Another woman brings a cup of tea. I dress and drink it. Tea. Not water. Tommy O arrives and helps me out into the cold gray day. We follow a gravel path through the garden to a glass door that opens onto the lobby.
“Sir?”
I stare over the counter, looking for the source of the voice. A fuzzy young woman looks at me with a smile. Professional. Clean white teeth. Black lipstick. Lemon yellow hair. No. No. She has pale pink lips and a bright hotel smile. The lips are moving again. I try to read them.
Nothing. What language is it?
“Pete.” Tommy O’s voice.
I turn my head. “What?”
“Did you have anything from the minibar?” He seems to find the question amusing.
I shake my head.
“Thank you, Mr Pescatore,” says the voice from behind the desk. “Have a nice day.”
Tommy O beside me. “We’ll need a ride to the funeral.”
“Certainly, Mr O’Sullivan. I’ve arranged for a driver.”
I back away, looking for a way out. A flash of movement catches my eye. An image in a mirror. A tall man, haggard, beaten, in a pinstripe suit and thick wool overcoat, dark blue. The man lifts his hands to adjust the tie. They are my hands, shaking. I step away from the mirror and shuffle toward the light, gray snowy light falling in from the day. A doorman serves up a crisp salute.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Easy for you to say.”
A black Mercedes sat rumbling, a driver in uniform slouched behind the wheel. Tommy O helped me to the car and climbed in after. Freddie crawled in the other side, Max took the shotgun slot up front. Somebody coughed and the driver pulled away. I looked out the window. Snow, drifting softly to the frozen ground.
A water-logged sickness hung in my body. Sodden chunks of the night rose up and rolled over before my eyes, dull echoes of choking screams.
The only thing left alive in me was burning in my gut, a glowing spark of anger. I stared at it and blew a soft breath and saw it flare. I blew again and watched it flicker and burst into flame. I held out my hands, as if to warm them on the fire. They were still, calm, solid as a rock.
“Cold, Pete?” The voice, far away, of Tommy O.
I shook my head, feeling the heat in my belly and the ghost of a smile open up in my face.
Tommy O saw it. “Care to let us in on the joke?”
I shook my head.
“You do know what we expect of you.”
I nodded. “The briefcase.” I blew a long breath out and felt the fire inside me spit and hiss. “Ali Baba wants the briefcase.”
“Excellent,” said Tommy O. “Just a minor point, if I may.”
“Be my guest.”
“The man’s name is Arturo Bellomo. Forget everything else.”
“Forget? Name of the game, Tommy. Isn’t it.”
“Precisely.”
“Forgot the briefcase.“
“Ah, but you’ll find it for us. Won’t he, boys?” He shifted his gaze from Max to Freddie and back to me.
Grunts from the goons.
“Forgot where we’re going. Fill me in?”
“To the funeral, Pete,” said Tommy O.
“Mine?”
A soft laugh. “Not this one, Pete. You’re family now, and the family takes care of its own. Even its own rats.”
“Right.” I was starting to feel better as the fire in my belly sent flickering shoots of heat through my veins. “As one family man to another, Tommy, let me give you a word of advice.”
“Put a cork in it, Pete.” He wasn’t in the mood. Chewing his nails again.
“You need to rethink your recruitment policy.”
“Pete—”
“It’s barbaric. It’s cruel. And above all—”
“Freddie. Shut him up.”
“Counterproductive.” Freddie leaned in and slapped me back to the dark side of the moon.
Later another hand shook me awake. It was the hand of the man who chewed his nails. Ali Baba’s side-kick, the guy who played Sancho to the Don. Something like that.
“Hey, Tonto,” I said. “How’s tricks?”
“The name’s Thomas, Pete.”
We had arrived at our destination. Tommy O hauled me up out of the car. Freddie grabbed one arm, Max the other. The four of us made our way from the street up the snow-covered walkway to the doors of the church and on inside.
Stale incense hung in the musty air. I raised my eyes to frescoes and took in the terracotta stations of the cross. An altar stood draped in green and gold, candles burning on either side.
Wooden pews were filling slowly. Tommy and Max made their way to the front and left me at the back with Freddie. I scanned the crowd for people I knew, for the friends and family of Gigi Goldoni, for investors, clients and employees. I recognized the odd face or two.
Bellomo turned back with a worried look toward the door. He saw me, caught my eye, winked and nodded, satisfied. To one side stood Tommy O, fidgeting, to the other, Max. He nodded, tossed a glance to the rear, ran his cold gaze across my face and turned back to the boss beside him. Freddie tightened his grip on my arm.
Gigi Goldoni was late for his own funeral.
I leaned into Freddie and whispered, “What's the problem?”
Freddie shook his head. Nothing to do but wait. It was a good sign, I figured. Julia must have done her job.
In the shadows under the portico sat a small, dark figure dressed in black, hunched in a wheelchair. As I gazed she lifted a hand and drew back her veil. A faint smile crossed her lips before the veil came down.
Aida. The widow. An old woman now. Always older than he was. Ten years, at least, maybe more. Behind her a tall young man. A minder from the clinic?
Her dead husband didn't keep her waiting long. Four pale men in black rolled in a polished wooden casket and pushed it up the center aisle. They left him there with a layered wreath of white lilies and withdrew to the shadows.
A priest appeared and led us through the ritual. He recalled for us all what a good-hearted, gentle soul we had lost to the mystery of God's ways. During a moment of prayer for Gigi's soul I took a deep breath, leaned into Freddie, reached in under his crotch, grabbed him and squeezed. His eyes opened wide in shock and he moaned. I held on, squeezed a little harder, told him to shut up and walked him down the aisle by the balls. At the door I dropped him and took off down the walkway to the street.
My ride stood waiting at the curb. I tore open the door as he was pulling away, dove in and stretched out flat on the seat. We drove for a while before I felt the car slow and roll to a stop.
I sat up, reached over the seat and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Joe.”
“Di niente.” He threw a look back at me in the mirror, stared for a while and said, “Bad night?"
“You could say that.”
He flicked a look out the window and held up the camera. “Have a look?”
I took it from him. “You get everybody?”
“I think so.”
I hit a couple of buttons on the back and ran through a series of shots that showed the crowd filing into the church. They were terrible photos, blurred and taken from too far away. I made out Tommy O and the boys, but only because I knew them. And there. I handed him the camera. “I know that guy. What's his name?”
“Bellomo, Arturo. A big man in Lugano. Owns the hotel.”
“Does he.”
Joe gave a slow nod. “A very big man.” He offered a stare charged with meaning.
I didn’t get it. “Come on, Joe. Don't make me guess.”
“I have no proof.”
“Tell me.”
He lowered his head, flicked a look in the mirrors and back to me and whispered, “He is a Mason.”
“Yeah? Who gives a—who the hell cares?”
“You don't understand. He is not just a Mason, he is the capo, the boss. Don't you know what that means?”
“No.”
“But—everyone knows.
”
“Except me, Joe. So tell me.”
“The Masons are powerful. They are the true powers in Switzerland. A very small number. Your friend is one.”
“Who, Bellomo? Arturo Bellomo is a Mason? Are you sure?”
Another grave nod from Joe. “And his people. O’Sullivan, Ungaretti. They're all Masons, every one of them.”
“I see,” I said, sliding over the leather seat. “Give me a minute, would you? Be right back.” I climbed out, stood up straight and walked down to the path that ran along the lakefront. I needed some air, away from one more conspiracy nut. They were everywhere, true believers obsessed with their enemies—the demonic, lock-jawed Lords of Evil who ruled the world from Vatican City, a perfidious cabal in league with Wall Street and the City of London, the Trilateral Commission and the Elders of Zion.
I took a few breaths of cold, damp air and made my way back to the taxi.
I climbed in. “So, Joe. You get a photo of the widow?”
“Yes, yes.” A sigh. “She was once a very beautiful woman.”
“Who’s the guy with her?”
“No idea. Somebody from the clinic, I expect.” He ran through the photos until he found them, Aida Goldoni and the slim young man I’d seen in church. Blurred.
I dug out the phone that Bellomo had left me. A smartphone. A dozen icons filled the screen. Games. Maps. City guides to Paris and Buenos Aires. Finally, the phone. I tapped out Anastasia’s number.
She picked up, breathless. “Pete? Is it you?”
“I hope so.”
“Where are you?”
“Lugano.” I looked around. Things were still a little foggy. “Yes. Lugano.”
“Where. Name of street.”
I was down at the lake, I said, not far from a cobbled square with a fountain.
“What you are wearing?”
I looked myself over. “Blue overcoat. No hat. In a taxi with Joe.”
“Stay there. I call you back.”
“Sure. You pick up the number?”
“Yes.” She hung up.
I sat back and closed my eyes. Joe asked if he could take me anywhere. I said no, but he could tell me about the casino, the one on the other side of the lake. “You told me you drove Goldoni there.”
“Not me. I heard the story from a friend.”
“How often did they go?”
“Two, three times a week, at first. Later, every day.”
“When was this? Recently?”
“No, no. Two-three years ago.”
The phone in my hand began to buzz. “Hello?”
“Tex coming to get you. Tell him you will give him the briefcase.”
“Is that what you told him?”
“Trust me.”
“Stazz—” Never mind. “Did Julia give you the address?”
“Yes. I will meet you there.”
“When?”
“Wait.” She fell silent, breathing down the line. “Is he there yet?”
“Who?” I looked around.
She sighed. “The big Yank. On the bike.”
And there he was, roaring up on the Harley. He pulled up beside the taxi. The bike sputtered and fell silent.
“Pete! Pete!” Stazz was yelling in my ear.
I grabbed the back of the seat and hauled myself forward, leaned in to Joe and handed him the phone. “Do me a favor? Take a message.”
I pushed the door open and climbed out, threw my arms open wide and said, “Billy! Long time no see!”
“Where you been, Pescatore? I had to hunt you down.”
“I spent a few hours in the steam room last night. Things just don’t seem the same today.”
“Ahh. Took you surfing, did they?” A sigh from Billy Bob. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Day you stole the briefcase, Pete. We were drinking in the Royale.”
“Day you lost the briefcase, Billy. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Bull. I had a little talk with your Bolshie friend.”
“Yeah? What did she say?”
“Said you changed your mind.”
“Did she?” Right. “That’s right, I changed my mind.” I nodded. “Did she say what about?”
“You’re going to give me the briefcase. Now.”
“She said that?”
Billy Bob nodded. “Said you’ve come to your senses.”
“That’s true.” The hell she talking about? “I have. Come to my senses.”
“So. Where is it?”
I looked around, shrugged and walked over to the taxi. Joe rolled down the window, handed me my phone and snatched the camera from the seat beside him. “You better have this, too. Johnny wants more photos.”
I took it from him. “More?”
“I already sent him the ones I took.”
I frowned. He held up his phone. “Bluetooth.”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.” Phones. Shoot a Hollywood movie with a phone these days. “See you later.” I slipped the phone and the camera in a pocket, waved Joe away and walked back to the bike. “OK, Billy, let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“Anastasia didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
I frowned. The wind sweeping in from the lake was colder now. “It’s complicated. You mind if I drive?”
“No chance, Pescatore. You’ll kill us.”
I shrugged. “Have it your way.” I shook my watch from my sleeve and squinted at the dial. “I’m the world’s worst navigator. Really bad. If we’re lucky we get there next week.”
He thought about it, shrugged and climbed off. I swung a leg over and turned the key.
Billy Bob handed me a pair of gloves. I pulled them on. The bike exploded into a roar and took off.
Wind and snow ripped the flesh from my face and jabbed steel needles into my lungs and the tails of my overcoat whipped in the wind. I could still see him standing there, gaping, flat-footed.
He couldn’t be that dumb. Billy The Big Yank, outfoxed by a hack? No chance. I took another deep breath, bent my head low and opened up the throttle.
Twenty four
Something about roads, you drive them enough, even years later the feeling comes back— the hunger tying knots in your gut, the road rolling out and rattling your bones. The road has memories under the surface and riding along kicks them up again. That’s what it felt like. Like I knew the road and the road knew me.
Summer, four or five years gone. It started with money, with the feeling I had there would never be enough. Not for Eva. Gigi paid me well, but she wanted more and we began to fight. Got so I’d call her toward the end of the day, tell her I was working late and had to stay the night in Lugano. She complained at first, but it didn’t last long and pretty soon we were fighting a war where every kiss we gave away was a dagger plunged into the other’s heart.
We had both taken lovers. Mine would get there before me and lie in wait, the window thrown open, late sun on the meadow or just gone down, the smell of something cooking on the stove. I knew she was there, lurking in ambush, and crept through the rooms, hunting her down. Wild shrieks when she leapt into my arms and we fought our way to the bed, the couch or the floor, clawing at our clothes, diving, lunging at each other, my body plunging into hers, into the darkness and the light.
I let the memory fade and settled down to the road. It rose through snowy foothills and wound on up to a high Alpine valley. The old wooden houses were strung out along a narrow lane that followed a creek across the valley floor. The place I was heading had been a small hotel and still had the look of an ancient postcard, a long-dead message to the world below. It had survived a century of glacial winters under soaring peaks, perched above a cliff that dropped a thousand feet to granite outcrops framed in snow.
Woodsmoke in the air. I climbed off the Harley, pushed it around behind the tool shed, walked back to the house and clumped up the stairs.
The door creaked open. The color
drained from her face.
“Renata.” Wrapped in a heavy, hand-knit red and white sweater.
I pushed in the door. She turned away. No shrieks of wild joy, no animal passion. Not even a hello.
I shut the door. “We need to talk.”
“You need to leave.” She was already walking away from me. I caught up with her in the kitchen. Nothing on the stove.
I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Coffee? Corretto, maybe?” She used to keep a good grappa around the place. I got up again, pulled off my coat and found my way to the old reception and a wooden cupboard jammed up against the wall beside the fireplace.
I opened the cupboard. No grappa. Whisky, a blend. It would have to do.
“You’re a fool, Pete.” She stood behind me, at the door. “Do you want them to burn this place, too?”
“Them? Who’s them, Renata?” I grabbed the bottle and a shot glass, filled it and drank.
“Who do you think? Bellomo. His people.”
I pushed past her again. “Where are the kids?”
“With my mother.”
“Sarge?”
“The police picked him up.”
“Arrested?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Just more questions.”
“About?”
We were back in the kitchen. She reached for the old coffee pot on the shelf above the stove. “The murder, suicide. Whatever it was, they used his gun.”
“They?” I tilted my head, my gaze grazing the curves of her face, remembering I had loved her once, if love you could call it. ”What happened, Renata?”
“I wasn’t there.” She turned away, spooned coffee into the filter, screwed the pot back together and set it on a burner. “All I know is what Sarge told me.”
“Which is?” I poured myself another drink and let her think while I dug out my new phone. “How’s the reception up here?”
“This is Switzerland.”
“Right.” I punched in a number and let it ring. “Stazz, baby, how are you? Don’t answer that. Where are you?”
She was camped out in a hotel the next valley over with her ex and his pals. From me she wanted photographs.
“Joe sent them to Johnny this morning.”
“Fuzzy. All no good.”
“Not all of them. I recognized Aida.”
Suicide Italian Style (Crime Made in Italy Book 1) Page 18