by Pierre Rey
Lando was zonked. After seeing Renata home, and leaving his car parked, he had hailed a taxi and gone back to his place. The condition of his bed reminded him of the sex performance he had staged to no avail. Renata would not be coming back to him. Too exhausted to sleep, he didn't doze off until 6:00 a.m., and his alarm woke him an hour later. At eight o'clock, he was reporting in to Vol pone.
Italo, very busy with Yudelman, had only three min utes to spend with Lando, just enough time to crush him with insults over this latest letdown. Lando was outraged by the unjust criticism, and that made him realize how hungry he was, so he joined Pietro Bellinzona in the kitch en. With fastidious care, Lando set about making himself a salami sandwich while Pietro rummaged in the fridge look ing for a bottle of beer.
Lando sat at the rustic kitchen table and bit into his sandwich. Even more than his nightlong sex exertion, the events of the day before were eating at him. Our Holy Mother had seen to it that he escaped the fate those black giants had inflicted on his luckless sidekick, but Lando won dered how a man who had been raped in the ass that way could still look anybody in the eye.
Bellinzona was thinking the exact same thing. He grunted in response to Orlando's desultory conversation. He'll kill you, Inez's brother had warned Lando.
"Hey, Pietro, you want me to make you a sandwich?" Lando said.
No answer. Alarmed, Lando turned around. His hair stood on end. Motionless, three feet behind him, Pietro was contemplating the nape of his neck. In his right hand was a long, sharp kitchen knife. For five endless seconds the two mafiosi stared each other down, and Lando was unable to swallow the bite of sandwich in his mouth.
"Why the fuck you lookin' at me like that?" ne finally succeeded in spitting at Bellinzona.
Without a word Pietro turned away and began to carve himself a huge slice of bread.
Once the plane landed, Gabelotti felt like getting down on his knees and kissing the ground. For all that his per sonal croaker had filled him full of tranquilizers, Ettore had remained fascinated during the landing; he watched in pan ic, the sweat pouring off him, as the runway loomed larger and closer, and he was certain they would crash. The plane was going much too fast to be able to stop without smash ing into the hangars at the end of the field. Pretending to wipe his nose, Ettore took out his pocket handkerchief and shoved it into his mouth so he would have something to bite down on.
"Well, there, you see, it wasn't all that bad!" Dr. Mellon comforted him.
Gabelotti looked at Mellon hatefully, tore the safety belt from around his waist, and headed for the exit even before a gangplank had been moved up outside the plane. Carmine Crimello fell in right behind the don, but he knew better than to say a word. Ettore's lifeless complexion was warning enough.
As soon as they were through the passport check, they saw Carlo Badaletto waiting for them.
"Good morning, Don Ettore. Just follow me, if you please."
As instructed, Carlo had flown to Lyons with Thomas Merta and Angelo Barba; Frankie Sabatini and Simeone Ferro had gone to Milan; and they had all headed for Zurich by train.
In Switzerland, Luciano Matarella had been in charge of getting things organized. Matarella was the Gabelotti family's overseer for the Southern European whorehouse network. He supervised a chain of unlicensed brothels, houses of assignation, and roadside motels that stretched across Europe from Bordeaux to Austria, by way of Lyons, Grenoble, Geneva, and Zurich, with a detour to Munich before reaching Vienna, It also covered Barce lona, Madrid, Lisbon, Rome, Milan, and Naples. Seven different countries. Where the ministers of the Common Market had not been able to come to agreement over some petty questions of vegetable prices, Matarella could boast of having "unified the ass of Europe." To be honest about it, his unification was not as firm as Don Ettore would have liked it: Gabelotti had a tendency to downgrade the work of his men and to feel that there was always room for improvement, so when Angelo Barba had called on him to make the arrangements for the don's stay in Zu rich, Luciano Matarella had jumped at the chance to make points for himself.
‘I’11 take care of everything," Matarella had volun teered.
He had never met Gabelotti personally, but he recog nized the don as soon as he saw him. He genuflected furtively, and, grabbing the don's wrist, brought Ettore's hand to his lips.
"Bacio mani," he mumbled;
Embarrassed by the public display, Gabelotti with-300 drew his hand and mumbled the traditional response: "Alzati, non sei rifardu."
A black Mercedes 600 was waiting for them outside the airport building. The chauffeur, in black livery, was holding the doors open.
"Getting in, doctor?" Ettore asked Richard Mellon.
"No, thanks, I think Fll take a cab. You probably have a lot of business to attend to. You know where you can reach me, don't you?''
"Yes, thanks. I’ll get in touch a few hours before we're ready to leave. Your ticket will be taken care of."
"Always at your service, sir," Mellon replied. And he nodded, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.
Don Ettore got into the Mercedes with Luciano Matarella, Carlo Badaletto, and Carmine Crimello. He was a respectable businessman traveling with his various administrators. No one should be unaware of where he was going and what he was about to do.
"I reserved suites for you and your men at the Com modore, Don Ettore," Luciano Matarella informed him.
"Good. How about the flowers?"
"In the trunk of the car."
Matarella was about to add something, but he thought better of it.
"How long will it take us?" Gabelotti asked.
"About fifteen minutes," Matarella said.
The don relaxed and looked out at the landscape.
"K you decide to stay for any length of time," Mata rella said to him after a bit, "it would be possible to get a house."
"No, thanks," Gabelotti assured him. "That won't be necessary."
And nothing more was said during the rest of the trip.
"Here we are," Matarella announced.
A hundred yards away, a cream-colored Volkswagen also came to a halt: in it was Folco Mori, ordered to fol low Gabelotti by Moshe Yudelman, who knew the flight number. Folco saw Gabelotti get out of the car with three men, among whom he recognized Carmine Crimello and Carlo Badaletto.
When Folco saw the chauffeur open the limousine trunk and take out an enormous floral offering, he thought he knew what Don Ettore was doing at the Zurich morgue. After a few verbal exchanges, the group headed inside the building.
Impressed by the limousine and the air of quiet au thority with which Don Ettore lorded it over his entourage, the morgue attendants were ready to dance attendance on him.
"Our colleague will be happy to show you the way. However, insofar as flowers are concerned, sir, may I take the liberty of saying that they are not at all customary in an institution such as this."
Luciano Matarella knew as much when he got the order to have the flowers ready: a morgue is not a ceme tery. But, being a discreet man, he had felt it better not to mention the fact on the way over. Following the attendant, they were led into the icy room. Three of its metallic walls were made up of layers of drawers. The attendant deli cately pulled out one of them, and there was the leg.
As one long used to human suffering, the attendant went to the farthest corner of the room to allow the visitors their privacy before the ghastly remains. As he leafed through the ledger where he was going to record a signature, he idly wondered whether, when he died, all of his body would be the object of as much attention as this leg had received.
Gabelotti imperiously signaled to Carlo Badaletto. Carlo had spent several years under Genco, and if there was anyone who could identify the bluish limb, it was he. He leaned slightly over the open casket with a look of disgust on his face. Then he shrugged with hands out stretched to show it was beyond him.
Don Ettore had insisted on doing this, and Carlo had agreed, only to avoid fighting the padrone. But how could
the don have imagined that he, who had come into the Volpone family as a simple soldier, would ever have a chance to see Don Genco's legs?
After a decent interval, Gabelotti started to move. He signed the ledger as requested without the slightest hesi tation.
"Our unfortunate relative was a highly respected man," he commented. "I suppose many friends have come to pay a tribute to him."
"Several," the attendant replied noncommittally.
Gabelotti nodded and went toward the corridor, fol lowed by his entourage. He knew no more now in Zurich than he had known in New York. Apart from Italo's assertion, there was nothing to prove that this was indeed Genco's leg. Or that Genco was really dead. Here he was, clowning around in Switzerland, and the Volpones might well be taking him for a ride.
He was out in the street when one of the attendants caught up with him.
"Here, sir," he called out, "you forgot these flowers."
Don Ettore courteously thanked him with a nod. Then he said to the driver, "Put those back in the trunk."
After that, he got into the Mercedes and muttered between his teeth, "If that Volpone is trying to pull a fast one on me, it'll be my pleasure to place the bouquet on his grave in person."
19
Melvin Bost could put it off no longer. The worried, searching eyes of all the company executives were focused on him. He cleared his throat and ostentatiously waved the telex before them.
"Bad news," he announced. "Let me read you what the president just sent me."
Putting on his glasses, he unfolded the sheet of paper that he now knew by heart
"It's addressed to me, and it reads: use all avail able means to alert all owners of beauty ghost P9 re manufacturing defect in steering column stop stress danger stop faulty part to be replaced at
company expense stop. It's signed Homer Kloppe."
Speechless, the executives watched Bost put the paper down. Then a voice cried out, "This is suicide! If we do what he says, we're broke! There are over four hundred thousand P9s on the road. Every car recalled, will cost us at least three hundred dollars in parts and labor. You total that up!"
"Didn't you tell us," said the research director, "that the president was willing to take the calculated risk? We were all aware of what the computers forecast"
"This means we're deliberately putting ourselves into bankruptcy," the fiscal head joined in. "No company in the world could withstand a drain like that It means scuttling our operation."
Mervin Bost lowered his eyes. He wished he didn't have to tell them what Kloppe's right-hand man at the Zurich Trade Bank had told him on the phone ten minutes ago. But, things being what they were, he had no right to hold anything back from them. He raised his arms. .
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? When I saw our president in Switzerland last week, he wasn't enthusiastic about the idea of being responsible for even one loss of life. But, to convince him and to keep us in business, I made the following deal with him: if there were no further accidents in the next quarter, we would let things run their course."
"Well?" someone asked. "Has there been another ac cident?'
"When the president sent us that message, there hadn't. That proves he had changed his mind of his own free will. I thought I might try to get him to change it again, at least to give us a little more time, but unfor tunately that idea is no longer feasible, for we've run into an insurmountable obstacle. There's been a ninth defective steering column in a P9."
"Where?"
"In Zurich itself, it so happens." "Was it a serious accident?"
'Fatal, I'm afraid—and the person at the wheel was our president's only daughter."
"They're all here!" "All of 'em?'.
"Yeah, Gabelotti came over with his whole goddamn staff."
"Who'd you see?'
"Carmine Crimello and Carlo Badaletto were with him at the airport, along with one other guy I didn't know and one more dressed like a chauffeur. Guess where they went?"
"I don't like guessing games."
•They went to the morgue. With flowers, yet."
"And then what?"
"Then they went to the Commodore. I gave the concierge a couple of bucks to see if I could pick up any thing else, and he told me there's four other guys registered with them on the same floor." Thanks. Come on in now."
That was the telephone conversation that had just taken place between Moshe Yudelman and Folco Mori. As soon as he hung up, Moshe dialed Vittorio Pizzu in New York.
"Vittorio, get ahold of Aldo, Vincente, and Joseph, and join us here. The earlier your flight, the better. Make it snappy. You know where you can reach me?"
When Vittorio said yes, Moshe hung up. With Vit torio Pizzu and the three Volpone capiregime on hand, there would be a more even balance between the Volpone and Gabelotti families in Zurich. What remained to be seen was why Don Ettore had felt it necessary to bring his whole administration with him.
Moshe understood that the visit to the morgue, to the accompaniment of flowers and fervent prayers before Genco's mortal remains, was an obvious warrant of peace ful intentions that Don Ettore was holding out to Italo. The truth was, if Gabelotti was making a peace offering to a man he considered less than nothing, it was because he was in no condition to go to the mattress. So Moshe could feel reassured on one point: Gabelotti didn't know anything more about the account number than Volpone did. Obviously, Mortimer O'Brion had indeed double-crossed his don by giving him a phony number, and now there was only one man who could resolve the impasse: the banker. Unfortunately, after the delicate attentions Italo had shown him, Homer Kloppe was unlikely to hand them the key to the money on a silver platter.
Right now, Moshe had to get his touchy boss to ratify the decisions that had been made in his name without con sulting him.
"Italo, Folco Mori just called. Gabelottis in Zurich, but he's not alone. He's got about eight guys with him."
"So, what you waiting for? Call Vittorio and tell him to get his ass over here with Amalfi, Bruttore, and Dotto!"
‘Think we ought to?"
"You rather try to handle all Gabelotti's guys the way we are?"
"Don't get Ettore wrong, Italo: he wants you on his side. His first move was to go to the morgue and pay his respects to Genco." "He killed him."
"No, it was O'Brion. Now, just let me handle this, and I’ll pave the way..."
Moshe now had the delicate job of settling the de tails of protocol for this summit meeting. Neither of the two family heads would call on the other for fear it would be taken as a recognition of some kind of primacy. They had to meet on neutral ground, preferably just the two of them, without witnesses. Yudelman figured they were much more likely to reach agreement if neither had to play for effect before his own men. If Italo pulled any boners, Moshe would be in a position to try to make up for them later.
"What's the matter, Pietro?" Yudelman asked Bellin zona as they drove to the Commodore, where the Gabe-lottis were staying. The big fellow hadn't opened his mouth all the way. "Is something bothering you?"
"Me? No, nuttin'. Forget it" And he concentrated on dodging traffic.
Moshe had known Pietro from way back: solid, fierce, and faithful to the last drop of his blood. Italo had sketchily filled him in on how Lando and Bellinzona had been beaten up by a couple of nine-foot niggers and fouled up on their assignment with Kloppe's girl friend, Inez. That would be enough to depress Pietro, whose sense of duty was legendary within the mob. Moshe glanced at him: his stonelike face wore a tormented look,- and Pietro Bellinzona wasn't usually given to thinking. He drank, ate, and snored like an animal, devoid of preoccupation with higher ideas. As long as he was following orders, he was perfectly happy.
The car swerved around the flowered parterre and pulled up before the hotel entrance.
"Wait for me here," Moshe said.
At the top of the steps he saw Angelo Barba. Proto col being just as important on the level of ambassadors and' plenipotentiaries,
Barba walked down four steps while Moshe climbed four.
"We were expecting you." Barba said.
"And here I am," Yudelman conceded, nodding.
They went into the lobby together, after Barba, as host, courteously let Moshe precede him through the re volving door.
Now Lando was scared Lack of sleep didn't account for all of his nervousness. The memory of Bellinzona tenderly fingering that blade behind his back filled him with the jitters. A thousand little details that seemed to have no importance came back to him. Since their encoun ter with Inez's brothers, Bellinzona had remained silent, turning his back on him, and Lando was relieved to see him go off with Moshe Yudelman.