“Are you sorry?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s been an experience I’ve often thought about, but was reluctant to try. I suppose I was waiting for the right person.”
His hand covered hers lying limply on her lap. He gave it a slight squeeze. “Many years ago I used to believe that people who thought up reasons to avoid doing interesting things, such as romping in bed, and downing a good bourbon, or dancing all night under a full moon, or smoking a joint when the mood strikes, were missing some gray matter in their skulls.”
“And now?”
“I no longer think so, I know so.”
She had to laugh. “Dom, you are the world’s greatest fibber. I don’t believe you. Any person who knows as much as you do takes life very seriously. I haven’t heard a conversation yet which you didn’t follow like a mute, then come up with a comment or two that showed you knew lots more than you pretended.”
“Knowing things doesn’t make you accept the absurdity of a dull life.”
“There you go again, speaking as if daily routine or the basic essentials of life are insipid. There is much more exhilaration in accomplishing what you have been programmed to perform as there is riding constantly a merry-go-round of goodies. I’ve never told you, but I am a very fine cook. It takes a devil of a lot of work to prepare certain dishes, but the fun of eating and enjoying what I’ve toiled over makes all the labor, and the washing of pots and pans, a pleasure rather than a chore.”
Dominic laughed. “Well, you certainly jump in with both feet when you believe in something.”
“I believe in almost everything. As an anthropologist, I don’t hold with a beginning or an end, but everything else occurs. A human being does not exist to fill a small space in the scheme of things. He is the spectrum of all that is and will be, and, like the spectrum, he contains all the colors, the emotions, the need to be all things. That’s why I am convinced you often fib, for if any man can put claim to the spectrum, you’re the one.”
He pulled over to the curb, then turned and kissed her. Her eyes were moist when they drew apart. “Don’t read anything into me that isn’t there,” he said.
“It’s there. You’ve just never taken the time to look.”
He started driving again. Soon they were at the station. Their farewell was brief, but with a warmth that implied they wanted to meet again.
Upon returning to the house, Dominic finished packing in a hurry. Ettore and Vito drove him and Michael to the private airport where the jet was waiting. It took off promptly, and three hours later set down at Montreal. There they went through immigration and customs formalities, then were airborne for the half hour flight to Quebec. Once landed, they took a taxi directly from the airport to a car rental agency where they selected a new Dodge.
Vito’s people had made reservations for them at a first class hotel, and their influence was well appreciated when the two brothers learned almost all rooms in Quebec were filled by vacationers enjoying the sunny, September weather. After checking in, they indulged themselves with a leisurely, tasty meal, then took a stroll through the upper town to become familiar with the city. They were apprehensive about going out so openly, but it was either that or hire strangers to do their job, which Ettore was reluctant to allow. Dominic was confident his face had not been clearly seen by Bonazzi at the shootout near Juan-les-Pins. But that shouldn’t make any difference. Bonazzi père surely had pictures of the DiStephano family sent to his son and bodyguard. The important question was whether Chet Bonazzi was actually here in Quebec.
After breakfast the following morning, the brothers once again studied the photos of Ed Franko provided by the investigating agency with the two page report. He was a rather colorless-looking man, about five feet nine, brown haired with a receding hairline, even features, and a slim, ordinary build. The family had discussed him at length, wondering why such a seemingly mediocre person would be assigned to this evidently important mission. He could not be very smart, Dominic said, else he would not have spent four years of his life behind bars. Therefore, he must be another Bucci type, with the ability to react instantly to a confrontation and shoot with a deadly accuracy.
Michael went to the Hotel Clarendon to begin his vigil in the lobby. Every hour or so he left the hotel to take a short walk to dispel the possible curiosity of the staff. He ate lunch at the hotel restaurant, purchased another paperback book, then took up his position again. Dominic sat on a bench in a small park directly across from the Clarendon to watch the entrance. They met for supper at a restaurant behind the park.
The Canadian bean soup was delicious, the meal quite good, but the pastries were out of this world. Well fed, Michael lit up a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “We can’t keep up this kind of observation much longer,” he said, shaking his head. “I have the house dick and half the bellboys wondering what I’m doing riveted to a chair.”
Dominic nodded. “I figured as much. What we need is a group of people to take turns watching. But since we’re not a group, I checked with the manager of that snack bar up the street. I ate a sandwich there for lunch. He may have a room above his place for rent tomorrow. We can see the entrance to the hotel clearly from there.”
“That’s great. If Bonazzi or Franko are here, one of them must come in or go out sooner or later. But even if we get the room, we’d better keep the ones we have now. Especially if Papa decides to come up.”
“Okay. Let’s get back on duty. They may be night birds.”
By ten o’clock that evening, they returned to their own hotel. The first day had been a big bust. Sitting on a stool in the hotel bar having a nightcap, Michael suddenly stood up. “I’m going to try that Walter Franco and his wife dodge.” Dominic accompanied him to a house phone, and stood quietly as Michael put in the call. He spoke, waited a minute, then held a short conversation with the operator. He came out of the booth. “Franko is still registered there. The clerk said he is alone and can’t be Walter Franco and wife.”
“I’d love to touch base with one of the bellhops or maids there.”
“We’d do a helleva lot better that way than sitting about. Well, let’s hit the sack and see what tomorrow brings.”
The next day the room on the second floor of the snack bar was available. The two brothers promptly moved in. It cost considerably more than it was worth, and contained a double bed and a couch which could open into a second double bed. Its redeeming feature was its single window looking out over the front of the Clarendon. Using the powerful binoculars Dominic had purchased in Cannes, the entrance came in sharp and clear. Now they could observe without fatigue, plus avoid suspicion. For two days they watched, but nobody resembling Franco or Bonazzi entered or left.
“This is weird,” said Michael. “Franko has a room there, but doesn’t appear. Could this be another Bucci deal? Where we’re being set up?”
“I thought of that myself. But then again, he could be on a trip. The B and E report said he wrote home from Belgium saying he often took local trips.”
“Yeah, he could do that, but why keep the room? They come mighty expensive in that hotel.”
“It’s the season, and the town is flooded with tourists. If he gave up the room, he’d have a helleva time getting it back. Then again, if he is on expenses, he couldn’t care less what it costs.”
Michael fired up a cigarette. I’m for trying to make contact with a bellboy or maid if something doesn’t break in a day or two.”
“I’ll go along with that,” he replied. “Do you know who might be a good contact? The owner of this place. He’s certainly wired to somebody at the Clarendon.”
“We’d better be careful who we talk with. If Franko should get his picture in the newspapers as a result of being dead or some other fatal incident, our names will be mentioned loud and clear.”
Dominic chuckled. “Maybe I should try touching base with one of the chambermaids.”
“She’d remember you till the day she died, Romeo. Come
to speak of Juliets, what gives with you and Bonny?”
“She’s a great kid, but I’d hate to become involved with a woman who knows ten times more about everything than I.”
“Well, since that disqualifies ninety-five percent of all the females on earth, what difference does it make? So you shut up and hope she thinks you know more than you do. Carol said she is a number one type. Not that I want to see the lunatic of the family pass on this lunacy, but having you home this long has reminded us that we like you very much, and that having a baby brother around to browbeat is good for the ego.”
Dominic grinned fondly at his brother, “It is good to be with all of you again. But when I stay at a place too long, the walls start closing in. It’s great to move about and suddenly stop somewhere out of the blue to watch people you’ve never seen pass by. Different people - black, yellow, brown. You wonder what they’re thinking. Is that skinny guy in Tangier with clothes about to fall off as worried about today and tomorrow as the big shot in Oak Park who is stretched to the hilt with a hundred thousand dollar mortgage on his house and a yacht needing an overhaul each spring? And why are the women in Greece the most beautiful in the world? Or how about that barefoot, beggar kid in Erzurum, Turkey, with a testicle as big as a grapefruit. Will he someday become another Ataturk?”
“You sound like a philosopher about to write a treatise. Ain’t you never heard of watermelon and fucking?”
Dominic’s laugh filled the room. “That’s what I need - a big brother punching holes in my profound discourse. There are no heroes at home.”
“But, Jesus, Dom, there’s no reason a fellow can’t marry the right sort of person and travel to oddball places. Bonny seems almost as cuckoo as you. But most of all, having roots and kids....” His voice trailed away and his face sagged as he thought of Junior. He turned back to the window and leveled the binoculars. “Shit. Shit,” he said under his breath.
Dominic sat silent for a few long seconds. “I’m terribly sorry about Junior, Mike. The wrong one got hit.”
Michael wiped his eyes. “Hell, Dom, it wasn’t your fault. Papa took Carol and me aside when he got back and said you had ordered Junior to stay glued to the car, then tried to stop him when he started shooting it out with Bucci. He said you’d probably carry the blame for the rest of your life. But you mustn’t. Junior did what he thought he had to do. I miss him like hell, and I’ll cry in corners the rest of my days. But I’m also very proud of him. He died thinking he was saving you and Papa. There’s no finer way to go than for your own family.”
“Thanks, Mike,” said Dominic softly. “We can’t bring Maria or Junior back, but we can sure as hell cancel out Bonazzi.”
“You’re damn right we can, and I want a piece of him too.” He stopped speaking and his body tensed. Without moving his binoculars, he said clearly, “Dom, we have something. Get over here.”
Dominic sped to the window and lifted his own binoculars. Franko was standing at the entrance to the hotel talking to a uniformed man wearing a chauffeur’s cap. A dust coated Buick was parked at the curb, and a porter was taking out a leather suitcase from its trunk.
“He just drove up in that Buick,” said Michael, his voice full of excitement. “Guess he’s giving instructions to the parking attendant.”
As they watched, the attendant got into the car and drove it to a parking area across the street.
Franko was neatly dressed in a well fitting leisure suit, a short brimmed summer hat, and woven leather shoes. Followed by the porter, he walked into the hotel.
The brothers put down their binoculars. Michael’s eyes were bright. “What now, Dom? Do we pull a repeat of Bucci?”
“Let’s keep our eye on him for a while first. Nobody knows we have identified him, so he may lead us on to something. Bucci was expecting us, therefore he wouldn’t have dreamed of going near Bonazzi.”
They took turns observing the hotel. Dominic went down and brought up sandwiches for lunch. They had just finished eating when Michael, the binoculars to his eyes, grunted. “Here comes Franko’s Buick. Something must be up.”
Dominic stepped beside him, his binoculars also raised. They saw the attendant park the car next to the hotel entrance. A few minutes later four men emerged: a sour-faced man of about forty; behind him was Franko; alongside Franko was a slender, blond haired man six feet tall; last a young husky boxer type with dark hair.
“What’s going on there?” asked Michael. “There go four likely looking hoods for second prize at the local slammer if ever I saw one.”
Following them up appeared a porter pushing a cart containing four pieces of luggage. As he began placing the suitcases in the trunk of the Buick, Michael and Dominic rushed from their room, double-stepping down the stairs to their car at the curb. They were inside with the motor running when the Buick started off in the opposite direction. Dominic, behind the wheel, made a U turn and fell in line. He remained a car or two to the rear as Franko drove his companions out of Quebec onto the northeast highway leading to Montmorency. They went by the picturesque Falls, cascading a white froth of water two hundred and seventy feet down, through the town and on towards Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré. Just after the splendid cathedral, where hundreds of crutches and medals gave testimony to the miracle of Sainte Anne, the Buick turned north onto a secondary road. There was plenty of traffic in both directions, so the trailing Dodge did not stand out.
Ten miles along the road, Dominic was slowed up by two cars out Sunday driving. When he finally got by and rounded a curve, the Buick was out of sight! Immediately he stamped on the accelerator. A few miles further on, the brothers had to admit the Buick was lost.
“Where the hell could they have gone?” growled Dominic, disgusted at having let the other car slip away.
“They couldn’t have lost us on this road,” said Michael. “They had to turn off. I think it was back there near the curve.”
Dominic made a U turn and started back. Several small roads intersected the one they had driven over. Directly before reaching the bend, Michael pointed out a narrow dirt lane angled off to their left. “That’s the most logical place they could have pulled off without us seeing it.” And it was logical, for it could very easily be overlooked by cars going north from Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré.
Dominic turned onto the lane and drove slowly over it, peering about carefully. When it curved into a heavily wooded area, he drew over into the shelter of the trees and parked. “Let’s not push our luck. If they did come down this road, we can end up smack in their laps. Come on, we’ll hoof it.”
Slinging their binoculars, they got out of the car and began walking. Whenever the lane curved out of view, they moved among the trees to check it over before proceeding. They walked a mile, then a second, stopping often to look about through their glasses.
“I’m going to feel like the world’s biggest ass if I find we’re doing all this for nothing,” said Michael.
“Look there,” said Dominic, pointing out an empty Marlboro cigarette box by the side of the road. He picked it up. “American made. Let’s keep going.”
After two more miles, even Dominic began to wonder if this was a waste of time. Both of them were sweating now, with insects whirling about their faces. After another mile, they sat alongside the lane and fired up cigarettes.
“I’ll go fifteen minutes more,” said Michael. “That’s my limit.”
“Too bad this road isn’t wet or dusty,” said Dominic. “Then we would be able to check tire tracks. That is, if we knew how the hell to check tire tracks.”
Michael’s head lifted. “Hey! A car’s coming from up ahead.”
They snuffed out their cigarettes quickly, then melted back into the woods, their binoculars trained on the road. The noise of an approaching car could now be heard distinctly. It came into sight. The Buick! Inside was one man - the sour-faced fellow of about forty.
When the car went by, the brothers came out of the woods. “We hit it,” said Dominic triumphantly. “Franko
and the other two must be up ahead.”
“Looks like it. I hope that guy doesn’t see our car.”
“I doubt it. It’s concealed pretty well. But if he does, he’ll probably figure it belongs to lovers out for an afternoon lay. Well, let’s get going. But we’d better stay among the trees.”
They walked for half an hour without seeing signs of the three men. Then Michael, in the lead, motioned to drop to the ground. “Up ahead,” he whispered. “There’s a chain across the road.”
“Anybody there?”
“Didn’t see anyone.”
“Stay here, I’ll scout it.” Quietly, cautiously, Dominic stole deeper into the woods. He crept and crawled over a wide arc that took him to a position where he could clearly see the chain and the road on both sides. Nobody was in sight. Remaining amid the trees, he scouted further along the road for a hundred yards. Still no one in sight. He stepped out into the open, waved Michael up, then began brushing off the pine needles adhering to his clothing.
“That chain is to keep cars out,” he said, “so we’re on private property. I’ll bet you supper there’s a lodge up ahead.”
Back into the woods they went, walking carefully, stopping often to look about and listen.
Suddenly, the lodge came into view! It was set in a clearing on the edge of a lake. Out on the water the dark haired young man was fishing in a rowboat.
“Franko and the other guy are probably inside,” whispered Dominic.
“I think I saw movement on the front porch,” said Michael. He lifted his binoculars. “Jesus Christ Almighty!” he whispered, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Will you take a look!”
Dominic crept forward and focused his binoculars. “Well, look who’s there,” he whispered back through grim set lips. “Bonazzi! That son of a bitch must have put on high heeled shoes and worn a blond wig when he came out of the hotel.”
“You can bet your sweet ass he did. But something smells queer. Why did he take all those precautions in Quebec and not along the road?”
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 24