by Pierre Rey
They hadn't seen anything yet
Kloppe tried to take hold of himself. He stammered, if indeed that hoarse voice was his, "Please excuse me. This lady is a friend of mine. I’ll be right back. Just go ahead without me."
There she was, some ten yards from him, self-possessed, smiling, as inaccessible as a nightmare. He took three uncertain steps toward her, and she stopped him with a graciously authoritative wave of her hand.
Then, before the assembled group, she quietly spread the flaps of her fur coat Beneath it, she was totally, abso lutely naked, and Homer, for all that he was in an insane situation, could not help for a flash being fascinated by the dark chocolate of her skin, on which, black as the darkest night but shining with a quiet glow, was the vast triangle of her pubic area.
Bemused, but not missing the slightest detail of the show despite their dignified expressions, the witnesses watched it all in deathly silence. Standing solidly on her legs, still smiling, with her proffered body so amply dis played, Inez opened her mouth.
"Oh, Homer, I'm just heartbroken. I thought you and your friends had finished. Just go on. I’ll wait for you at home."
. She turned her back to the room with the majesty of a queen, swinging her voluminous mink from the rear to the front so that her magnificent buttocks were revealed, thrust out at a striking angle. The speechless audience heard the high heels ring out on the centuries-old slabs of the stone crypt accompanied by the accelerated breath ing of the local elders and the synodal delegates. A carnal burst of her scent wafted across the air, merging its effluvia with the dusty smell of old books and the odor of death arising from the cold stone.
The door squeaked closed, and the vision was gone.
12
In Ettore Gabelotti's New York apartment, Angelo Barba sank into an armchair. Each time Gabelotti went by, Barba could feel the air being displaced by the old man's 275 pounds. The fuming don was pacing back and forth through his parlor, looking furiously at his consiglieri. Carmine Crimello was no cockier than Barba. A little off to the side, Carlo Badaletto was trying to weather the storm.
Anger only seemed to increase Don Ettore's ravenous hunger. A huge platter of buttered delicatessen sand wiches, cut into manageable thirds, was being devoured little by little as Gabelotti absentmindedly replenished his handful each time he walked by.
An hour earlier, Philip Diego had called from Zurich to inform the don of his failure to get anything out of Homer Kloppe. Don Ettore had been so angry that he in sulted the lawyer, calling him a fuck-up and saying he didn't know the meaning of tact or diplomacy.
"Why don't you phone him yourself?" Diego had sug gested coldly.
"Is that your advice?"
"No. Somethings are better not to discuss over the telephone."
"Well, what am I supposed to do, since you're not able to get any information for me?"
There was, of course, one solution they both thought of, but neither mentioned it Gabelotti, because he never
trusted anyone, not even one of his most dependable law yers; and Philip Diego, because he was afraid the don might say no. Yet, if Gabelotti gave him the number of the secret account, he could immediately instruct Kloppe to make the necessary transfer. Assuming that Italo Volpone had not already made off with the money.
‘Why don't you write him?"
"Because that would be stupid."
Diego was well aware of that. Tax evasion and fraud were favorite hunting grounds of the U.S. authorities. Be tween SEC, IRS, and FBI mail covers, any suspicious cor respondence to Switzerland or any other such tax-free paradise constituted an immediate danger to the sender. The mail might get into the wrong hands, with untold con sequences.
"It's just too bad that you can't come over," the law yer interjected nonchalantly.
Gabelotti hung up with a curse. Once again, his fear of frying was keeping him from getting where his business sense said he ought to be. Logically, of course, it made no sense. But in his gut, all the fibers of his body told him he'd die before the plane even took off.
What a hell of a situation! He couldn't write, couldn't phone, couldn't tell anyone the account number O'Brion had given him. Nor could he go to Zurich. Unless he were to go by ship—and that would take at least five or six days, during which time those two billion big ones might move on a dozen times without leaving a forwarding ad dress.
Finally, his nerves and patience gave out, and Gabe lotti could no longer stand it. He decided he would take a calculated risk: he would call Kloppe and identify himself by giving the secret account number. Unfortunately, by the time he got the Zurich Trade Bank on the line it was 3:00 p.m. in Switzerland—the very moment when Homer Kloppe was beginning his talk at the Grossmunster.
"When will he be back?" Gabelotti asked.
"Not until tomorrow morning, sir."
"Is there any other number I can reach him at?"
"No, sir. But I could put you through to the assistant
director—"
Gabelotti hung up without replying, grabbed another sandwich, and stuffed the whole wedge into his mouth’ swallowing most of it without chewing.
If only Rico Gatto would call in again," Crimeflo lamented.
Ettore shrugged.
"Listen, Don Ettore," Barba put in, 'I think we're losing sight of the most important thing. I understand what you're worried about, and so am I. But Babe Volpone is still in Switzerland, isn't he? If he tried to pull anything, wouldn't he have gone to cover long since?"
'This whole thing is a double cross," thundered Gabelotti. "I don't believe one fuckin' word of what Moshe Yudelman told us. They're just trying to get us to go to sleep. And I'm cut off from the world and can't get any information."
"When is Moshe coming back?"
"Any minute. If he doesn't have anything new to tell me, well let them have it"
To get to the Sonnenberg Quarter, Lando had driven past a golf course, then turned left into Sonnenbergstrasse and left again into Aurorastrasse.
"You didn't exactly choose a slum," said Volpone.
"You said you wanted the best" Lando replied, de lighted.
The street was lined with magnificent private estates that were hidden behing high walls. 'This is known as Bankers’ Boulevard," Lando added, waving his arm to in dicate the sublime view of the city, the perfect condition of the flower beds seen here and there through the wrought-iron gates.
It was 4:00 p.m., the temperature was mild, and, despite the tension gripping his head, Italo could not help enjoying the aroma of springtime.
"Did you have enough bread?"
"I got a grand left. I had to cough up nine. Not for six months, though, only three."
He glanced at Volpone to see whether the boss was sore.
These guys in Zurich don't do things halfway, do they?’'Italo burst out laughing.
Relieved, Lando let his foot press down on the gas pedal of the Beamy Ghost P9. Up to now, he’d only had a chance to tease it, but he swore that as soon as things calmed down he'd take it out on the Autobahn and see . what he could push it up to. He fleetingly felt the loss of Don Genco, who had given him the regal present What class he had! Italo was not as much fun to deal with: he was too quick to come to a boil and apt to get sore over next to nothing. But he was a real leader! When Lando had reported on Inez's appearance at the church, he'd felt Volpone's eyes silently congratulating him. Italo had asked for the story to be repeated twice, and he wanted more details on certain especially funny points.
"What did that cold potato look like when she waved her snatch at him?"
"She said his eyes popped out of his head."
"And how about the others, when she shoved her ass under their noses?"
"They were petrified."
Italo had nodded in great satisfaction. Of course, Lando had put it on a little thick. After all, he hadn't actually been there himself. When he tried to get the de tails out of Inez, she had merely said, "I did what I was told. Now fuck off!" And he had to
take her word for it
'This is the place, boss."
It was a small chateau, with two stories and an attic that had mansarded windows opening on the gray slate roof. The facade and, shutters were white. To enter, you went up a double curved staircase to a landing in front of a heavy black door with a bronze knocker.
I’ll show you around," Lando said.
Italo looked out over the grounds. The grass was as green as a roulette table, and jonquils were blooming at the foot of several giant cedars. This was the kind of place Angela would like. She often told him that all she'needed was a supply of good books, a little greenery, and a lot of time to herself.
"What about me?" he'd ask. "Where do I fit in?"
By way of answer, she would cuddle up to him, smile, and play with his earlobe. He swore to himself that once he was out of this pile of shit he'd take her to Sicily on a holiday.
"You first," Lando told him.
Volpone went into a reception hall that was lined, with portraits of somebody's ancestors in warrior uni forms. Angela had promised that one day she'd explain to him why old pictures like that were beautiful. He opened a door into a main salon with windows opening out on the greenswards.
"How many rooms?" he asked.
"I forget," Lando answered. "Thirteen or fourteen."
Volpone knitted his brow. "Thirteen?"
"Maybe less, maybe more."
"Go count 'em, and let me know. Does the telephone work?" ’Yep."
'Where is it?’
Lando pointed it out to him. "There's another extension in your bedroom." "My bedroom? You telling me where I'm gonna sleep now?"
"It's the best one," Lando said in all honesty.
Italo-dismissed him with a wave of the hand. Baretto was obedient and efficient, but that didn't change file fact that he was a pimp. And for some reason Italo had no use for pimps, even though prostitution was one of the main stays of the Volpone fortune. That was on an abstract in dustrial scale in which women were counted only as so many head of stock. Wholesalers such as the Volpone brothers had no direct contact with the merchandise.
However, it was Lando's black broad who had hit Homer Kloppe where it hurt most
But that was only for openers. Babe had figured out an escalating three-stage move to break the banker's re sistance. First his reputation. Then, his person. And finally, his family.
Italo frowned as he looked at the phone. He was go ing to have to tell Moshe Yudelman that Morty O'Brion was dead. When Italo had a run-in with Genco, Moshe was always the one who had smoothed things oujt and gotten the brothers back together. The consigliere had an almost paternal affection for the younger Volpone, and Babe knew it. Because of that, he tolerated stuff from Yudelman that he wouldn't take from anyone else. Moshe, aware of this, never beat around the bush with Babe. He was going to have a fit when he heard that Italo had wasted their last chance by excuting Morty.
Nevertheless, Italo dialed Yudelman's number in New York. It rang only once before it was answered.
"It's me," Italo said.
"Goddamn it!" Moshe shouted. "‘I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Where are you?" "Still in the same place."
"All right, forget it, Italo. That's not important Things are sour. Come on back." "That all you got to tell me?"
"Listen to me, Italo. I’m scared. We've done enough stupid things already. One more and the shit’ll hit the fan. You're being tailed."
"Not anymore. That's been taken care of."
"Taken care of?"
"I told you, it's all taken care of!" Italo shouted. "You can understand that, cant you?"
"Are you calling from the hotel?" Moshe asked cau tiously.
"No, you can go ahead and talk. It's a clean line." "Gabelotti's gone crazy. He thinks we're trying to rob him."
"And you fall for that shithead's talk? You're losing your touch."
"The shithead is gonna gun us down. Every one of us."
"You don't say."
"He doesn't know what he's saying anymore. He thinks you're the one who had O'Brion knocked off."
"That’s not so," said Italo.
"I know it and you know it But he doesn't""
Italo took a deep breath. "I didn't have the bastard knocked off. I did it myself."
There was a long silence at the other end. Then Moshe's excited voice came back, ‘You're nuts! Absolutely nuts!"
"It was an accident. I was trying to get him to talk, and he was making fun of me."
"Oh, no," Yudelman groaned. "I can't believe it That's just too stupid. You don't seem to understand a thing."
"Stop bustin’ my balls!"
"Not the least thing. From now on, who knows what Gabelotti may do. The Commissione will stand behind him!"
"Are yon out of your mind?" Italo roared. "Just ask Gabelotti what his friend Morty was trying to pull when we picked him up at the bank. Go ahead!"
"Italo, I've seen Gabelotti. And I can't make out what's going on."
"Well, I can. That fuckin' bastard had my brother knocked off so he could lay his hands on our dough. And now that you've let your pants down to him, he flunks he's got the upper hand and that he'll be able to go right on spitting in my face!"
"Italo!"
"Shut up! Since you're so palsy-walsy with Ettore now, let him tell you why he sent his dear little consigliere to see Mr. Kloppe."
"Italo. Don't you think O'Brion might have been try ing to pull that off on his own?"
"You poor sap!" Volpone sneered. "You think this is a movie or something?"
"You're forgetting one thing, Babe. Gabelotti knows the number of the account He's known it from the start All he had to do was give it"
"And who says he didn't?" Volpone answered, chok ing. "Why do you think he sent O'Brion? Huh? Tell me that!"
"Italo, let me tell you frankly, I don't know what to say. There are too many things that aren't clear. We won't get anywhere by bickering. It could cost us too much."
"It won't cost me nothin'. My brother's dead, and his money is probably gone. So what am I worried what it's gonna cost?"
"Look, give me one last chance to try—" ; "You just keep out of this!"
"Come back to New York," Yudelman pleaded. "Well have it out with Don Ettore. Well lay the cards on the table."
"I wonder why Genco kept you on as long as he did. You're just too fuckin' dumb!"
Then I’ll go by myself," Moshe answered. "In the interest of the family."
‘I’m the family nowl" Volpone shouted.
"Italo, I’m asking you one last time. Come back to New York."
"Go fuck yourself."
"They'll get you," Moshe warned in a low, cold voice. '"But I'm not going to let you endanger the lives of Francesca, or her daughters, or Angela."
Italo's eyes opened wide. "What about Angela?" he asked hoarsely.
"If you're not back here in a few hours, heaven-pro tect us all!" Moshe Yudelman said, and he hung up.
Volpone was speechless. He stood dumbstruck, the phone still at his ear. For a moment his brain became paralyzed, and the buzz of the disconnected telephone taunted him. Moshe was right Angela, of course! He'd have to tell her to hide out—right away!
"It’s just wild!" Renata laughed. "They'll have to lie down to get the feeling they're standing up!"
‘Terrific," Kurt agreed. "Only the sober ones’ll feel they're getting drunk."
They were lying on their backs in what had been a typical opulent parlor of Zurich's upper bourgeoisie. Now, Chimene wouldn't have recognized her pride and joy. The workers had started by taking the paintings and hanging them upside down.
"Just look!" exclaimed the ecstatic Oswald Hepbräuer. "When paintings are masterworks, they're just as fine upside down as right side up!"
In Zurich, Oswald was the last word in decorating. He had been at the Beaux-Arts School in Paris in 1968, and he had stormed the Sorbonne, occupied the Odeon Theater, and made the color bombs that his revolutionary comrades used to
write their liberating graffiti on the walls of the City of Light. To the gilded intelligentsia in Switzerland, accomplishments like that made him a hero. Oswald had a double halo as both a man of action and a noncomformist, all of which made him wildly enthusiastic about Renata Kloppe's idea of an upside-down wedding. He had spent three feverish weeks working out the details. Now it was coming to life. His workers covered the whole ceiling with trompe-rceil wallpaper to simulate a parquet floor, and a set of upside-down cafe chairs "stood" up there, held in place by mortises.