, tired kind of beauty.

  “This another my sons. Steve,” the old man said. “And my Tony’s fidanzata, Anna Stradella.”

  The young man stared into my face with a shocked expression. “Papa!” he said harshly. “You know who this man is?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “He’s the girl’s father! You can’t talk to him. You know what the lawyer said.”

  The old man looked up into my face. He turned back to his son. “What I care whata the lawy’ say? I look into this man’s face when he is stan’ by the coff’. An’ I see in it the same kin’ sorrow that I gota in my heart.”

  “But, Papa,” the young man protested, “the lawyer said not to talk to him if we’re going to sue. It might prejudice our case!”

  Mr. Riccio raised a hand. “Stop!” he said firmly with a curious kind of dignity. “Later the lawyers can fight. Now, we are joosta th’ same. Two fathers, whos’a childr’ bring them sorrow and shame.”

  He turned back to me. “Sit down, Mist’ Carey. Forgive my boy. He’sa still young.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Riccio.”

  The young man turned angrily and walked from the room. The girl stood there watching us. I pulled two chairs from the wall and held out one for her. She hesitated a moment, then sat down. I sat in the other.

  “My condolences, Miss Stradella.”

  She nodded without answering, her eyes dark in her white face.

  “Your little girl?” Mr. Riccio asked. “How is she?”

  I didn’t know what to say. How harsh would it sound for me to say all right, while his son lay there in the coffin a few feet from us?

  He sensed my feelings. “Poor kid,” he said softly. “She’sa nothing but a baby.” He looked into my face. “Why did you come, Mist’ Carey?”

  “To find out about your son.” I saw his eyes widen. “Not to bring him shame,” I added quickly. “But to learn something about my daughter.”

  “Do not be embarrass, Mist’ Carey. It’sa only right to want to help you’ daughter.”

  “Thank you for understanding, Mr. Riccio.”

  “Now, what you want to know?”

  “Did you son have any close friends?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Friends?” he asked. “No. No friends. Anna who he was going marry would be his friend. His brothers, Steve and John, they woulda be his friends. But he no want any of them. He want to be a big society man.”

  The old man smiled bitterly, his eyes clouding with a memory. “When Tony wasa littla boy, he say to me, ‘Pop, Pop, look up from the dock. Up there on the top of Nob Hill. I’m going to live there someday. Way up there where you no can smella the fish!’

  “I laugh. ‘Tony,’ I say. ‘Go study your lesson. Play baseball like a good boy. Maybe someday you be lika the Di Mag brothers an get your Pop a big restaurant ona the Wharf. Stop dreaming.’

  “But Tony, he always dream. When he finish school he don’ want to be a baseball play’ lika the Di Mag brothers. He wanta be an artist. He grow a beard and hang out in the coffeehouse. He come home late every night and sleep late every morning. He no go out on the boat with his brothers. Hisa hands are too delicate. When he’sa twenty year old he get job with an art dealer. A fat lady. Then a year later he get another job. Big place this time. Near Gump’s.

  “One day he come down to my stand with a pretty lady. ‘Thisa my boss’ wife,’ he say. They eat the shrimp and the crack crab and they laugh like two kids. Then they go away. A little later I read in the pap’ where the boss and his wife, they geta divorce. I worry about my Tony’s job, then one day he comes down to the stand in a brand-new car. Expensive. Not American car. Foreign.

  “‘Pop!’ he said. ‘I got it made. I worka for the boss’ wife now. She’sa big time. Big money. An’ you know where I live?’

  “‘No,’ I say. ‘Where you live, Tony?’

  “He point up to the hill. ‘Right up there, Pop,’ he say. ‘Right up there on Nob Hill like I always say I will. And you know, Pop, it’sa true. You never smell the fish from up there!’“

  He glanced over at the coffin, then back at me. “Tony, he can’t smell the fish from there either. From there, he can’t smell nothing at all.”

  I sat there silent for a moment, then got to my feet. “You’ve been very kind to talk to me, Mr. Riccio. I apologize for disturbing you at a time like this.”

  The old man looked up at me and nodded, but already his eyes were far away. He looked back at the coffin, his lips moving silently. “I will pray for your daughter,” he said, “as
well as for my son.”

  I looked down at the girl. “Miss Stradella.”

  She glanced at the old man but he was still staring into the coffin. Her eyes came brightly alive in her face. “Wait outside for me!” she whispered.

  I stared at her for a second, then nodded and started across the room. I passed the younger son in the outer room. He glowered as I passed and then started toward the alcove. I didn’t wait for the elevator. I went down the stairs to the street.

  I leaned up against the car, waiting. She came out into the street and I saw her looking for me. “Miss Stradella,” I called.

  She hurried toward the car. When she reached me, she looked back over her shoulder at the funeral parlor. “Better get into the car. Steve and his father will be coming out any minute now. I don’t want them to see me talking to you!”

  I opened the door and she got in. I shut the door and went around to the other side. I got in and started the motor. “Where to?”

  “Anywhere,” she said nervously. “Anywhere away from here.”

  I cut out into traffic and turned back away from the Embarcadero. We went a good half-mile before she spoke again. Her voice was harsh and tense. “You’re looking for the letters?”

  I shot a surprised look at her. I hadn’t thought it would be this easy. “Do you have them?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Blackmail’s a pretty dirty business,” I said. “You can spend more years in jail for it than you’ve got left.”

  “I haven’t got them, Mr. Carey. But I know who has.” Then the tears welled up into her eyes. “Damn Tony and his soul to hell!” she swore angrily. “I never should have listened to him. I should have burned those damned letters as soon as he gave them to me!”

  I pulled the car over to the curb and cut the motor. “Who has them?”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She didn’t look at me. “My brother.”

  “Where is he? I want to talk to him.”

  She still didn’t look at me. “I don’t know. I gave them to him Friday night. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “You gave them to him?”

  “Yes. He tricked me out of them. He came by my apartment at ten thirty and said Tony had asked him to get the letters. Of course I gave them to him. I was glad to get rid of them. Then at eleven o’clock I heard the news on TV and I knew what he was going to try to do.”

  “How did you know?”

  She looked at me. “Lorenzo was just like Tony. Always with an eye for the big buck. He was in my apartment when Tony gave the letters to me. He heard what Tony said about them. I wanted to burn them then but Tony wouldn’t let me. ‘Those letters are our insurance policy,’ he said. He said that when the time came for him to be free of the old lady, they’d be his guarantee that we’d have enough money to live on for the rest of our lives.

  “Tony could always talk me into anything. He was real good at that. It was always the big deal. Tomorrow. When he went to work for your wife he said it was just a question of time. He couldn’t stand her, he said. Just to touch her made him sick but she was crazy about him and when the time was right there would be the money. Always the money. He used to come down to my place to get away from her.”

  “Did you read the letters?”

  She shook her head. “No. He gave them to me in a big brown envelope. It was sealed.”

  “Did he ever say anything to you about my daughter?”

  “No. Wait a minute. Yes, he did. Once, about a year ago. He said the kid was growing up fast and if the mother didn’t watch out there’d be a real beauty in the family. And the old lady wouldn’t like that.”

  “He never said anything else?”

  “No, nothing else.”

  “Does anyone besides you and your brother know about the letters? Tony’s brothers?”

  “Tony and his brothers fought like cats and dogs. They thought he was no good and he thought they were jerks. He never told them anything.”

  I took out a cigarette and lit it.

  “Did Renzo call you?” she asked.

  “No. He sent a letter to my former mother-in-law. He said that he’d read the letters and if she wanted them she’d have to pay plenty for them.” I looked at her. “Where does your brother live? Maybe we can find him there.”

  She laughed. “Don’t you think I tried that? I went there looking for him. His landlady said he moved out late Friday night. She doesn’t know where he went.”

  “Has he got a girlfriend?”

  She shook her head. “He runs around a lot but I don’t know any of his girls. When Mama died two years ago, Renzo moved out. I only see him when he needs money.”

  “You live alone?” I asked.

  She nodded. She began to cry. “I always thought Tony would come home someday.”

  He came home all right, I thought, but not the way she’d thought. “I’m sorry, Miss Stradella.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not crying because of Tony. That was over a long time ago. I knew that even if his father didn’t. Now, maybe Steve will feel free to speak up. He’d never have dared while Tony was alive.”

  I thought of the glowering young man I had seen in the funeral parlor. I’d thought there might have been something between them because of the protective way he held her arm. “I’m sure he will.”

  She dried her eyes again. “What are you going to do about Renzo?”

  “Nothing,” I said, “if I can locate him and get the letters before Thursday.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  I made my voice harsh. “On Thursday, Mrs. Hayden will make her deal with him. When they meet to exchange the letters for the money, I’ll be there with the police.”

  She sat silent for a moment, thinking. “Where can I reach you tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I’ll be moving around. Better let me call you.”

  “Okay.” She took a small notebook out of her handbag and scribbled a telephone number. She tore the page out and gave it to me. “That’s my home number. Call me there at four o’clock. I’ll see if I can find Renzo for you.”

  8

  __________________________________________

  “What do you think, Sally?” Marian Spicer asked, putting the two containers of coffee on the desk between them. “Is the child really disturbed?”

  The psychologist opened her container and took a sip of the black coffee. “Of course she’s disturbed. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be here. Exactly how much, however, is difficult to tell. If you’re asking if she’s violently disturbed, if she has tendencies toward paranoia, say, I don’t think so. At least none that I’ve been able to discover up to now. Of course there’s always the chance that they’ll reveal themselves later.”

  “She’s till not talking?”

  “Not very much. I did learn one thing, though.”

  Marian looked at her questioningly.

  “It’s not much. But at least it’s a place to start. Dani seems to have a strong need of reassurance about her mother’s love for her.”

  “That seems to indicate a sense of guilt toward her mother.”

  The psychologist smiled. “Come now, Marian. You know better than to jump to conclusions like that. A certain amount of guilt toward your parents is inevitable.”

  “I mean guilt over a specific act.”

  “What you really mean is that Dani feels guilty about taking away her mother’s lover?”

  “Yes. First sexually, then physically, by death.”

  Sally Jennings lit a cigarette and took another sip of coffee. “Part of what you say is right, of course. But it’s recent and not necessarily conclusive. What we are looking for is something basic, something buried inside Dani that she’s reluctant having us know about. If we could pry that out of her, we’d have an idea which way to go.”

  “Judge Murphy had me get a transcript of the parents’ divorce proceedings.”

  “Oh?” Sally’s eyebrows went up. “What did you find out?”

>   “Nothing much. You know how those things are. Everything is arranged before they get into court. But there was one thing. At the very end of the hearing, Dani’s mother tried to cut Colonel Carey out of any visiting privileges.”

  “That’s normal in a way. Every parent is jealous of the other parent.”

  “But she gave a beaut of a reason. She said that Colonel Carey was not really Dani’s father.”

  Sally sat thoughtfully for a moment.

  “What are you thinking, Sally?”

  “Not about that. That doesn’t surprise me. Nothing surprises me anymore when two parents meet in a divorce court. What I’m wondering is whether Dani knows it.”

  “Do you think she might?”

  “Children have a way of learning the best-kept secrets. If she does know we could be on the completely wrong track.” Sally looked at the probation officer. “If she’d only loosen up. Then, at least, I’d know what to recommend.”

  “And if she doesn’t.”

  “You know the answer to that one as well as I do, Marian. I’d have to send her up to Perkins for ninety days’ observation.”

  Marian didn’t answer.

  “There’s nothing else I could do. We can’t afford to take any chances. We must be certain that the child isn’t really disturbed, perhaps even paranoid before we dare let her resume anything remotely resembling a normal life.”

  Marian heard the frustration in the psychologist’s voice. “Maybe you won’t have to. Maybe she’ll start talking this afternoon.”

  “I hope so,” Sally said fervently. “When do you see Dani’s mother?”

  “This afternoon. I’d better get moving.”

  Later that afternoon Marian followed the butler through the large foyer, past a beautiful circular marble staircase, down a hallway that led to another wing of the house. It was a beautiful home, she thought, not like the usual places she came to during her investigations. Everything about it reflected the artistic sense of values of its owner.

  At the end of the hallway, the butler opened a door. “Go right in, madam. Miss Hayden’s expecting you.”

  The studio was large and sunny, the north wall a solid sheet of glass. Through it Marian could see the harbor, the Bay Bridge and beyond that Oakland.