“Not to money, Piero, to power. Art is a manifestation of power. Our cathedrals are filled with art, are they not?”
“And your museum with money. Didn't Warhol paint dollar bills?”
“Indeed.” His eyes lit up. He took me by the arm and led me away. “Perhaps we can discuss this another time.”
“Sure.”
“Tell me, has Thomas showed you your quarters?”
Quarters? So the job was a live-in. “No, not yet.”
“You'll be in one of the garden bungalows.”
“Sounds great.” I turned and took a long look back at bloody red Lenin. Nothing but darkness in those eyes. Sign of the times.
“They’re very nice, the bungalows,” said Tommy O, falling in from the shadows. “Very quiet, restful.”
“Mr Pescatore will dine with me, Thomas. I’ll join him shortly.”
“Very good, sir.”
Bellomo pulled up short. Tommy O appeared at my side and led me away through the darkened rooms. Spots lit up and tossed haloes on the walls as we made our way past a blue Picasso, a Bang! Bang! Lichtenstein cartoon, a moody Rothko and a sculpture in bronze of a tall, skinny woman with clunky feet. “Jack, Jack—”
“Giacometti,” said Tommy O. “No need to play the fool, Pete.”
“Boss doesn’t have a sense of humor?”
“Tell me what you find so amusing.”
“It’s just nerves, Tommy. I could use a drink.”
“Coming right up.”
I followed him through a set of double doors and on to Bellomo’s living space. The lights went up as we entered, illuminating more art on the walls. Staid Dutchmen in tights and feathered hats, sad-eyed women in velvet and lace.
Tommy O left me with a bottle of Talisker and a glass. By the time he came back I had calmed myself down and was ready to talk. Tommy led the way to the dining room. Bellomo emerged from the shadows and we took our seats at a big, round table draped in white linen. On the wall hung a painting I’d seen before and liked a lot, one of Bacon’s screaming popes.
Tommy O went away. A white-gloved waiter appeared in his place, served up a soup and followed it with sea bass baked under salt with a crisp green salad on the side. Nice. We talked about the weather for a while and sports and where I grew up and what led me to Italy.
“My wife,” I said, and felt like I’d taken a left to the chin. “Eva.” I took a deep breath. “I met her in California and chased her back home.”
“She’s from Milan?” Bellomo sat back in his chair, satisfied.
I sucked in more air. “Eva passed away some years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” He nodded and stuck a fork in his fish. “Forgive me.”
“She was driving an Alfa Romeo. The brakes failed.”
“As they do.”
“So you said. She and her companion ended up in the lake.”
“Como? Lugano?”
“Lugano.”
Bellomo’s eyes were as dead as the fish. “Her companion that evening, a Mr Michael Romano?”
“Marco,” I said.
“A journalist, Piero, and a thief. He’d been snooping around where he had no business, stealing private information. It was not a wise move.”
“I guess not.” I reached for my glass and drank, taking a moment to absorb the news. So Bellomo and Billy Bob were on the same page. A cough exploded in my throat and I spat wine all over my plate. I snatched a cloth table napkin, wiped myself off and took a couple more breaths. My hands were fluttering again. “Sorry.”
A tight smile cracked Bellomo’s face. He lifted a hand and let it fall on a bell. The waiter appeared, mopped up the wine and cleared the dishes from the table.
Bellomo turned to me, “Coffee?”
I nodded. He was pushing his bluff, selling the accident as a murder, a warning to bury my head in the sand.
He waited for the waiter to leave us alone, built a church with his fingers and blew through the roof. “I would like you to pay close attention to what I am about to say.”
“Shoot.” I leaned forward. “Mind if I take notes?” I reached for my notebook. No notebook. Where was it? Julia? I made a show of patting my chest and peering in under my lapels. “No pen.”
“I’m sure you can remember.”
“All right.” My hands were still trembling. I dropped them to the table and spread fingers flat on the tablecloth. Fingers. I wondered if Julia had worked up the courage to do what I’d asked.
“Thomas tells me you wish to accept my offer of employment.”
“I’m here to talk business, if that’s what you mean.”
“Excellent. You will agree, I trust, that from this moment on, nothing I say goes beyond this room.”
I stuffed a nervous laugh back down my throat. Bellomo’s face was a mask. “You will resign your position, effective immediately. You can do so by telephone. This is now yours.” He sent a mottled brown hand into a pocket and withdrew a shiny black smartphone. “Thomas has programmed the numbers you will need.”
“Fantastic. Mind if I try it?” I reached for the phone.
“Not just now, Piero.” He pushed it across the tablecloth. “Be a good man and put it away.”
I took it, stared at the screen for a moment. No signal. I slipped it in a pocket.
“For calls from the hotel you’ll find a telephone in your quarters.”
“These modern conveniences.”
“Do be quiet, Piero. I’m trying to think.”
Bellomo dropped a hand to the bell again. The waiter scuttled in with my coffee and set it down in front of me. “Bring Mr Pescatore a grappa. Swiss.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“You may call me Arturo.” He reached for the sugar bowl, scooped two spoonfuls into my coffee and stirred as I watched him.
The waiter came back with a bottle of grappa and iced shot glasses. I topped up my coffee with a splash, filled a glass and tossed it back. Bellomo sat in silence while I drained the coffee, sickly sweet, and washed it down with a second grappa. Swiss grappa. Not so bad after all. I poured one for him. He ignored it and so I drank that one too. Finally my hands stopped shaking.
“You need only remember one thing, Piero.” Bellomo, dead serious.
I nodded.
“We are a family. If you have a problem, you will speak to me, and only to me. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded again.
“Yes, or no?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You no longer work for Mr Buttafuoco. You no longer write for Cronaca Nera Italiana.”
“No problem. I quit this morning.”
“And you will never write another word—”
I swallowed hard.
“—for anyone but me.”
“Fine with me, Art,” I said. “You’re the boss—” I offered him a toothy smile.
“Arturo, Piero, not Art.”
“Got it. Arturo.” I sat back, relaxing, took a deep breath and said, “You won’t mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Shoot,” he said, a hint of dark humor in his smile.
I cleared my throat and lowered my voice to a notch above a whisper. “Why go to all this trouble? If you’re worried about me writing something, why not just knock me off?”
A long pause for thought, tapping his fingers on the table. “Forgive me, Piero, but I am not in the habit of knocking people off.”
“Marco Romano? Gigi Goldoni?”
“You have clearly misunderstood what I said.” A slow, deliberate blink left his eyes hooded, reptilian. “Let’s try again.”
“I’m all ears.”
“The family has no need for violence. There are much more effective methods to encourage compliance with the rules.”
“Rules.”
“Obedience. Loyalty. Silence.”
“Which one did Gigi Goldoni break?”
Bellomo let his eyes wander for moment, reined them in and lowered his voice, forcing me to move in closer. “As a family man,
Piero, you will appreciate that one cannot place one’s personal interests above those of the family.” He paused, rubbing his temple. “It was most unfortunate, shall we say, that your friend failed to grasp this basic principle.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he knew, but it slipped his mind.”
“Perhaps.” Bellomo shot me a hard look. “I trust your own memory is in good working order?”
“Far as I know.”
“Good. Remember this, Mr Pescatore. Mr Goldoni had no one but himself to blame.”
“The fact he owed you a fortune had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re misinformed. The man owed me nothing.” He blew through his fingers again and said quietly, “His death was entirely unexpected.”
“A surprise?”
Bellomo’s dark eyes fixed on mine. “Like your friend Marco in his time, Mr Goldoni was attempting to sell what he did not own.”
“Bad move.”
“Shut up, Piero.” Bellomo took a deep breath, withdrew a crisp white handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. It seemed to calm him. “I was able to intervene and made him a much more attractive proposition. Unfortunately, our negotiations were, shall we say, interrupted.”
“The deal fell through?”
His eyes iced over and a distant smile drifted through his face. “It has yet to be consummated.” He turned his gaze back to me.
“I understand.”
His hand fell again to the bell on the table. It rang out loud and clear. His eyes warmed up and he took on the air of a kindly uncle. “May I suggest you take advantage of the sauna. You’ll find it a wonderful way to relax.”
I shook my fake Patek from my sleeve, consulted the time, frowned and said, “I’d love to, Mr Bellomo, but I haven’t forgotten I owe you something—and I’m running late enough as it is.”
“I insist, Piero.” He slammed the bell once more and called out, “Thomas!”
A few seconds passed before Tommy O stepped in the door, looking peeved and a little pale. “Sir.”
“Kindly show Piero to the sauna.”
“I’ll be delighted.”
“And Thomas—”
“Sir?”
“See that he gets a thorough massage.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Arturo Bellomo pushed himself to his feet. “One last question, Piero.”
I nodded.
“Your heart. Any problems?” He jabbed a finger in my chest.
“Heart?”
“Blood pressure in order?”
“Far as I know.” A chill in the air. “Why?”
“Just curious.” A slow, dark smile. “Good evening, Piero. I look forward to working with you.” He offered me his hand.
I took it. A slab of cold cod. I shook it and let it slip from my grasp.
Twenty two
I turned to Tommy O, pulled out my new phone and began to examine it. Still no signal.
“Later, Pete. There’s a phone in the bungalow. Come along, now.”
He took my arm at the elbow. I felt his fingers dig for the nerve. I tried to pull away. He shook his head. A grim smile cracked his face as his fingers dug in and hit paydirt. Pain.
A voice in my head said Run, run for your life.
The voice at my side said, “Don’t even think about it, Pete.”
I pulled away but the pain came back—sudden, intimate, persuasive. I gave up, weak in the knees, and let him guide me. As we made our way from the dining room down another long hall and a flight of stairs he began to whistle. The melody sounded familiar. It took me a while, but the name of the tune finally came to me. A set of glass doors opened up and we stepped into a bank of steam. Somewhere over the rainbow.
Two gentlemen stood waiting in sweat suits and flip-flops, towels draped around their necks. A sick fear flared as I recognized their faces, one and then the other. These were the boys from the BMW, the goons from up at the Villa Sofia.
Tommy O dropped a hand on my shoulder. “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine. Maximilian? We call him Max.”
Max stepped forward and gave a little bow. “Happy to meet you.” A child’s voice, high-pitched, harsh.
“And this is Frederick. We call him Freddie.” Freddie bowed.
“Pescatore,” I said. “Nice to see you boys again.”
“I’ll catch up with you later, Pete.” Tommy O whirled away, waved and walked off. “Enjoy the massage.”
The boys were professionals. On their instructions I stripped. They flipped me over, greased me and stuck a tube up my butt and pumped me full of something warm. Then they hauled me off to the toilet, sat me down and shut the door. I sat and watched my hands. They were shaking, hard, like flags in high wind. I held nothing back.
From there they helped me along over slippery tiles to a steaming pool. With quick and shallow breaths I sucked in the stench of rotten eggs. Max bent and grabbed my ankles, Freddie took me by the wrists. They swung me out, back, out again and dropped me. Ice water swallowed me and panic hit and I began to thrash. Rough hands hauled me out and dragged me to a steam room, laid me out on a slab and left me there. My eyes popped out and my heart began to thunder in my head. I thumbed my wrist and tried to count. I could not hold them, could not keep the numbers still. The boys came back, dragged me to the pool and heaved me back in. A voice called out. A shriek. My voice. A frozen scream. I could see it. A jagged streak of red on the ice. Hands gripped my ankles and wrists again, hauled me away and laid me flat on my back on a bench. I felt the blood rush to my head, panic slicing through my veins. Head down. Straps over my belly and chest and plastic ropes cutting into my wrists.
Silence. Running water.
“So, Mr Pescatore. Welcome to the hotel spa. Ha ha.” Max.
“The water cure,” said another voice. “Heals all ills, real and imaginary.”
My eyes were closed, clamped shut by raging fear. I did not want to see. But I recognized the voice, that soft, slurred, Irish voice.
“Did you not understand, Pete? Or did it slip your mind?”
I shook my head.
“Open your eyes.”
I opened them. A blaring light above me. A shadow, backlit, leaning over me.
“Did you not hear the question? Speak up, Pete. I can’t hear you.”
I opened my mouth to speak. No sound. A cold, wet cloth slapped over my mouth and nose. Water. I gagged and coughed, muscles rigid, straining. Hands on my jaw, the cloth came off.
“Tommy,” I sputtered. “What the hell you want?”
“Answer the question, Pete.”
“What. What was the question.”
The shadow leaned over me, blue eyes burning. Death rays. A flash of light. Darkness. “Where is it?”
What. Where is what. I forget.
“Answer me.”
Please explain. Tell me what you mean.
“Where is it, Pete?”
Good question. What. The phone? No. They took my phone. The key. I lost it. No. She took it. Who. Stazz. No. The other one. Clementina. No. Eva. Eva has the key.
“Eva. Eva has it.”
“Eva’s dead.” A pause. “Give the man another drink.”
Cold wet rag on my face. Water pouring into me. Choking me, drowning me. I suck for breath. Water floods into me, floods my brain. I gag and heave and hear the words again, words I had not heard or spoken. Father. Our Father. Who. Art. In. Heaven. And laughter, hissing, spitting. Water and more water, breathing water, choking on water, dark water. Dead. Air rushing in, coughing, spraying water. My face a fountain. I spit her name. “Eva.”
“She’s dead, Pete.”
Dead. Eva.
No air. No—
Slow, turning, rolling over, corpse in the water, sinking now beneath the surface of the lake. I will see her now. See her again.
“Sit him up.”
A hand snatches the rag. Air rushes in. A cough rips through my lungs and explodes in my eyes. My body tenses, pain ripping through me. “Ple
ase.” Gurgling water for a voice, a moan. My own voice. “I don’t. Have. The key.”
“Hell with the key. Where’s the briefcase?”
Briefcase. That’s what he wants. “Lost. I lost it.”
Flat on my back again. The rag. Water. River of water down my throat. Belly full of water. Eating water. Breathing water. A foot on my stomach. Stomp the water out again.
“Stolen. She. Stole.”
“Who?” A voice from a hole sunk into the past. A well. Black water at the bottom. Black eyes.
“Who?”
“Who? Tell us.”
She is dead. You cannot betray her. She is dead. Nothing can hurt her. Betray her without fear. “Eva.”
Rag over my face, head underwater, airless, darkness now.
“Where is it?”
Head up. Air. “In the car.”
“What car?”
“Decker. Billy.” My throat on fire. Each word burning as they tear it out of me.
“We looked. It’s not there.”
“She took it.”
“Who. What is her name?”
“Eva.”
“Eva’s dead, dickhead.”
A quiet falls over me. Breathing hard. In. Out. Black terror on the edge, the mouth of hell, open wide. Swallow me up. Please. Take me away.
A voice at my ear. “Had enough, Piero? Tell us where it is and we’ll stop.”
I squinted up at the shadow. Beady black eyes. Slick hair. A gold tooth in his smile.
“The man needs a drink,” said the face. “Someone give the poor boy a drink.”
“Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.” The voice. That lovely, sickening Irish lilt. “Where is it, Pete?”
“Waiting. For me.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Water.
“Follow me,” I spat. “You can follow me there ...”
Rough hands haul me to my feet. Darkness swallows me. Darkness chokes and spews me up again. A rush of terror. Water.
Am I dead, Tommy? Is that what this is?
Twenty three
Light falling in through the curtains. Where? No idea. In my head someone screams and falls silent again. Birds. Birds, singing.
A knock. The door opens. A woman pads in with dark face and straight dark hair and her brown eyes shining and swiftly sets out clothes on the bed. Clean, pressed, fresh from the hotel laundry. Still warm.
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 17