The Scarlet Thread (33 page)

He unlocked his office, switched on a battery of lights and said, “Close the door. I want to show you something.”

Charlie followed him. He felt embarrassed, even uneasy. Steven had never been angry with him before. He slouched, wondering whether he dared put up an argument. He shouldn't have left his mother. He was sorry he'd done that, but she'd made him feel like a child, when he wanted to feel grown up.

Steven flicked a wall switch, and the paneling slid back. “Come here, Charlie,” he said. “Look at this.” It was a closed-circuit television screen. It showed the
salon privé
. Steven flicked another switch, and the camera moved into close-up on one of the tables. There was no sound, just a picture. He changed it, from one salon to another, the roulette wheels, the card tables, zooming into focus, the faces enlarged until they filled the screen.

Charlie said, “Gosh, I've never seen anything like it. It's fantastic. You can watch everything that's going on.”

“Yes. I can watch the games and the players and my own staff. I can see if anyone cheats or seems to be cheating. I can sit here and see people losing fortunes, making fools of themselves, getting drunk. I can see greed and cunning and people risking money because they want people to look at them.”

Charlie said, “You make it sound awful. I thought it looked like good fun.”

Steven said quietly, “That”—and he pointed to the overall view on the screen of the big gambling room beneath them—“that isn't fun. That is business. My business, and one day yours too. I don't gamble, and you
never
gamble, you hear me? You leave that to the suckers. Business isn't fun, Charlie. That's something I've got to teach you. It's not like anything else. It has different rules. If you want to succeed, if you want respect, you have to play by those rules. If you run a casino, you don't play around with the profits. That's number one. If anybody had given you chips or let you play at a table tonight, he'd have been fired. And number two, when I say take care of your mother, I mean it. You understand me?”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

“Now she's waiting downstairs. The car's on its way, and you'll take her home. And you'll apologize to her.”

“I will,” Charlie said. He had blushed red at Steven's tone. “I only went for a few minutes,” he said. “I only wanted to join in, like everybody else.”

“You're not everybody else,” was the answer. “That's something else you'll have to learn. Now go on down and find your mother.”

He switched off the screen. The panel slid into place. He sat down at his desk, searching for a cigarette. He had been hard on the boy. But it had to be done. He could have the world, but he must play by the rules. He was a kid still, Steven admitted. His life had been turned upside down by Steven's advent—money, travel, glamour, and anything he wanted. It hadn't turned his head, but it might in the end. The boy's pride was hurt. His feelings too, because of the way he had been judged and admonished.

Steven stubbed out his cigarette. He'd been sitting there longer than he realized. He was unhappy that he wouldn't see his son before midday. He locked up and went downstairs. The supper room was nearly empty, the bars not quite, but most of the midnight crush had disappeared. It was four in the morning.

He went upstairs on a tour of the rooms. Maxton was watching a game at the baccarat table. The hard core were still there. They'd be there till the casino closed. Steven went up to him.

“How's it going?”

“Fine. Two of the high rollers are fighting it out over there.”

Steven was surprised to hear him use a crap-game term. “How high?”

“Half a million francs. Don't you want to watch? They hate each other's guts when they play, but outside they're the best of friends.”

“Who are they?” Steven could see two men, competing in cold fury with the bank.

“French. Stinking rich. One's electronics, the other one's got steel and shipping interests. This is their idea of relaxation. It's a good omen they've stayed on. And so did Nettie Orbach. She didn't leave till after two. That means we've arrived!” He looked tired, his thin face sunken around the eyes and mouth. A very little drunk, Steven decided. Just a touch over the edge. Maxton smiled and said, “Congratulations. I think you've made the grade tonight, Steven.”

“If it's true, then we've all made it. You especially. Thanks.”

Maxton made him a little ironic bow. More than a touch over the edge. “Thank
you!
This time last year I had paper in my shoes.”

Steven said, “Close down in twenty minutes. I'm going home.”

Angela had let him sleep. He stood on the balcony in his dressing gown and stretched in the warm sunshine. Rich garden scents drifted up to him, and he saw her moving among the shrubbery. She must have been up for several hours. She loved gardening. She would grow things in the desert if she were set down there. Steven smiled, watching her. He loved her more than he'd thought possible. He loved her directness, and the honesty she had brought into his life, and the odd streak of obstinacy that nothing could move. He loved her for her gentleness of heart and her kindness.

Standing with the sun on his face, he thought of Sicily, and suddenly he longed for the red earth and rugged hillsides, for the hot skies and sun-bleached buildings. It was his homeland, the place of his birth. He wanted to go back to the spot where he and Angela had poured wine into the dust and made love for the first time. And he wanted to take his son and show him where the other half of him belonged.

He called down to her. “Angelina!”

She looked up and waved. “Morning, darling. Do you want breakfast?”

“I'm coming down. Order some coffee for me.”

“I let you sleep on,” she said as they sat together on the terrace. “It was such a long day. I woke up very early, I was still so excited about it all. It did go well, didn't it, darling?”

“According to Ralph, it was a great success. And he would know. I thought so too. You get a feel for atmosphere. You'll get a crowd wherever there's free food and drink and people to stare at. It's the electricity in the air that tells you. And the big gamblers came and stayed till the end.” He smiled, holding her hand. “I want to go down and check the figures. I want to see what our profit's likely to be.”

“When do you think we'll break even?” Angela asked.

“We won't begin to break even for a year,” he said. “The winter is a slack time. But I can calculate pretty accurately what the revenue's likely to be. When we've recovered our expenses for the gala, we begin to recoup the initial outlay. Before you know it, we'll be rich!”

She said, “Charlie's gone out for a walk. He was awfully sorry he annoyed you. Don't be cross with him today, will you, darling?”

“Don't be silly. Last night was last night. Let's take a walk through the garden, shall we?”

“Why can't we talk here? I'll only bore you to death showing you the plants. You don't know a weed from a wisteria!”

“And I don't want to know,” he agreed. “The garden's yours. I leave it all to you. I want to walk with you because I can't even kiss my own wife without that old bat Janine spying on me. Come on.”

“You know she's a treasure,” Angela teased.

“She's a snoop,” he retorted, pulling her to her feet. “She needs to get a man of her own.”

Janine was a domestic marvel. She cleaned and scrubbed and kept everything in spotless order. But she was incurably nosy. There were times when it got on Steven's nerves.

Out of sight of the house, shielded by trees and a great bank of flowering crimson oleanders, Steven took Angela in his arms. “I missed you when I woke up this morning,” he said.

“I missed you,” Angela answered, and drew his head down to kiss him on the mouth. It was a long kiss, and they stood pressed close together afterward.

“I was thinking how much I loved you,” he said. “I saw you down in the garden and I thought,
I love her more and more every day
.”

“I love you like that too,” she said, “In the beginning I used to worry. I used to think about what I'd made you give up.”

“Like what?” He stroked her hair.

“Your family. Your whole way of life. I don't mean the bad parts, but your home and your friends. I was so frightened you'd regret it. I didn't see how I could make up for all that, even with Charlie.”

“Then will you believe me if I tell you something? And never speak like that again? You promise me?” He was serious. The warm desire had gone out of him.

“All right, tell me,” Angela said.

“I am happier than I've been in the whole of my life. I miss my family, yes. I love them. I love my father and my mother and Piero and my nephews and niece. I'm a Sicilian. We have very deep family ties, you know that. I'd give anything to bring you and Charlie and them all together. But as for the rest of it, you listen to me. Listen good, as we say. I don't miss the States. I lived there. I grew up there, but it's not my home. I didn't have any friends outside of the business. And I don't miss that. I don't miss traveling with bodyguards, riding in a bulletproof car, looking up and down the street every time I came out the door. I don't miss living off crime, Angela. I have a hunch I'll die in my bed as an old man, and I like the idea. I have a home, a wife and a son, and I love my life. And I have a business that doesn't have blood on the balance sheet. So will you look at me and promise to put all that stuff out of your head?”

“Oh, darling,” she said. “I really will, from now on. So let's go for our walk, shall we?”

“I was thinking,” he said. “We deserve a short holiday. I want to take Charlie to Sicily. We could spend a long weekend touring around.” He slipped his arm around her waist. “Maybe go back up the hillside where we went the first day.”

“He's due back at school,” Angela said. “We promised he'd go back at the end of the week. Couldn't we go in the Christmas holidays?”

“Don't you remember how cold it gets in the winter? No, darling. I meant now, while the weather's good. It's the best time of year. Just a couple of days won't hurt. I'll show you Etna at night. That's really something to see. Say yes, sweetheart.”

“If you want to that much, then we'll go,” she said.

“No wonder I'm so crazy about you,” Steven murmured. “And I'll call the school and make it right with them. They want a contribution to the new swimming pool, don't they?”

As they walked back to the villa, Angela said, “What are we going to tell Charlie? Why Sicily?”

“Because I was born there. It's my home. One day, when he knows I'm his father, he'll have something to remember. Let's see if he's back from that walk.”

It began as a whisper, passed behind the hand in bars and trattorias, in the kitchens and living rooms in Little Italy. A whisper among the small people, the common soldiers in the mighty Mafia command: Don Aldo Fabrizzi talks business with his daughter. It had started with the cousin, Anna, who told her father that the Don shut himself up with Clara and discussed topics forbidden to women, while her mother and Anna worked in the kitchen. She hated Clara, who was cold and superior toward her. She liked Luisa Fabrizzi.

Her father sucked his teeth and didn't believe her. But he spoke about it, and like a tiny ripple on still water, the rumors began to swell into a tide. Roy Guglielmo and his brother, Victor, came to hear of it. They were incredulous. But they were curious too. They sent for the bridegroom-to-be, and over a hearty dinner with lots of wine, they congratulated him on his good fortune and asked about the bride. A clever girl, they'd heard. Her papa's favorite. He had himself a good thing going. Bruno was flattered and expansive. He boasted to the men who had been his bosses since he was a runner on the streets.

He laid her good and often, and she ate out of his hand. Sure, she had the Don's ear over most things. Which was good, he said defensively. Good for him, when he was the husband. Then he'd be the one to see the books.

She sees the books, the accounts, the
figures?
Victor asked him.

Wine made Bruno truculent. He'd resented being shut out, or sent away because Clara had to talk to her father. When he was married to her, he assured them, she'd learn a woman's place. They all laughed and made coarse jokes, and he staggered home feeling good about himself.

The Guglielmos were independent operatives, chiefs of a small but effective family. They ran the brothels and exacted protection money from every small business in their district. They had strong affiliations with the Licianos in Chicago.

Roy said to Victor after Bruno had left, “It looks like it's true. Holy shit! She goes through the books!”

Victor didn't answer in a hurry. He was a big, slow-moving man, but he wasn't slow-witted. “It figures,” he said at last. “After a guy like Falconi, why pick an arsehole for a son-in-law? You think Fabrizzi's going to put Bruno in Falconi's place when he dies? Nah! He's got other ideas, Roy. Bruno's the frontman.”

“It can't happen,” Roy declared. “It's crazy. Fabrizzi's crazy if he thinks he can put a woman in a man's place.”

Victor said, “It could break up the families. We have it fixed right for all of us. For Christ's sake. Mobs from Chicago, Detroit, you name it! They get word of this, and they'll come up here, moving in. We'll have a war for the Fabrizzi territory. The Irish, the kikes, the Krauts. The whole fucking lot will be grabbing a piece for themselves. We got to stop it.”

His brother nodded. He paid the bill. “We'll need help. Fabrizzi's too big for us. But I'll lay you a straight two to one his people don't know what he's doing. Not the top men.”

“Then maybe somebody should tell them,” Victor suggested.