by Pierre Rey
Homer raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Just relax, relax," the dentist told him. "Perhaps some irritating agent at the marginal periodontal tissue. That often happens..."
As he was speaking, Strolh was readying the mask that was connected by a rubber hose to the tank of nitrous oxide.
"Now, breathe deeply two or three times."
Kloppe tensed. Strolh had examined him yesterday. A serious irritation could not have occurred overnight. He was going to signal that he had something to say when he felt the professor press the mask down over his face.
"Don't move. Breathe deeply. Just relax."
Not understanding why the dentist should be doing this to him, Homer attempted to raise himself. By reflex, as he did, he inhaled deeply. Instantly he felt a strange sof tening sensation. He raised his arm to protest, gripped Strain's arm without conviction, and felt a need for air, so he inhaled deeply again. The mask began to feel heavier on his cheekbones; the professor's hand on his forehead became as weighty as a block of steel; and the light shining on him exploded like crystalline rain.
He passed out. For a few more seconds the professor, his hands trembling, held the mask. When he was sure the banker was completely under, he turned toward the two men, his eyes full of tears.
"I can't," he moaned. "I just can't" He wiped the sweat that was running into his eyes and shouted, "I can't, I tell you!"
The big one took four steps toward him and slapped him. "Go on and do it, jerk! You want us to start bleeding your old lady?"
August, his head about to burst, looked at Ingrid. In her bloodless face, only the eyes expressed her terror.
Then he understood that she would die if he didn't do as he was told. Struggling to overcome his intense urge to vomit he picked up the forceps, opened Homer Kloppe's jaws, and considered the proper angle of attack. He gripped an upper incisor in the pincers and pulled. The banker's inert head came with it Strolh blocked it by leaning his left elbow against Kloppe's forehead. He loosened the in cisor, twisting it first one way, then the other. Then, taking up a sharp surgical knife he split the flesh of the gum, cutting through the ligaments holding the tooth to the bone. Grasping his pincers again, he pulled once more. Some thing cracked. Under Bellinzona's interested but unfeeling eye, Strolh dropped the bloodstained tooth into the metal tray. And went after another incisor.
When all of the front of Kloppe's jaw was toothless, Strain, livid and drenched in sweat looked imploringly toward Bellinzona. But he found no pity there—just the implacable order to keep going.
The molars with their divergent roots gave him the most trouble. Overcoming his nausea, he had to-use an elevator that he lodged between bone and root in order to get the teeth out of their sockets.
"Quicker!" Bellinzona was scolding, as the show began to bore him.
Eight minutes later, it was all over. Homer Kloppe didn't have a tooth left in his head. Strain's eyes happened onto the tray where, in tiny pools of blood, lay the teeth he had. just extracted. His eyes glazed over, his nostrils tight ened, and. slowly, he collapsed.
Bellinzona looked at Strolh with contempt He opened the banker's jaw and shoved his finger inside to make sure there was nothing left in the gums. The job, he found, had been thorough. Satisfied, he wiped his soiled finger on Kloppe's jacket
Folco Mori let go of Ingrid, folded his razor, and put it back in his pocket. The young woman was not very steady on her legs, and passing near her, Bellinzona smiled amiably. His huge hand suddenly unlimbered and with a sharp blow met Ingrid's forehead. She sank softly to the floor. Folco unlocked a back door that led to a service stairway, and they went down calmly after Pietro had closed the door behind them.
A minute went by. In the ravaged office, nothing moved. The tape continued to play Vivaldi. The telephone rang ten times or so, then stopped.
Homer Kloppe began to move. He opened his eyes, instinctively touched his lips with his hand, and saw that they were full of blood. Lowering his head, he saw the motionless body of August Strolh. In pain, he glanced around the room, and then he saw Ingrid Strolh, her smock raised revealingly over her long round thighs.
Giving up any effort to make sense of it all, he tottered to his feet, holding the edges of the dental chair, and took a few steps over to the bronze-framed mirror. He did not know who he was. His face was covered with blood, as was the bib around his heck. Blood was flowing out of the corners of his mouth in a double stream that ran down the sides of his jaw.
His heart beat like a hammer on an. anvil as he con centrated what courage was left in him to confirm what he already guessed. He opened his mouth.
His gums were no more than a bloody mess of flesh with nothing in them. A century before, when he had sat down in the dentist's chair, he had had the most perfect set of teeth in the city. Now, in their place, were only holes. Tears ran down his cheeks as he turned from the mirror.
Ingrid, now sitting up on the floor, looked at him, her eyes dilated with horror. The telephone rang. Like an au tomaton, her vacant eyes staring straight ahead, Ingrid went to pick it up. As she listened, her expression did not change; she did not seem to be hearing. Yet she held the receiver out to Homer Kloppe, who just as automatically took it from her.
Despite his state of shock, the banker recognized the voice he would never forget—the voice of Italo Vol pone.
"That's the second and last warning. If the money is not released within the hour, I won't be responsible for your life or the lives of your family."
Kloppe didn't have the strength to spit out the large glob of blood that had formed against his palate. He pushed it aside with his tongue, tried to control his hesi tant breathing, and slowly, in a voice that had been changed by the loss of his teeth, a voice scarcely above a whisper, forced out the words, "Drop dead!"
15
What was happening was beyond her comprehen sion. For almost seventeen hours now she had been confined in a luxurious bedroom, full of books, a stereo tape deck, a TV set, all varieties of drinks, and a bell that im mediately brought a nice fat woman ready to satisfy what ever needs she might have. But no one would tell Angela why she was here, where she was, and how long this would last.
The woman would only answer her questions with smiles, remaining resolutely mute, complying with any request that might make her more comfortable, such as toilet articles and food.
The two men who abducted her had been no more communicative. Somehow, darkly, she felt this kidnapping was connected with her husband. She was sorry now that she had not insisted on knowing more about his business. All day she had paced around her tiny prison-palace, find ing' no inside knob on the door, nor any way to open the window. The smoked-glass panes let in the light but al lowed her to see nothing that would furnish any informa tion.
Apart from the fat woman, no one had come in. Around four-thirty in the morning, after knocking on the door, a huge man finally made an appearance.
"I want to apologize," he told her, "for the way my men brought you here. Do you have everything you re quire?"
"Who are you?’
"A friend of your husband's. In fact, more than a friend. Italo and I are partners. My name is Ettore Gabe lotti. I hope I didn't wake you."
"I want to go home."
"First, let me warn you. I just got back here. My instructions were not carried out properly. I told them they were to explain to you exactly why I invited you over."
In other circumstances his choice of words might have been funny. Angela did not let it pass.
"Invited me over? What do you mean? I was forced to come, with a gun shoved in my ribs!"
"Those men have been punished. Try to understand —Italo is in Zurich. You know that He is there on joint business for us. Unfortunately, he lost his brother, whom we all held in the highest esteem. And maybe Genco didn't die of entirely natural causes. So Italo was worried. When I heard that some people who have it in for your husband and me had made some threats concerning you, I thought the best thin
g would be to bring you here, where you would be safe from harm."
"I want to go."
"You can if you want but I beg you not to. Later, you will thank me for this. Lei è italiana?" "Si, io sono, ma—" "Da dov’è?’
"Look, I was kidnapped early yesterday afternoon, and it’ss now almost five in the morning. I don't want to overstay my welcome. I will be sure to let Italo know how well I was treated while I was your guest Now, please have someone take me back home."
"I can see that you are angry with me, but I cannot as a friend of Italo's, let you run such a risk. Once more, I must insist that you spend the rest of the night here."
Angela felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She bit her lip. Italo was her life in this country. The only one she saw was him. Her own friends and family were either in Italy or in England. All she knew of New York was some restau rants and a couple of museums. Their conjugal bed had been the center of her universe, but now Italo wasn't here, and she felt desperately alone and vulnerable in the face of a terrifying, incomprehensible situation. Behind this fat man's polite phrases she recognized pitiless deter mination. She was hot the kind of woman to break down, so she decided, for the time being, to resign herself to her fate. Frightened as she was, she replied, "I get up at nine. I take my coffee black without sugar; and I like the bacon with my eggs very crisp."
Gabelotti bowed as deeply as his huge belly allowed.
"I am very happy that you are staying. You will have everything as you wish. Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience."
Everyone in the Volpone family was fond of Moshe Yudelman, Vittorio Pizzu no less than the others but he questioned Yudelman's faith in smooth words and careful negotiations. From experience, Vittorio knew that there came a time when you needed weapons to make your point of view prevail and to safeguard your interests. So when Moshe told him he was planning to go back into Gabelotti's grip, Vittorio had tried to talk him out of it But Yudelman had been adamant
"Ducking out of the situation isn't going to settle anything," he insisted.
"If you're crazy enough to go back there, you'll never get out alive."
I’m going. By myself. And I’ll come back alive. You just keep out of it Vittorio."
Pizzu pretended to agree, but he instructed Vincente Bruttore to have two soldiers shadow the consigliere. Vito Francini and Quinto Favara, in jeans, long hair, and cyclists' helmets, had gone along on a high-powered Honda that they "stalled" after making careful note of what time Moshe Yudelman went into Ettore Gabelotti's.
After that Vittorio had New York honeycombed by all the available men in the regimes of his three lieutenants, Aldo Amalfi, Vincente Bruttore, and Joseph Dotto. Even though every precinct in Manhattan had at least one cop on the Volpone pad, Vittorio was not yet ready to.go that route. There would be plenty of time for those measures if and when Angela Volpone did come home on her own, and Vittorio had his own ideas about that
It was probable that Don Ettore had snatched Angela to hold as a future bargaining chip. If so, Italo would never forgive the insult, and the war between him and Gabelotti would go on until one or the other was dead.
Vittorio looked at his watch. Moshe Yudelman had gone into Gabelotti's yesterday at noon. Now, at 5:00 a.m., Moshe had still not reappeared. Either Ettore was holding him hostage or the don had lost his temper and knocked him off. Except for the three hours during which exhaustion had finally made him sleep, Vittorio had had regular calls from Vito Francini and Quinto Favara every half hour to confirm that Moshe was still in there.
Vittorio made a face and picked up the phone to dial Italo's new number in Zurich. It was high time for going into action, but he would never presume to lift a finger without a go-ahead from Volpone. Fortunately, he got connection right away.
"Hello, this is Vittorio."
"Where you been, jerk? I been looking for you every place. What’s with Angela, huh7"
"I’ve had New York honeycombed. No sign of her yet, padrone. We're going ahead—"
Even though there were thousands of miles between them, Pizzu was shaken by the violence of Volpone's re action.
"I want my wife, you got that? I want my wife!" "Yes, padrone.’’
Trembling with rage, Volpone screamed, "I’ll get every one of you if anything happens to her! Every one! Even you. You'll answer for her safety with your life!"
Pizzu had trouble swallowing.
‘I had thought maybe—" he tried to say.
"Don't bother thinking, jerk! Just find her!"
"Yes. boss, I’ll find her. But I was wondering—Angela can't get along without you—maybe she's on her way to where you are?"
"She would have let me know. She always tells me everything. And if you're such a big thinker, what do you think about Gabelotti?"
"I don't know."
"So? What are you waiting for? Where's Moshe?"
"At Gabelotti's."
'That stupid fuckin' bastard! Since when?" "Yesterday noon."
"You gotta be nuts! All of you gotta be nuts! Porco Dio di merda! I’m busting my balls here, and you guys—"
‘I was waiting for your orders, padrone."
"You're never there when I want to give 'em! Now hear this: you take Amalfi and Bruttore and Dotto, and you bring back thatfuckin' Yudelman. Understand?"
"Okay, boss." Then, to show Italo that there was to be no more misunderstanding about who was running the family, Vittorio Pizzu corrected himself: "Will do, Don Italo."
Since their talk earlier, Captain Kirkpatrick had not called back, and Fritz Blesh was trying to piece together apparently disparate events to find possible cause-and-effect relationships that would let his mind be at ease once again. A leg arrived on the front of a railroad engine; an American cop disappeared without settling his hotel bill; and the cop's partner - who, the autopsy showed, had no trace of alcohol in his blood—fell six floors to his death at Sordi's Hotel. All in the middle of Zurich, in a matter of less than five days.
As Blesh saw it, it had to be some kind of narcotics deal in which the principals, foreign cops and mafiosi, had selected Switzerland for their showdown. The day be fore, one of his detectives had told him about a shoot out in the boiler room of the Commodore Hotel. One of the punctured boilers had several bullets in it, and the bul lets were being analyzed at the ballistics lab. No one in the hotel had heard a thing. There was blood on one boiler, on one of the walls, and on the floor, but no body was found.
Blesh planned to do his own investigating. In the mean time, there were more urgent things to be done. He checked his listing for the phone number of the head of Immigration. No American with an Italian-sounding name would be allowed into the country without Blesh knowing about it. As for those who might plan to leave, they would be discreetly held up at the border long enough to make sure they were legitimate tourists.
It wasn't the Honda that attracted the attention of Mauro Zullino as much as the two helmeted riders who kept a vigil between their stalled machine and an all-night diner down the block.
Mauro Zullino was a punk in the Gabelotti family. He took his orders from any one of the three capiregime: Carlo Badaletto, Frankie Sabatmi, or Simeone Ferro, or sometimes from their boss, Thomas Merta, the sottocapo himself. Don Ettore's apartment occupied all of the eighth floor of the building. On the floor below was the family reception room, along with all the offices and a guard room manned day and night by the soldiers responsible for the don's safety. The only way to get to the eighth floor was by a stairway from the seventh, guarded by the soldiers. Except for an occasional lawyer, businessman, or politician who had professional connections with the Syndicate and more specifically with the family, no one went up without being searched.
The building belonged to one of Gabelotti's com panies. The second-floor front room commanded a view of the entrance, so the building was guarded like a castle. Nothing that went on in the street could escape the eye of the second-floor watch, who notified the seventh-floor sol diers of any suspi
cious activity.
For about the sixth time in the four hours since his tour of duty began, Mauro Zullino saw one of the cyclists come out of the diner and say something to the other one, who was working on the Honda's gear case. Zullino thought this kind of cycle repair unusual at five in the morning, and he decided to alert the guy in charge of the seventh floor. He had waited until now, partly because he was watching a western on the late-late show and drinking beer and partly because he was afraid he'd get his ass chewed out if he disturbed the big shots upstairs for something unim portant He picked up the intercom, made his report, and got his ass chewed out for not mentioning it earlier.
"They're not cops," Tom Merta said. "They're Vol pone's punks. After what he did to Rico Gatto, they're just the dish for us."