Ettore nodded. “All right, Vince, we’ll give it - say - two weeks.” A wry expression crossed his face. “But we’ll check on Bonazzi’s whereabouts in the interim.”
“I’ll take care of that, Papa,” said Dominic.
“All right, but remember what we agreed upon - we won’t take any action for two weeks. Do you understand?”
Dominic nodded.
Anthony stood outside the police station with a heart as heavy and leaden as when he decided to give up parish work for that of teaching. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that his father and youngest brother were going to murder a man. It was reasonable to assume that other members of the family would be brought into the crime by hook, crook, or being of the blood. The fact that the ruination of their careers, their horrendous payment to society, and certain scandal would result from this action concerned Anthony only in the slightest degree. Each of them had enough money to get by regardless of the new field he must enter, since Vincent would be debarred and Michael would lose his license. But then, Vito could hire both as consultants at five times their present income without turning a hair. Vito would escape unscathed, regardless of the degree of his participation in the crime. Men with his financial power never saw the inside of a prison. But Dominic was doomed, and Anthony’s heart ached doubly at the thought. He was doomed here and in the hereafter because his finger would pull the trigger.
Anthony started walking slowly up the block, his mind blanking out the movement of people passing by, the stores doing a rushing summer night business, the calls and cries of neighbors conversing with one another. Ettore was now in his thoughts. He felt no sympathy for his father. Were Anthony not a man of God, he would find it quite easy to wash his hands of the matter. Like Pontius Pilate. For Papa placed himself above the reach of man, and, come to think of it, also of God. He kept the Lord bottled up in a special compartment, as if they were equals who trod carefully around each other. And although he led his family to church and insisted that each one make obeisance, he remained on the sidelines, so to speak. Yet he was scrupulously fair to God, though, and gave the Lord every opportunity to do His bit.
Actually, Ettore was the same with his fellow man. He neither demonstrated superiority nor inferiority, and nobody in the house ever heard Papa say this fellow was a Jew or Irishman or Swede. But all the children sensed that Papa believed in one group only - the Italians. There was never Protestant cooking in the house, nor Protestant manner of dress, nor bland, sugary Protestant conversation at the table. The house was full of rich, stomach tingling odors, of saddle shoes and plaid skirts only after the Italian community as a whole accepted them, and constant commotion and laughter at the table. Only Anthony knew how terribly upset Papa had been with the marriage of Michael to Carol. He explained it by saying her blood was too thin to fit at the table. He went out of his way to be extra polite to Carol, and hid his true feelings so well that none but Anthony had the least suspicion of Papa’s inner aloofness. Papa was much closer to Bernice, Vincent’s wife. She was a rare one in his world - a sixth generation Italian-American, a pillar in the Daughters of the American Revolution, with customs as American as apple pie. Her family were middle income professionals; dentists, accountants, engineers, and when Papa first visited her parents’ house, he was stunned at its Americanization. There was not a crucifix in sight, nor a painting of our Blessed Mother, the dining room could seat only eight, the furniture was modern Danish, they were served pâté on crackers with their martinis before sitting down to shrimp cocktail with hot sauce, roast lamb flavored by chopped mint, boiled potatoes and asparagus. It had all been well prepared, tasty, and served properly, but it was as Italian as Mulligan Stew. Papa could not understand how six generations of Italians could marry amid other Italians of equal background and breed this pale imitation of ethnic steadfastness. It was surely not snobbery, for they had held on to the name Bonifonte. But Papa took great pains to hide his disappointment, especially since Vincent might be the first to present him with grandchildren.
It was only when they assembled in the living room to have French pastry and coffee that one of Bernice’s younger sisters said something which could be construed as being fresh, a comment that in Papa’s house would receive merely a questioning look, but Bernice’s father cleared his throat in a fashion that quieted the girl in an instant, and Papa breathed easier with the knowledge that it was still there, that if you peeled away enough layers of customs, you would find those of the blood.
Anthony turned back towards the police station. He was on the horns of a dilemma. Having been proven unable to influence the terrible course of vendetta, he could not just walk away. He was as equally guilty in the eye of the Lord unless he left no stone unturned to stop this coming act of murder. By reporting it to the police, perhaps they could intercede. He could bring charges against his father and Dominic, but he shrank away from such a scandal. Papa would probably respond by saying that his priest-son was overworked and, being quite capable of striking back, had lost some of his marbles. Knowing his father as he did, Anthony realized all the sordid publicity wouldn’t stop him one iota, that while calmly professing for fifty-nine minutes of each hour that his priest-son was blowing bubbles, he would continue plotting and would pull the trigger during the sixtieth. Dominic was the dangerous one, though. Even if the police had complete evidence of the plot, that would not deter his brown-haired brother. It would be characteristic of him to go underground to prepare his murder, and to strike without thought of the consequences.
Anthony walked into the police station and up to the desk sergeant. “I would like to speak with Lieutenant McPherson, please.”
“I’ll call his office, Father,” said the Sergeant. He asked Anthony’s name, gave it to McPherson, then hung up. “Up the stairs, Father, and straight through the interrogation room to the rear. The Lieutenant’s office will be on the left.”
Business was good in the interrogation room. Half of the dozen or so desks were occupied by officers questioning people and laboriously typing information.
McPherson came through a door at the far end as Anthony was halfway across the room, greeted him amicably, then led him to his cubicle-sized office. Motioning Anthony to a chair, he took his seat and leaned back, waiting. Anthony smiled to himself at McPherson’s tactic, not asking what he wanted. But then, he had come here to do the talking. McPherson had not called for him.
“Lieutenant, we have learned some important news about Caesar Bonazzi which may have some bearing on the search for my sister’s murderer.”
McPherson hid his surprise well. “I will be glad to hear whatever you want to say.”
“Thank you. Ten years ago Caesar sexually assaulted a girl. She has recently been contacted and claims that he began choking her when she resisted his advances. He stopped only when she acceded to his demands.”
McPherson sat bolt upright. “What is the name of the girl?”
“I’m sorry, I am not at liberty to divulge her name at this time. However, I can assure you that it is substantially correct.”
“I see, Monsignor. But I want you to understand that your information has absolutely no value in our investigation unless we have a statement from the girl.”
“I realize that, but surely the knowledge that Caesar reacted in such a manner should influence your investigation considerably.”
McPherson relaxed in his chair, picked up a short fat cigar from a humidor, and lit it. “What is your father going to do with that information?” he asked casually.
Anthony did not equivocate. “I think you should speak with him immediately.”
The police officer puffed away before replying. His voice was still casual. “So he’s made his decision that Bonazzi is your sister’s murderer.”
“From the latest information, it would be quite logical to make that assumption.”
“I’d be convinced,” grunted McPherson sourly. “But you’re not here to convince me. I take it your father is about to poi
nt himself and that firecracker brother of yours, Dominic, at Bonazzi.” He drew in a lung full of smoke and let it dribble out of his nostrils. When Anthony did not react to his comment, he said, “And you are not perfectly in agreement with his intentions.” Anthony remained quiet, certain that his silence would be taken as an affirmative. “Okay, Monsignor,” said McPherson, sitting forward in his chair and knocking off some ash. “I can tell what you want me to do. I’ll try, but your father has the reputation of being the kind of person who doesn’t accept advice once he’s made up his mind. I gather that you’re here because you’ve done all you can, so you must realize that I may not be able to do any better. Does he know we’ll be down on him like a ton of bricks if he goes wild?”
“You’ll have to make that judgment yourself.”
McPherson chuckled. “I guess there’s no sense asking how the Judge and the rest of the family feel about it, is there?”
The grim face of Anthony relaxed long enough for him to reply. “No, I guess there is no sense asking.” He rose to his feet. “I am returning to the university now. I urge you to make your visit as soon as possible.”
With a nod of his head, he walked out.
While their Uncle Anthony was talking with Lieutenant McPherson, Junior, his sister Eleanor, Bob and Bert walked into a pizza shop in downtown Chicago. Vito had bought Bert back from his dental appointment in Boston only minutes after Anthony left the house with his bag. It had taken a good half hour to acquaint Vito with the startling news about Bonazzi and to rewarm the hash that Ettore had placed before the family. Vito’s usual calm, mild manner had been transformed into a rage so great that even Rose had gone aghast. Vito was a tall, spare man, his face as smooth as when he had courted Rose, but sparks had flashed from his eyes and his body had swelled with fury when suspicions finally became certainty. He had disagreed with Ettore on only one point; he said an executioner should be hired to kill Bonazzi, and the quicker the better. Ettore had shaken his head.
All this talk had filled the youngsters with an excitement bordering on frenzy. When the discussion among the adults died away to a prolonged silence, as each reflected on what they proposed to do jointly, the young people said they were going out for a snack. They piled into one of the many cars and rode without speaking to the pizza shop frequented over the years. Around a table in a booth, Bert expressed his feelings.
“Wow!” he remarked, blowing out his breath in a gust.
“Wow! again,” said Eleanor.
“This is just crazy,” said Bob, oldest of the four. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe that Mom and Dad would go along.”
“Why not?” said Eleanor. “That Chet Bonazzi deserves everything he gets.”
“Yeah, sure,” replied Bob, looking about and lowering his voice. “But this is murder.”
“Not to me it isn’t,” said Junior harshly. “It’s like putting a mad dog to sleep.”
“I’ll buy that,” said Bob. “I would pull the switch on him in an instant, but we have to understand that out there they call this murder. People used to be executed for that.”
“No jury would convict the person who killed that horrible man,” said Eleanor. “They should give him a medal.”
“Well, they won’t,” said Bob. “But what grabs me is the way the old ones took it. Uncle Vincent, of all people. And your mom, Junior.”
“Mom loved Maria almost as much as she did us,” said Junior. He broke off as a waitress came to their table and took the order. “I can understand what you mean, though. Mom shies clear of violence. In fact, she’s pulled the plug on bloody television programs many times.”
“How would you feel if you killed a man?” asked Bert of Junior.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I could kill just anybody, but I would sure enjoy getting him.”
“You’ll have to stand in line behind Uncle Dom,” said Eleanor.
“Yeah,” said Junior eagerly. “Did you see the way he looked when he said he was going to give Bonazzi what he gave Maria? I wouldn’t give two shakes for Bonazzi’s life when Uncle Dom starts off.”
“Listen, everyone,” said Bob. “If any of you are ever picked up for questioning - you know what I mean - in case Uncle Dom does it, don’t say a word. No matter if the fuzz are positive you know something, don’t say a word. Ask for an attorney, then tell the lawyer to contact the family. Don’t even tell him anything.”
“I heard Grandpa mention to Uncle Vincent to select a couple of attorneys in case we needed them,” said Eleanor.
“That makes no difference,” cautioned Bob. “Wait until you get the word from the family.”
The pizzas came, and the young people ate them with gusto.
CHAPTER 7
The first indication that a car was following them struck Dominic directly after he and Junior came out of a small, private club on the south side of Chicago and drove off. Junior had just moved into the traffic when a blue sedan parked down the street took off with such suddenness that the driver of a car passing by slammed on his brakes to avoid a collision. The squealing of the brakes caused Dominic to look back. The sedan, carrying three men, rang a bell in his mind.
“Junior,” he said casually. “When you get a moment, look in your rear view mirror. Do you see that blue sedan a couple of cars back? I think it’s a Pontiac.”
“Yeah, I see it now, Uncle Dom.”
“I saw one like it when we stopped at the Japanese restaurant an hour ago. It went past us and parked up the street.”
“Do you think it’s following us?” Junior could barely keep the excitement from his voice.
“I’m not sure. I don’t want to whistle up any winds, but let’s check it out anyhow. Keep driving normally, and turn right up there past the light.”
Junior dutifully kept at a regular speed and made his turn. “See if it follows us,” said Dominic. “I don’t want to look back. That may tip them off that I spotted them.”
“It just turned,” said Junior, his excitement rising.
“Okay, start for home. Drive normally, though. If it begins closing up, let me know pronto. We may have to make a run for it.”
“Do you think it’s the fuzz?”
“No. If the fuzz wanted to tail us, they wouldn’t send three guys in a car.”
“Who would..... Hey, do you think maybe it’s some of Bonazzi’s pals?”
“Could be. How they doing?”
“About the same. I can lose them if you want me to, Uncle Dom.”
“No, don’t horse around unless I tell you to. Go straight home.”
“They are probably watching where we’re going.”
“That doesn’t take three hoods either. Keep on lighted streets and stay smack in the middle of traffic.”
“You mean they might be after us?”
“I don’t know, but let’s not take any chances. We can zap those guys if we are forced to, but I’d prefer to pick the time and place.”
Junior drove skillfully, remaining on trafficked streets while taking the shortest route home. He had spent enough time driving in Chicago during vacations to be as familiar there as with his home town of Houston.
The blue sedan did a credible job of tailing their car, remaining far enough behind to escape notice, yet always staying in sight. Had the near accident not focused Dominic’s attention on it, those following would have gone unobserved.
Dominic was relieved when Junior turned into the driveway. He had been quick to grasp the implication of being tailed and it disturbed him, not because of the possibility of violence, since brawling is generally the result of people following other people, but because he realized that Bonazzi must know he was being sought.
He glanced behind as the car came to a stop. The sedan had not made the last turn. “Don’t say anything about them,” he cautioned Junior.
“Okay, Uncle Dom,” said Junior, although Dominic could see he was bursting to tell the family about the incident, especially Bob. “But maybe some
of those fellows will be tailing Grandpa and the others, too. They should be warned.”
Dominic grinned at his nephew. “You’re pretty sharp. I was going to tell Grandpa and have him decide. Let’s go in. I could use a sandwich and a beer.”
The family was gathered around the big television set in the living room watching a night game of baseball when Dominic and Junior walked in.
“Turn off the set,” said Ettore, who was the most avid baseball fan in the room.
“Ah, Grandpa,” complained Bert. “It’s the top of the seventh.”
“Use the one upstairs,” Ettore replied. It gave a wrench at his heart to say that, for the television set there was Maria’s portable.
Bert gave it only a moment of thought; Uncle Dominic and Junior might have something interesting to report. “I can wait,” he said.
Dominic glanced about. “Mike and Bob not back yet?”
Vito shook his head. “They phoned in an hour ago that they’d be home around eleven.”
Junior began pouring two glasses of Ettore’s red table wine. “None for me,” said Dominic. “I’d rather have a sandwich and a beer.”
“I’ll get it,” said Rose, starting for the kitchen. “Chicken or salami?”
“Chicken, please.” He flopped into a chair. “We got to four of the places that Bonazzi visits now and then, but no sign of him.”
“Mike said the same,” said Vito. “It’s strange. He seems to have dropped out of circulation.”
Dominic kicked off his shoes and rubbed his feet. “I must have walked twenty miles today.” He looked over at Carol. “Hey, Carol, why don’t you and Eleanor give Rose a hand with the sandwiches.”
Carol started laughing. “Dom, you’re a card, and as obvious as an ace of spades lying on the floor. Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I’m asleep. Is this a MEO coming up?”
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 12