Carlo gave a slight bow and spoke in Italian. “I wish we could shake each other’s hand, Signor DiStephano.”
Ettore looked up at him coldly. “It was not your hand that murdered my daughter. It was your son’s. But your hand had my son severely beaten and my grandson murdered. I spit on your hand.”
Carlo’s face reddened. He controlled himself with difficulty. “I had hoped, Signor DiStephano, that we could discuss this matter calmly, as civilized people.”
“What you have done is not the act of a civilized person. It is the act of an animale. So, say what you have come to say.”
All in the room could see that Bonazzi was at the point of exploding, but years of self-discipline asserted itself. The politeness left his eyes, his lips tightened. He took a seat without being invited, Mickey positioning himself behind his chair. Carlo drew in two or three short breaths to calm himself before speaking.
“You and you family have suffered a great loss. As a father, I weep for you.” He stopped and turned to Mickey. “Where is the transmitter?”
“In the bookcase.”
“Silence it.”
Ettore held up his hand. “I give orders in this office, not you. Vince, take care of it.”
Vincent took the transmitter from under the shelf, dropped it to the floor, then tramped heavily upon it. Wordlessly, he resumed his seat.
Carlo gave no sign of discomfiture at having bugged the room nor of it having been discovered. He sat erectly in his chair as he continued speaking. “You have concluded, without the least shred of proof, that my son is responsible for the unfortunate death of your lovely daughter. Even though he has five reliable witnesses whose testimonies prove he is innocent, you have hunted him down and attempted to murder him. You, Judge DiStephano, have sworn to uphold the law, yet you aid and abet a felony. You were beaten by men who were angry because your family sought my son. They did this without my knowledge, and were punished severely for having attacked you.” He turned to Ettore. “Your grandson was unnecessarily killed as a direct result of your attempt to illegally take the law into your own hands to murder my son. You must hold yourself to blame. That boy died because of your absurd notion that my son is responsible for your daughter’s death. It is not true, and the boy’s blood is on your hands. There is more blood on your hands. You sent your two sons, Michael and Dominic, to London to murder George Bucci in a cruel, bestial fashion.” He saw with satisfaction that his shot had gone home when Ettore and Vincent exchanged surprised glances that Bonazzi knew which of the family members had killed Bucci. “So be it, Signor DiStephano. This killing can go on and on, without purpose, and all due to your utterly mistaken suspicion that my son is guilty of a crime. It must stop. I am here to seek a solution. I do not wish to see my son killed, nor do you want to have more of your children or grandchildren lowered into their graves. We can stop this terrible thing. I am ready to offer my hand.”
He sat back, his face sad and weary.
Ettore and Vincent remained quiet for many long seconds, then Vincent said, “Papa, may I answer him?” His father nodded. “Mr. Bonazzi, what are the names of the men who attacked me?”
“Is that so important at this time, Judge DiStephano? It is done. You were not seriously injured and are healing well. The men have been punished.”
“It is important. You have spoken at great length, and have asked us to accept your word. We wish more than words. We expect proof. You say you have punished the men who attacked me. That may well be true, but I want proof. Furthermore, being the injured party, I want my own form of punishment - the legal way, which you have so adroitly accused me of obstructing. I want these men to admit to their attack and be punished by a court of law. Is that acceptable?”
“Is that your price for halting this insane misunderstanding between us? “
“That is not the question. What is pertinent is whether you will give me their names and have them immediately, this very day, confess to the assault.”
Carlo did not hesitate. “Very well. They are Giovanni D’Annunzio and Luigi Montali. They will do as you ask at the conclusion of our meeting.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Bonazzi, you ask us to believe that your son is not implicated in the murder of my sister. You say there are five witnesses to support his alibi. Four of them are considered as being absolutely unreliable. The fifth is a mystery. But we have uncovered certain evidence of how you arrange things. Your son assaults and deafens a child. The family is compensated and the incident controlled. Your son bites the finger of an opponent in a football game, tries to gouge out his eye, then attempts to strangle him. No action is taken of a most serious aberration. Next he fractures the arm of a schoolmate and bites a large piece of flesh out of him. Somebody silences an entire school. Upon threat of strangulation, your son rapes a girl and impregnates her. Everyone is bought off there and an abortion performed. Then your son attacks a woman in Rancy’s Bar because she resists his advances. Finally, the woman who cohabited with your son for a year is too terrified to speak about him.” Vincent stopped and looked at Carlo’s pale face. “Would you care to comment on the sanity of such a person?”
Carlo’s mouth drew in, his hands became rock hard fists, his eyes sparked with fury. “So, this is your little game, hey, DiStephano? I thought I was speaking with reasonable men. Good.” He turned to Ettore. “You!” he spat out. “You want death in your family, I’ll give you death.”
Ettore met his furious stare head-on. “We do not want death in our family. We want only the murderer of my daughter, Maria. Your son.”
Carlo’s temper broke. “So, you want a son?” he shouted. “Listen, you stubborn old contadino. My wife had four miscarriages. It was thirteen years before she could have a child, and she almost died to give birth. You, you peasant, you pulled babies out of the hat like a magician with rabbits. You had seven children and six grandchildren. Two died in that automobile accident, one by a tragic mistake, the other by your goddamned stupidity.” He held up his hand as Ettore began rising from his chair, his face flushed with sudden rage. “Sit down, or Mickey here will kill that fine judge of yours instantly. I swear it on my mother’s grave, regardless of the consequences. And after him, I will kill you.”
Vincent knew a serious person when he saw one. “Papa,” he warned, sharply. “Please sit down. Now!”
Ettore turned surprised eyes towards his son. What he saw made him settle back in his chair.
“So, DiStephano, you have lost four out of thirteen. Be happy with nine. There will be more. But if you try to take away my one, I will take everything away from you. I will not sleep until I hunt you all down like rats. There will not be a child or woman safe from me.” He took a deep breath and sat back trembling, his fists clenching and opening with emotion. He drew out a handkerchief to wipe his face. With a visible effort, he forced himself to calm down. “All right, DiStephano, I will make a deal. Do you want to hear my deal?”
“Go ahead,” said Ettore, shaking with anger himself.
“I will make a deal with my son. We will not speak of your daughter or your grandson. What is past cannot be undone. I will give you your pound of flesh. I will place my son in the abbey of Our Lady of Gethsemani in Kentucky. As you know, it is a Trappist monastery. All there must observe absolute silence, eat only bread, fruit, vegetables and a little milk and cheese. They are cut off from all contact with the outer world. I will send him there to be buried for five years. Now, let us close this terrible chapter. What do you say, Signor DiStephano?”
Ettore’s eyes were bright and hard. “I don’t want to deal with monks. I want a full confession from your son, then I want him turned over to me to do with him as I see fit.”
Carlo exploded again. “You fool, do you think I will turn him over to anyone. Better that all of you die first. Be reasonable.” His jaw muscles quivered as he looked into the relentless eyes of Ettore. “All right, if five years is not enough, I will give you ten. On the soul of my mother, I swear to keep him
in the monastery ten years. Ten years of living in a cage. Ten long years without life. He will not eat a meal for pleasure, nor speak to a man as a friend. He will be a vegetable. What more could a reasonable man want?”
Ettore turned his face away, his lips curled in disgust.
Mickey leaned down and touched Carlo on the shoulder. Carlo jerked as if he had been struck. He looked up blankly at Mickey.
“It does not go, Carlo,” Mickey said softly.
Carlo fell back into his chair and closed his eyes. His head lolled back, his lips trembled.
Mickey touched his shoulder again. “Come, Carlo. There is nothing more to be done here.”
Carlo let out a long sigh. Color returned to his pale, sweaty face. His eyes opened and he leaned forward, staring first at Vincent, then at Ettore. He stood up, spun wordlessly on his heel, and went out of the room, Mickey directly behind.
There was a deep silence in the office. Vincent rose from his chair and walked to the window. Bonazzi and Mickey were climbing into the Rolls Royce. He turned to his father. “We’ve got a war on our hands now. We’d better not underestimate him.”
“The man is also insane. Like his son,” said Ettore.
“Yes, but he has power. Papa, why don’t we accept Vito’s offer of help?”
“They would be mercenaries. We do not want strangers to avenge Maria and Junior.” He stood up. “Let’s go home now. We have work to do.”
For three days after the meeting with Bonazzi, Ettore ordered everyone to stay close to home. He wanted to catch his breath, so to speak, at this new development. Three days ago they were all free agents, able to move about as they wished, albeit taking certain precautions to guard against one of them having the devil beaten out of him. Suddenly, a man from the world of violence had flatly stated that he would wipe the DiStephanos from the face of the earth. Such people do not make idle threats. Ettore took the threat so seriously that he went out with Dominic and Michael one morning to buy arms and ammunition. They could purchase only rifles and shotguns from legal sources, but Dominic got on the phone to contact a few of the night owls he had met while cruising the clubs and bars. They arranged all he wanted - for a price. By the end of the third day, the house was an arsenal.
Ettore fixed up one end of the cellar as a practice range for all the males to take training. Dominic was appointed instructor since he was a pretty fair shot. Bob, though, rapidly became the expert, regardless of the weapon he handled.
On the fourth day, Vincent hit upon a possible lead. “Mike, Dom,” he said thoughtfully. “Just before Bucci died, he mentioned the name of a new bodyguard for Bonazzi. What was it - Frank?”
“Franko,” said Dominic. “Ed Franko.”
“Let’s find out if he’s from these parts.”
Vincent himself secured the information they sought. He obtained it from a local assistant prosecutor with whom he had developed a friendship. Ed Franko was definitely from Chicago, and had spent five years in prison for assault with a deadly weapon and armed robbery. He was known as a dangerous criminal suspected of connections with the local drug traffic. He was married, with two children ages 12 and 14. Vincent was given his present address plus a recent photograph.
Acquiring information openly by the DiStephanos was unwise, so Vito explained during a family conference. Nobody knew that Bucci had revealed Franko’s name. If the word got about that the family was looking for him, it would alert Bonazzi. And if Bonazzi père heard that the DiStephanos had a lead to his son, he might make his move immediately. Nobody wanted to goad him. This was a case for an unusually discreet detective agency. All the sons liked the idea, so Ettore reluctantly gave his accord. Vito phoned one of his people in Boston, explained the need for this to be done without arousing the least suspicion, and mentioned pointedly that bugging, mail surveillance and illegal entry were quite acceptable.
An interruption in the DiStephano household occurred during the investigation. Vito was called to the phone. He returned to the living room with a line between his brows.
“What’s wrong, Vito?” asked Rose, knowing him like a book.
“Bonny’s in town.”
“How nice,” said Rose. “Where is she?”
“At the railroad station. You know Bonny, she has to drop into town from out of the blue without first making a reservation, and says all the hotels are filled up. There are half a dozen conventions taking place. I told her I would check around for a room and call back.”
“Why, I won’t hear of that.” She went to Ettore seated across from Dominic in the midst of a hard fought checker game. “Papa.” Ettore looked up with a scowl. “Bonny, Vito’s niece, is in town. Can we give her a room here?”
“Sure, there’s plenty of space.” Immediately he went back to the game.
Rose turned to Vito. “Have her take a taxi here,” she told him, then walked into the kitchen to tell Mario and Clara to move Eleanor’s affairs into Maria’s empty bedroom and prepare that guest room for Bonny.
“Who is Bonny?” Carol asked, continuing to knit, watch television, and speak to Rose at the same time.
“Vito’s sister’s girl.”
“Girl!” said Vito. “She’s twenty-eight. An anthropologist, and, from what I hear, a good one. Trouble is, she hasn’t gotten past the fifth century before Christ.” He went to the phone in the entry and called the railroad station to have her take a taxi to the house. He returned to the living room and sank into a chair. “We’ll have to be careful what we say in front of her.”
“Oh, dear,” said Rose. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Watch what we say in front of who?” asked Ettore, wreathed in smiles at having won the hard contested game from Dominic.
“Bonny,” said Rose. “Vito’s niece. I just told you about her. You said she could stay here.”
“Of course, there’s plenty of room.”
“I’ll have the Chicago office find a room for her tomorrow,” said Vito.
“Let her stay. She’s welcome,” said Ettore. “If it becomes too difficult to speak with her in the house, then you can find her a room.” He turned to Dominic. “What’s the score?”
Dominic looked down at a pad. “Sixteen to twelve.”
“Set up the board. I’ve got some playing to do.”
When Bonny entered the house, everybody in sight instantly thought that here is the classical old maid. Although only twenty-eight, she looked thirty-five. They saw a medium sized woman, of medium weight, with medium dark brown hair drawn back in a pony tail and tied with a plain rubber band. Her features were regular, except for her eyes, which seemed withdrawn and distant looking. She wore no make-up, and her face was pale, as if she spent much time underground. She wore a plain, brown cotton dress, too large in the shoulders and hips, and drawn in around her waist by a black belt, obviously from another dress.
Vito took her single, small suitcase, handed it to Mario to be carried upstairs, then introduced her around. Dominic stopped playing checkers long enough to rise, mumble a few words as he shook her hand, then got back to the game.
Rose mentioned what they had to drink, and she chose apple juice. “Where are you bound for now?” asked Rose, once they had settled down.
“I am here to attend a conference for a possible project in Uruguay.” Her voice was low but distinct. Most people found it pleasant.
“Do you intend to go there?” asked Carol.
“Perhaps.”
“Whatever do you intend to look for?” she asked.
“While visiting Uruguay a few months ago, I heard of a small tribe of primitive Indians in the western part of the country who do not have the same characteristics as the principle tribe who once resided there, and who are now extinct.”
“How do you plan to get to those people?” asked Rose.
“We’ll go by boat up one of the main rivers, the Rio Negro, then by donkey to a village called Greco. From there we’ll take a truck to a town named Young, then go inland by donke
y again.”
“They are Charrúas,” said Dominic, without looking up from the game.
Bonny jumped as if she had been stung. She turned towards him. “What did you say?”
“I said they are Charrúas.” Ettore made a move. “Hey, no you don’t. You must jump over here.” Ettore growled as he drew back his checker and made the correct play. Dominic started to move one of his checkers, saw a possible trap, and leaned forward thinking.
Rose and Carol continued talking with Bonny, but her eyes kept flicking to Dominic and she spoke without full concentration. The moment Ettore and Dominic finished their game, again with a smiling Ettore, she turned to him.
“Oh, ah....what is your name?”
Everyone laughed. Dominic grinned at her. “Dominic.”
“How do you know about the Charrúas?”
“I visited them once. They are not inland from Young. Take the Rio Negro to the Arroyo Grande, then go straight north thirty or thirty-five miles.”
The others thought Bonny would leap from her chair. She sat forward on the edge, her face bright with excitement. “We are trying to determine whether they migrated from Africa or came over from Siberia, then down through North America.”
Dominic shrugged. “They were nomads, one of the few tribes which did wander about. All the others moved until they found a place to settle. I would bet on them having come from Africa.” He started setting up the checker board again. “I’ve run upon another tribe almost identical to them.”
Bonny could no longer contain herself. She walked to the table and drew up a chair next to Dominic. “Where?”
“The group was about fifty miles north of Laquna Mar Chiquita, in Central Argentina. They were way the hell and gone in the swamps. About seventy, seventy-five people.”
“What were you doing to come upon these people?”
Dominic shrugged again and grinned, “Walking.”
Bonny sat back and cocked her head. “DiStephano,” she said, rolling the name on the tip of her tongue. “Would you by any chance be that DiStephano?”
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 21