The Scarlet Thread (36 page)

They were having their weekly dinner together, and Steven had left them at the table to finish their coffee while he made some calls. Angela knew he always telephoned New York around this time of day, so she kept Maxton on in the dining room.

“Where will you go?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “It depends. I was hoping to spend it with a friend, but she's got elderly relative trouble at the moment, so I don't suppose it'll come off. Is there more coffee there, Angela? … Thanks.”

Madeleine was doubtful about sneaking off with him for Christmas. Her lover was demanding that she stay near him in Lyons so he could escape his family's clutches and visit her. As Madeleine explained, she was squeezing him for a really big present this year, and she didn't think she'd get it if she didn't stay close. She told Ralph how annoyed she was and pulled pretty faces, calling the old man a string of dirty names, but Ralph understood. She couldn't pass up a valuable piece of jewelry, or a block of shares, just to screw and laugh with him over the holiday.

He'd planned to spend Christmas in a new hotel at Val d'Isère. He was a good skier, and Madeleine was more athletic than she looked. They'd have had fun. He hated Christmas; it was so depressing, with its insistence upon family gatherings and children. He'd have to go up there alone. He was sure to find someone congenial. He had a lot of money to throw around on a pretty girl.

He heard Angela say, “What will you do, Ralph, if your plans fall through?”

He smiled in his twisted way, mocking himself. “Make new ones. I'm very adaptable. And be a dear and don't suggest I go home, because I want to see the family about as much as they want to see me.”

“I wasn't going to suggest it,” she said. “I was going to ask you if you'd like to come over and have Christmas with all of us.”

To her surprise, he turned slightly red. “How very kind. Were you really?”

“Why not? If you can't or won't go to your own home, why not come to mine? Charlie'd love it, so would my father, and Steven and I would be delighted. Just so long as you don't have glamorous expectations. It's a very modest village house, but we'll have a happy Christmas, I can promise you. I love all the trimmings, the tree and the presents and going to midnight service.… Why don't you say yes? If your friend solves her problem with the relative, then we won't mind a bit if you cancel. How's that?”

“That's the nicest bit of blackmail I can think of,” he said. “Hadn't you better mention it to Steven? He may not want the hired help eating his Christmas turkey.”

“Shut up and don't be silly. He's very fond of you. We both are.”

He was so adept at hiding his feelings that she noticed nothing except that hint of color. It was funny; she couldn't imagine Maxton being embarrassed by anything.

He leaned a little toward her across the table. She looked very pretty and soft in the subdued light, and however hard he tried, he couldn't find anything but gentleness in her eyes. He reached out and took her hand. He did it in an exaggerated way, robbing the gesture of serious intent. He raised her hand to his lips and, for the merest second, touched them.

“My fair benefactress,” he declaimed. “Thanks to you, I shan't spend a lonely Christmas, sobbing into my pillow! Tell me, why are you such a very nice person?”

“Why do you make a joke of everything?” she countered. “I'm not particularly nice. I can be very nasty when I like, so just be careful!”

“That I doubt,” he said. “Hadn't we better join Steven? Otherwise he'll come storming in and fire me for kissing your hand.”

“You're an idiot.” She laughed at him. “Come on. Let Janine clear the table.… You know, Steven says she gets on his nerves—she's always hovering round us. He even suggested I get rid of her.”

“You'd lose the mother, and she's a marvelous cook, as we've just confirmed. And the next one could be a thief as well as a spy. All French servants spy on their employers; the Italians steal from them. I could have a word with her if you like …?”

“No, don't bother. I'll probably lose my temper if I catch her outside the door and do it myself. As you say, Ralph, I don't want to lose both of them. That fish soufflé was delicious, wasn't it?”

“Exquisite,” he said. He opened the door and stood aside to let her pass. “But I bet your Christmas turkey will be better.”

“Darling, you don't mind, do you? It seemed awful for him to spend Christmas all alone.”

“Of course I don't mind. Christmas is no time to be alone,” Steven said. “If it makes you happy to have him come over, that's fine by me.”

“Thank you, darling. I think it's a kindness. He's so bitter about life, but deep down there's a lot of niceness in him. He's so lonely, it's sad.”

Steven smiled. “You find good points in everyone, sweetheart, that's your trouble. But don't become too sorry for him, or I'll get jealous.”

“I can imagine,” Angela teased in turn. “He's quite a charmer, so you better watch out.”

They ended by hugging each other and laughing.

The gala was a sellout. Angela sat entranced by the strength and purity of the young opera star's voice. She had never heard Maria Callas sing in the flesh; she had to take Maxton's word for it that Renata Soldi was not in the same class.

It was a glittering evening, with the women dressed and bejeweled like peacocks, and afterward, when the concert was over and the supper room cleared away, she went upstairs and watched the closed-circuit TV with Steven. He was in a buoyant mood, pointing out the big gamblers on the screen. A number of them were women, including a famous Hollywood star.

Angela was tired after the long evening, and the song recital had been a powerful experience that left her feeling drained. The next morning they would close down the casino for the winter. The staff went on half pay—except for the croupiers and dealers, who kept their full salaries—but were free to seek employment elsewhere till the spring reopening. And the move to England for the Christmas holidays was drawing near. Charlie had phoned and written. He was in good spirits and assured them that he had been working hard.

She was sitting with Steven one chilly November evening, a wood fire burning in the fireplace and a sense of utter peace and happiness in her heart, when the telephone rang. It was New York.

Steven said, “It's my brother. I'll take it in the study, darling.”

It was a long conversation. Angela almost fell asleep in the warm room.

“Angela.” She roused with a start. She often drifted off in the evenings these days.

“Steven? What's the matter. Is something wrong?” She was instantly alert at the sight of him.

He dropped down beside her. “Clara's getting married again,” he said.

“But isn't that good news?” she questioned.

“My family thinks so,” he said. “But I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all.”

“But why not?”

“The way Piero spoke, this guy sounds like some cheap punk who's good with the girls. He works for two brothers over on the West Side.”

“Perhaps that's what she wants,” Angela suggested. “Someone the opposite of you.”

Steven was frowning, hardly hearing what she said. Clara—intelligent, educated, with a taste for music and the arts. He remembered her touring the galleries and museums when they were in Paris on their honeymoon. Clara marrying a good-looking, low-class muscleman from the Guglielmo mob? And Aldo letting her do it? Take such a step down?

Perhaps Angela was right. Perhaps the only way Clara could come to terms with her jealous sexuality was to go slumming. But he didn't believe it.

He said, “Why don't you go up to bed, darling? I won't be long. I just want to think it through.”

“All right. I nearly dropped off while you were on the phone. Don't worry, it must be a good thing. She'll make a new life for herself. Wake me if you're worried. Promise?”

“I promise,” he said, and kissed her.

Piero had been jubilant. He'd made coarse comments and laughed. “He's probably got a dick like an elephant's trunk,” he said. “I hear she's never off her back. Now maybe Tino will stop worrying.”

“Worrying about what?” Steven had asked him. Piero was dismissive.

“Tino worries. The Fabrizzis threw some goddamned party for all their people down in Key West in August, and Tino thought it was some kind of cover-up for a meeting. We weren't supposed to know.” Steven suddenly felt a chill of warning. “You never told me,” he said. “What kind of meeting?”

“Nothing.” Piero dismissed it. “Some fucking wedding anniversary. That's when Clara shacked up with this Salviatti stud. Now they're getting married; Aldo's going to invite the world. He even called on Papa to discuss it. Clara wanted his blessing. You know how she loved all of us?” He chuckled at the idea.

“I know,” Steven said. “She hated Papa's guts. And yours.”

“They're playing it right,” Piero insisted.

Steven asked him, “When is this wedding?”

“January. At Saint Mary and the Angels. We're all invited. Papa, Mama, me, Lucia, Tino and his family, the cousins from Florida, Uncle Giorgio.” He'd ended by saying, “The heat's off you, Steven. And with a punk like that as a son-in-law, Aldo won't give us any trouble.”

Something wasn't right. The pieces didn't fit. Piero's scenario was lacking one element. The only reason Clara Fabrizzi would marry a small-time Mafia hood was if she'd got pregnant in August, and the wedding was too late for that. So there must be another motive. A front for a secret meeting of the Fabrizzi associates? Tino suspected as much. And Tino was shrewd. A big wedding, Piero had said. With everyone invited. Steven was pouring himself a whiskey when he repeated aloud, “Everyone invited.” Everyone from the Falconi family. Uncle Giorgio, the cousins. All gathered together in one place.

Steven slammed the glass down so hard that the bottom cracked. He didn't notice. He was reaching for the phone, to break all the rules and call his father. Piero wouldn't see it. Only Lucca, subtle as a snake himself, would listen to his son's hunch and accept his warning.

His mother was crying into the telephone. “Oh, my son, my boy. It's so good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“I'm fine, Mama. Just fine. So good to hear you too. You've had my messages from Piero?” He found himself swallowing hard at the sound of his mother choking back tears.

“Yes, yes. He tells me when he calls. I think of you all the time. I pray for you.”

“I know you do, Mama, and I think of you and Papa and the family. I miss you all so much.” Piero had told him she'd been unwell with a chest cold again. “How are you feeling, Mama? You taking care of yourself? You catch too many colds.”

“I'm better; don't worry about me. Piero makes too much of everything. Lucia moved in to look after me and take care of your father.”

“I have to talk with him,” Steven said. “Get him to come to the phone; tell him it's important. I
must
talk with him.”

“I'll try, Stefano, I'll try. Hold on.”

It seemed a long wait to Steven. He knew his father's pride. He could imagine Lucca looking up at his wife, without pity for her tears. “No,” he might be saying. “I have no son to talk with. There's nothing he has to say I want to hear. You want to talk with him, you talk.”

Through the telephone receiver, Steven heard a door bang. “He won't speak to you,” his mother said. “I can't persuade him. I'm so sorry, Stefano.”

Steven swore in helpless anger. Then he said gently, “Mama, Mama, don't upset yourself. Don't cry. I understand how he feels. Listen to me. Just tell him this. Make sure he listens. Tell him not to go to Clara's wedding. Tell Piero not to go. It's a trap they've set for all of you. Tell him, Mama. Make him hear you.”

She promised, and he hung up. He balled his fist and rammed it into his palm in frustration. He'd call Piero back right away, deliver the same message, hope he'd take it seriously. But Piero was an optimist. He didn't see around corners. He'd talked so jauntily about finally getting Clara off their backs, making crude jokes. He wouldn't want to hear that it was a ruse.

But Steven had to try. Piero was not receptive, as he'd feared. Steven had been absent from the scene too long. Piero's awe of him was tempered with a growing self-confidence in his own abilities. Spoletto was the watchdog, and he had finally agreed that there was nothing suspicious. And Tino, Piero insisted, was
always
looking under the bed, for Christ's sake.

“You're getting jumpy down there. Back home we just get on with business and lead a quiet life. Clara's got herself a big hunk, that's all there is to it. Relax, brother, relax.” He ended the conversation with a cheerful laugh.

In the morning Steven told Angela. He was restless, unable to stay in bed beside her. He paced up and down while he talked.

“I know it,” he insisted. “I know it in here!” He struck his chest. “It's phony—the whole thing's a setup. Clara wouldn't marry a slob, and Aldo wouldn't let her. All that crap about wanting my father's blessing. Did I tell you about that? She hated my papa's guts, and at the end he hated hers. So they tell a pack of lies, they set a wedding date, and my family starts to sit back and look the other way. If only I could see Piero, talk to him face-to-face. He laughed at me last night, Angela. Can you believe that? What the hell am I to do?”

She got up and came to him. “Calm down,” she said quietly. “That's the first thing. This wedding is weeks away. You don't have to do anything on the spur of the moment. You've got time, Steven. Your family's got time.”

He pulled away from her. “No, they haven't,” he said harshly. “I know the Fabrizzis. They'll fix alibis and get agreement among some of the other families for what they're going to do. They'll make it a matter of honor; that's how it's done. My father and brother and the rest of my family won't stand a snowball's chance in hell. And there's always a backup plan to an operation like this. If the situation changes, you make your hit earlier. I shouldn't have talked to Piero. I should have got on the plane and gone back when my father wouldn't talk to me.”