The Scarlet Thread (29 page)

“I don't trust that old bastard Aldo. I don't trust any of them. So keep your eyes open, Tino. We won't always be partners with that load of shit.”

“Maybe it's because it's so far away,” Tino suggested. “Maybe they thought we wouldn't get to know about it.” He picked up the bottle and refilled the Don's glass.

Piero banged the table. “You think it's a family council?” he demanded. “You think they're getting the heads of their people together to agree on something and not telling us?”

“It could be,” Tino said.

Lucca Falconi leaned toward them. “This cousin of yours—can she get someone into the caterer's? Someone who can use their eyes and ears and let us know what they pick up?”

Tino looked abashed. “I did that already, Don Lucca. I hoped you'd think it's okay. I just had a hunch something was up,”

“You're a good boy,” Lucca said quietly. “You use your head. I like that. Good. You've done well.”

He saw his wife and daughter-in-law and Tino's wife come out, carrying dishes of salad and cheeses, and said, “We say nothing about this to the women. My wife's not been too well; she mustn't worry, the doctor said. It's been a hard year for her. A hard year for us all.”

“Leave it to me,” Tino Spoletto said. “I'll find out what's going on. My cousin knows she'll be rewarded.”

It was a noisy lunch, with everyone talking, Piero's children demanding their grandparents' attention and Tino's older family well behaved. The women were smiling and contented, and the Don presided over them all, blessed with three generations around his table. And the cousin who was becoming more and more like a son to him. If there was danger, the Don would be forewarned.

It was a matter of honor, the old men said. The grayheads spoke in solemn language, using the distinctive phraseology of their ancient culture. The younger men responded with the language of the ghetto and the back alley. “We blow their asses off!”

The party was on the beach. There was a big buffet, which went on all day; the children and their mothers, the girlfriends and sisters, were sunbathing, swimming, or playing in the sand. Their laughing and calling drifted into the room with the shutters drawn against the bright August sunshine.

Aldo Fabrizzi had spoken, and they had sat there in a heavy silence until he finished. Not even the young men so much as snapped a lighter while he talked. He called on them one by one, the heads of the eight affiliated groups within the Fabrizzi family. Eight powerful men, controlling little empires and armies of other men. They all owed their loyalty to Aldo Fabrizzi. He was their Don. In the old country, their grandfathers had paid tribute to such men. Gifts of the best wine, cheese, livestock; the proceeds of robberies and extortion. And risked their lives and the lives of their sons when the Don asked it.

But with the asking, there was always a promise. A rich reward for loyalty. Don Aldo had spoken about the reward and seen their excitement flash like the summer lightning on the Keys.

“I estimate their businesses are worth fifty million dollars, maybe more,” he said. “The garment trade pays dues to them; they've got a stake in the construction companies that operate in downtown New York. They own casinos in Nevada and hotels along the East Coast, besides the cathouses and the dope. There's good money in them. If we get rid of Lucca Falconi, we move in and take over.”

“We get rid of them all,” someone said. “That punk Piero and the little creep Spoletto.”

“Piero's no punk,” someone pointed out. “He's rough; don't underestimate him.”

“Yeah. So are we,” the other man boasted.

“There are cousins and relatives spread all over,” an older man remarked. “What about them, Don Aldo? We can't leave them to make trouble later.”

“The blood relatives all go,” he said. “The small people, the little soldiers …” He shrugged. “They follow a new capo, that's all. It always happens. They have to live; their families have to eat.”

He paused. They were watching him, faces upturned as he stood at the head of the long table.

“I ask for your loyalty,” he said.

There was no dissenting voice. “It's given, Don Aldo,” they said, each in turn.

Then came the questions: How's it to be done? How long before we make our move? Do you plan to hit them all at the same time?

One of the capos spoke, expressing caution. “It won't be easy to get them to expose themselves. Falconi has played this trick himself. Remember how he took care of the Ryans?” The Ryans had been twenty-five years ago, Irish interlopers, hustling on Falconi territory.

“They'll come,” Aldo promised. “They think they've gotten away with cheating me. They'll come. The three of them. Falconi, his son Piero and the blood cousin Spoletto. They'll come to a wedding.”

There was a murmur. Aldo looked around. His smile was brief and frightening, like a wicked grimace.

“It's time my daughter, Clara, got married again,” he said. “They'll come to the wedding. And we will all be there, with alibis. I think my Clara will like that.”

Clara was bored. She had nothing in common with the other women at the party, and they didn't feel comfortable with her. They gossiped about the domestic details of their lives, their children, the schools, the trivia of married life that Clara couldn't share. She was alien to them in her status as a childless widow whose man had died in dishonor. She was aloof. She dressed too smartly, held herself proudly, showed a disdain for men that shocked them.

She drifted away to a table by the beach and ordered champagne. The dead-white dress she wore had a daring side slit that showed her long legs, bare and brown. There were gold sandals on her feet. Her dark hair was pulled back and dressed high, showing a graceful neck set off by big gold earrings. It was a simple, provocative look, achieved at great expense. The man watching her thought she looked like a swan.

He was lounging at the outdoor buffet table, sampling the food, joking with some young cronies. He watched the beautiful, sleek woman drinking champagne on her own, chain-smoking cigarettes. He was intrigued. She was Don Fabrizzi's daughter, the widow, whose Falconi husband had disappeared. When he stared at a woman she felt it and always looked back at him. This one didn't. That intrigued him too, and challenged him. He paid less and less attention to the talk of the younger men around him, boasting of prowess on the streets, prowess with girls. The men of importance were in the house with Don Aldo.

He was related to one of the Fabrizzi capos' wives. He visited with them regularly, although he didn't work for them. He had grown up in a separate district, far over on the West Side where the Guglielmo brothers ruled and he joined up with them when he left school. He flexed his broad shoulders and ran a hand over his thick curly hair. He slung his jacket casually over his shoulder and moved off toward the woman seated at the table.

Clara saw him coming. Clara had seen him watching her and taken pleasure in ignoring him. He was big and handsome and common-looking; very sure of himself. The sniggering clique of young men were elbowing each other and waiting to see what happened.

He came up to the table. She might be the Don's daughter, but so what? His technique always worked.

“Hi there, baby. Mind if I join you? You're too beautiful to be sittin' there all alone.”

Clara looked him up and down. She
was
bored, and she had drunk a lot more champagne than she'd meant to.

“The bottle's empty,” she said. “Get me a fresh one.” She opened her bag and studied herself in a gold compact.

He smiled down at her. “I'll get it if you offer me a drink, baby.”

She said, “Why don't you go get it and see what happens.”

“Sure.” He turned and clicked his fingers. “Tony!” he called out, and one of the youths at the buffet table started forward obediently. “Get a bottle for the lady. And bring a glass for me.”

He pulled a chair out and sat opposite her. He smiled. He had magnificent white teeth.

Snapping her bag shut, she glared at him. “Who the hell do you think you are? When I want company I'll say so!”

“You look great when you're mad,” he remarked. “I'll bet you scare the shit out of every guy who comes along. Only I don't scare easy. Not when it comes to a beautiful baby like you.” He leaned a little toward her. She smelled a strong aftershave or hair tonic. Musky, vulgar. Like the man himself.

“Don't call me baby,” she said. “Keep that crap for the waitresses. Why don't you go and pester them?”

“Here's the champagne,” he said. “Thanks, Tony.” He opened the bottle with a flourish. He poured her a full glass and helped himself. “This is good stuff. But then the Don does everything in style.”

“Watch your mouth,” Clara warned him. “He's my father.”

He opened his eyes wide, mocking her. “You don't say? That makes you someone special, eh?”

Clara drank the champagne, emptying the glass.

“You'll get fried,” he said. “Go easy on that stuff. Aren't you having fun? I'm Bruno Salviatti. I always have fun.”

She jeered, “It must be wonderful to be you.”

He didn't take offense. It seemed nothing offended him. He sat there looking good-humored and self-confident, and she didn't know whether to get up and get rid of him, or to go on sitting there, letting him play his cheap little game till she got tired of it.

“You're a beautiful dame,” he said. “Why don't you try smiling?”

Clara did, and then she said, “Why don't you fuck off?”

He laughed. He reached over and grasped her bare arm. He had big, strong hands with fine black hair on the backs of them.

“Why don't I fuck you?”

They went walking, leaving the party in the distance. She was a little unsteady, a little light-headed.
I'm not dead, just because he's left me
—
I can still feel, still want a man. I've been a corpse for so long, waiting for a husband who didn't want me, lying in bed as if it was my coffin. If this big bull wants to hump me, why the hell don't I let him?

“Loosen up,” he kept saying to her, stroking her bottom, pinching the spare flesh of her buttocks between thumb and finger. He held her steady as they made their way toward the back of the big house, through a grove of palm trees in front of the summerhouse. Soon Clara was directing him, eager to find a secluded spot. She liked the feeling of being in command. The champagne had suddenly made everything easy. She felt like it; she was going to have it.

She knew where they could go. The summerhouse was empty now, though it had been occupied recently; there were dirty glasses and an empty wine bottle inside on the coffee table.

She said to him, “Salviatti, lock the door and close the blinds,” and she pulled the dress over her head. She stood naked except for a flimsy G-string pantie. He hooked his fingers in each lace strap and ripped them off her.

“Okay,” she said. “You say you're good. Now prove it!”

“It was their wedding anniversary,” Tino said. Piero scowled at him. “They had a big cake, and the old people led the dancing. Thirty-eight years married. That was the reason for the party.”

Piero said, “You checked this?”

Tino nodded. “I made some inquiries, I got a copy of the marriage certificate. It all checked out.”

“So it was on the level?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Why Key West instead of some accessible place?”

“They got a fucking house down there, that's why.” Piero was angry with Tino Spoletto's persistent suspicion that something was wrong. “They had a wedding anniversary, with a cake and dancing and the rest of the shit—so what are you eating your arse about?”

“It's a small house for so many people,” Tino said. “They had to use the hotel and some guesthouses. I'm just mentioning it, that's all.”

Piero lost his temper. He didn't want Tino to be right. He didn't want trouble with the Fabrizzis. He was consolidating his position, feeling his way without the shrewd guidance of Steven. He wanted a couple of years before he had to move against Aldo. He liked Tino and he trusted him. But he was angry at him for stirring it up.

He shouted, “For Christ's sake, you got nothing to go on! Okay, so they celebrated their fucking wedding and they didn't say anything to us about it. They haven't asked us other years, so what the hell does that prove?”

Tino shrugged his shoulders. He knew his cousin in that mood. Piero was uneasy, that was the reason for his outburst of temper. He was unlikely to listen to anything till he calmed down. But Tino gave it one more try.

“Thirty-eight years isn't special,” he said quietly. “It's no big deal. Forty years is ruby. That's special; that everyone celebrates. I think we should be careful, that's all I'm saying.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Piero's voice was loud. “Okay, we'll be careful. Now I've got fucking work to do.”

At noon he pushed his chair back, picked up his jacket and went down one floor to Tino's office. He'd been rough on his cousin. He was sorry. And there was a creeping doubt in his mind that wouldn't be sworn and blustered away. He opened the door and called out.

“Hey, Tino? I'm going for some lunch. You want to come?”

They went down in the elevator together. Piero flung an arm around his cousin.

“For Christ's sake. I shot off my mouth. Forget it, will you? You're right. We'll watch it. No chances.”

“You leave this to Anna and me,” Luisa Fabrizzi said. “Go and sit with your papa. He wants to talk to you.”

“If you don't mind,” Clara said.

She hated helping with the dishes. Her mother always did it, and the girls in the family were expected to help her. Clara was not domesticated and resented being relegated to the kitchen. A young cousin was staying with them. She was a nice, simple Italian girl, who'd be in her element at the sink.