by Pierre Rey
"Hey, whatcha doin'?" Lando asked him.
Bellinzona shoved the key into his pocket, and when his hand came out it was carrying a Walther PP that was aimed at Lando.
’You gone nuts?" Baretto sputtered.
Pietro put a finger to his lips. "Don't make no noise, pal.'Can’t disturb the guys that're workin'."
"Why you aimin' that at me?"
'I’m gonna kill you, Lando."
Lando felt paralyzed."What'd I ever do to you?"
Bellinzona scratched his head, embarrassed. "Nothin’; that's just it. Nothin’. I swear I got nothin' against you personally."
"Ain't I your pal?" Lando queried, trying to keep his voice under control.
"Sure," Bellinzona said. "But I still gotta kill ya."
MOn accounta yesterday?" Lando blurted. ‘That's nuts! I didn't see nothin'! I wasn't even lookin'! The same thing could a happened to me!"
"But it happened to me, Lando," Pietro came back. "And as long as you're walkin' around, I can't go on livin'."
"Pietro," Lando pleaded with him, "you're not gonna do this thing. You can't shoot me. They'll hear you. Italo'd never let you get away with it! Forget the whole thing, my man. I forgot it all, I give you my word."
Bellinzona tensed. "Don't look at me like that," he said. "I'm tired of lookin' at your eyes. Turn around!"
"Pietro!"
"Turn around, I said." "Pietro, don't act like no fuckin' crazy!" His legs like Jell-O, Lando turned. Without having heard him come near, he felt Bellinzona's breath in his ear. 'I’m sorry, pal. But I ain't got no choice." "Pietro!" Lando called out.
He wanted to turn around again, but Bellinzona's cuff caught him at the base of the neck, right on the top of the spine, and Lando collapsed on the checkerboard-tile floor. Quickly Pietro moved over to the door and held his ear against it. To make doubly sure, he unlocked it, stuck his head out, then looked around and listened. No one there, no sound. Everyone was still upstairs.
He locked the door again, went to a huge freezer, and took out a chunk of ice weighing thirty pounds or better which he balanced on the edge of the freezer. He went back and, with his foot, turned Lando's body over so he was lying on his back. Then he got the block of ice, and using it like a sledgehammer he smashed it down on Lando's forehead. Shards of bloodstained ice sprinkled all over the kitchen floor. .Bellinzona leaned down to make sure that Lando's forehead had been bashed in. Then he got a broom, swept all the ice shards onto a plastic pan, and threw them in the sink. With very precise movements he got up on tiptoe to open a storage closet above the regular cabinets. Before Lando came in, Pietro had made sure to put a large plastic-wrapped loaf of bread up in that closet In front of the cabinet he knocked the stepladder over. Then he picked up the block of ice, carried it to the sink, and dropped it in, turning the hot water tap on full force. The ice began to melt Then Bellinzona dragged Lando's body in front of the storage closet near the step-ladder. This tune he turned Lando over on his belly, mak ing sure to rub his bloody forehead against the tiling of the floor. Pietro let Lando's face fall against the floor, right in the middle of the blood puddle.
How there were only the final details to arrange, and the set would be perfect He took a pile of dishes from the bottom of the cabinet and placed them up in the closet right next to the package of bread. He also took a plate of -cheeses out of the fridge and put it on a shelf halfway up in the closet which he could reach only with his fingertips when he stood on tiptoe. He went to the sink and chipped off a sliver of ice about an inch thick and a couple of inches long. It looked something like a prehistoric tool or an Indian arrowhead, and Pietro slid it under the pile of dishes that he had placed at the very edge of the closet shelf. In a couple of minutes, the ice would melt and the dishes would come crashing down to the floor.
In the sink, the hot water had completely melted the rest of the ice. The heavy deadly ice turned into water had flowed off in waste. Bellinzona looked around one last time. Obviously Lando had slipped and fallen on his face while climbing up on that stool to get the bread. What a stupid way to die.....
Pietro opened the kitchen door again. It had taken him only three minutes to carry out his entire scheme. Outside the kitchen, things were as quiet as before. He tip toed into the foyer, where the heavy carpeting muffled his steps. The elevator shaft hid him from the sight of Folco Mori, still on guard upstairs outside Italo Volpone's room. Bellinzona seated himself in the chair in the corner of the foyer that was farthest removed from the kitchen. He opened a newspaper, and called up to Mori. "Hey, Folco!"
The guard looked down over the banister.
"Whatchawant?"
"You think this bullshit can be true?" . "What?"
Pietro pointed to the paper. "It says here they planted some seeds that was two thousand years old, and they started to grow."
"Wha' kinda seeds?"
Bellinzona, relaxed in his armchair, was about to answer when they heard a loud noise in the kitchen. Pietro was on his feet in an instant.
"What’s that?" Folco called, pulling out his gun.
"Don't move. I’ll go see!"
His Walther PP in hand, Pietro crossed the foyer. And Folco Mori heard him exclaim, "Goddamn! I don't believe it!’’
Mori swept down the stairs to join Bellinzona, who stood speechless on the threshold of the kitchen door.
Orlando Baretto was lying facedown in a puddle of blood mixed with broken pieces of china. Folco moved in and turned Lando's body over. He bent down so his ear was right against Lando's chest, looked up at Pietro in consternation, and said, "It's too fuckin' stupid. He's dead.'‘
As the undertakers were about to close the lid of Renata's coffin, the funeral director stopped them with a hand signal and went over to Chimene Kloppe.
"Would you like to look at your daughter one last time?" he asked.
Chimene broke into sobs and threw herself into Homer's arms. Kloppe held her tightly, patting her softly on the back of the neck. Over his wife's shoulder he blinked to the funeral director, and immediately came the sound of the casket closing. Flooded with tears, shaken by sobs, Chimene tightened her fists and bit them until they bled. Homer led her through the corridor-to her bedroom, strug gling all the way, and finally got her seated on the edge of the bed.
"Courage," he said.
He was standing before her with tears in his eyes. Desperately, she held him about the thighs.
'Tell me it's not true," she moaned. "Tell me it can't be!"
"Courage," he repeated. "The Lord will not forsake us." -„
"He has forsaken us," Chimene moaned again. "Yes, forsaken."
Homer took off his fogged glasses and wiped them with his thumb. Downstairs, on the street, a large cortege of cars was waiting for the flower-covered hearse to start moving.
"Come on," Homer said to his wife. "We have to see this through."
He helped her stand up. She leaned against him, hid ing her face in his shoulder. Homer suddenly stopped as he saw four men walking down the corridor, carrying Renata's casket. Leaning against a wall, Manuella, in mourning attire, stood sobbing. She came over to help Chimene Kloppe, and the three of them made their way down the stairs past the line-up of floral offerings that the mortician's men had not been able to load in any of the vehicles.
When they got down to the street, the bells of Grossmunster were tolling their death knell.
Helena Marcoulis, Chimene's best friend, threw her arms around her in an impulsive gesture. Homer let go of his wife's arm, and that was when he noticed Lieutenant Blesh.
"I am overcome with grief, sir," the policeman said to him. "Please accept my deepest condolences."
Kloppe nodded and made as if to continue walking.
"Herr Kloppe ..." the policeman said, and the banker looked at him with an expressionless gaze.
"Herr Kloppe," Blesh quickly went on in what was barely more than a whisper, "I know this is neither the time nor the place—"
"No, it isn't," Klop
pe said.
"But I'm afraid I have to inform you. Believe me, I would not do this if it weren't for the seriousness of the matter. Have you received any threats lately, Herr Kloppe?"
The undertakers were loading the coffin into the hearse. In the throng of people, Homer made out Utte Heinz. Beside her was her husband, Joseph Heinz, wearing dark glasses. Homer looked around for Kurt, but did not find him.
"Threats? What do you mean?"
"There are some strange things going on in Zurich, sir. And we can't be sure they are not connected with the death of your dear Renata. I have to investigate. Tell me, have there been any threats?"
Homer looked into the eyes Of Lieutenant Blesh and said in a colorless voice, "Sir, I don't understand what you are talking, about"
Then he turned to help Chimene climb into the limou sine.
At four in the afternoon, following the same ritual as they had performed that very morning, Ettore Gabelotti and Italo Volpone met again on the grounds of the Dolder Grand Hotel.
Although his consiglieri, Angelo Barba and Carmine Crimello, did not agree, Don Ettore felt that considering the urgency of the situation, he had to come clean to Babe Volpone about O’Brien's betrayal. Not out of any love for truth, or because he suddenly trusted Italo so much, but because it would serve his own purposes. He suspected that Volpone already knew all about it; perhaps he had even arranged it! Yet Babe did not have the secret account number. No doubt Volpone had grilled O'Brion to get the information, but obviously he had failed—or he would no longer be where he was.
As for Italo, his mind was completely taken up with the shock of Orlando's death. It amazed him that a mafioso could come to his end by falling off a stool. For the time being, until they could figure out a more suitable and less visible resting-place, Orlando Baretto's body would be stashed in the cellar of the villa. If there hadn't been two witnesses to the accident—Folco Mori and Pietro Bellin zona—Babe Volpone would have refused to believe it They were all standing around Lando's corpse when Yudelman answered the ringing phone.
"Hello, Angelo Barba here. Gabelotti wants another meeting. Four o'clock, same place. That okay with you?"
Without consulting Italo, Yudelman replied, "Don Italo is agreeable."
By the use of that don, Yudelman had made official, to the members of his own family and those of the rival outfit, the title of capo that Italo Volpone had assumed, thereby presenting him to the whole Syndicate as the legiti mate successor to his brother. There was no more question about it: The King is dead! Long live the King!
Now it was even hotter in the hotel gardens than it had been at noon. As soon as -the two dons caught sight of each other Thomas Merta and Folco Mori discreetly moved off to a distance while Simeone Ferro and Pietro Bellinzona remained stationed about fifty yards from their capi.
This time, Gabelotti made the first move toward Italo. "I have to apologize to you," said Ettore.
Once again he took the younger man by the arm and led him to the same bench.
"You were right. O'Brion double-crossed me. I went to see the banker. The number Morty gave me was a phony."
Italo relaxed slightly.
"I still can't believe it happened," Don Ettore went on, shaking his head. "What bothers me, you see, is that I don't know if that little bastard was able to get the money out of the bank."
Italo concentrated on two blackbirds fighting over a scrap of bread.
"The banker refused to tell me anything at all," Gabe lotti was saying. "How do you think we can find out if the money is still safe?"
Gabelotti looked quizzically at Volpone.
"You bet on the one on the left or the one on the right?" Volpone asked, pointing to the blackbirds.
"Look, you and I have to get to the bottom of this. There's no point in continuing to keep after the bank if Morty took off with the dough. If we had the least little in formation about that, we'd know where we ought to aim our mutual efforts. You were here in Zurich before me. Didn't you find out anything?"
Volpone shook his head.
‘I’m really bothered by this, Italo. What do you think we ought to do?"
"Finish what I started," Italo replied. "Meaning?"
"Keep pushing Kloppe around," "Apparently that hasn't produced results."
"We been too easy on him."
Gabelotti noted with satisfaction his inclusion in that "we."
"Well, you know his life is precious to us," Don Ettore said. "And he knows it, too. As long as he's sure we can't rub him out, he can go on holding us off for a long time. To say nothing of his possibly calling the cops. Non siamo a casa nostra, Italo. The least he could get them to do is deport us—like that!" And he snapped his fingers.
Babe thought it over a moment. Yudelman and he had considered two possibilities: either Gabelotti had the secret number, or he didn't Obviously, he didn't. Volpone remembered what Moshe had advised him, and in a calm voice he said, "If you're in agreement I’d like to make a suggestion."
Ettore looked at him. Despite all his feelers, Italo had not in any way reacted to his comments about O'Brion. Not for a second had he seemed to consider it possible that the defecting consigliere had been able to get the money out of the bank. So Ettore came to his own con clusion: Italo had rubbed Mortimer out before he could get any information from him.
"Okay, Italo, let me hear it"
"Do you think we could get Kloppe to give us the number if we could snatch him for a few days?"
"Of course, Italo. But that couldn't possibly be done!" "Why not?"
"If this Kloppe guy disappears, we've made enough waves in Switzerland by now to have all the cops in the country on our backs. The minute he's reported missing, we'll be collared."
Italo allowed himself to smile easily for the first time.
"I don't think so, Ettore."
He took an envelope out of his pocket "Would you like to take a look at this?"
Gabelotti, trying to hide his curiosity, slipped the letter out of its envelope. Inside the folded sheet was a snapshot of a statuesque black woman wearing nothing but a bathing monokini, tits proudly displayed, raising her long arms enthusiastically in a winner's salute.
"Who's she?" Don Ettore asked.
"Kloppe's little bed partner. A whore named Inez. He's been screwing her right in the vault of his bank. And look who she addressed the envelope to."
In a free-flowing, typically American hand, the en velope carried the inscription: "Frau Chimene Kloppe, 9 Bellerivestrasse, Zurich."
Gabelotti looked at the Italo in amazement "Wait a minute! You mean Kloppe's piece of ass wrote to his wife?'
"Yeah. Just exactly what I dictated. Go ahead, read it"
Dear Madam, - - Homer seems to be afraid to tell you, so if s up to me. He and I are going away for a week's vacation;—in Sardinia, if you must know. This little recreation is the least you can let him have to make up for thirty years married to you. I’ll send him back to you in good shape. He may be a little bit frazzled, but he'll be fine.
Not very truly yours, Princess Kibondo
"I’m betting on the one on the left," Don Ettore said. "You lost. Look."
The blackbird on the right was flying off with the crust of bread in its beak.
‘‘She really a princess?' said Gabelotti.
"She's a royal blow-job. Me, I'm a prince, too, where I come from. You can be sure that if old lady Kloppe gets this love note, she's not gonna run to tell no cops about it She'll do her best to keep it as quiet as she can. What woman wants people to know her husband's out fucking some Ubangi?"
"Keep going," Don Ettore encouraged him.
"So we snatch Kloppe."
"How?"
"While we got him, I bring some of my guys in from Italy. And we knock over the bank!"
"You really think we could get into their safes and vaults?"
"We don't have to. That's not where our dough is.
Old Kloppe has it invested someplace, making a profit for himself.
"
"So how do we get it?"
"We'll fuck up his business affairs and his private life so good he'll never be able to show his face in Zurich again. He'll be wiped out. And he'll have to come across. The scandal will be what empties his safes and vaults, not us. The customers'll make a run for it and take their bread to a dependable bank."
"What kind of forfeit do you want?"
"Huh?"
"I lost the bet on the blackbirds," Gabelotti said with a forced smile.