The Scarlet Thread (5 page)

“I said I'd see about it. I'd let him know, but it didn't look promising. I talked about the complications, the passage home, the immigration, illegal entry—you know the sort of stuff. He didn't give a goddamn. He just sat there and said, ‘You fix it for me, Major. You can fix it.' Afterward, it clicked. Some colonel in the Legal Department was asking questions about Falconi. He told Personnel there was a nurse involved and he wanted to find out if this guy was on the level. Personnel stalled and came to me. I said, Tell him the guy's okay. No wife, no criminal record. What do I do, Bill? It can't be fixed, and he knows it. But if we say no, he'll find some way to shit on us. They always do.”

“Get hold of this colonel. What's his name?”

“McKie,” Thompson said. “He's a lawyer, from Cincinnati. I made a few inquiries about him when this stuff came up about Falconi. He's shacked up with another nurse up there. She's buddy-buddy with Falconi's girl. I guess that's why he was asking questions.”

“Let's give him a few answers, Jim,” was the reply. “This nurse may solve the problem for us when she knows what her boyfriend really is.”

“Sit down, Miss Drummond. Cigarette?”

“No, thank you.”

It was a small office in the municipal building in the center of Palermo. The Stars and Stripes hung from the flagpole over the entrance; the mayor and his officials had been moved out to make room for the American occupying forces. Walter McKie had driven her into the city.

Major Thompson took a Lucky Strike from the packet and lit it. Pretty girl, he thought, blond and blue-eyed; just the type these bastards went for. She looked apprehensive.

It had taken a lot of persuading to get her there. Even so, she didn't know why she was asked to come, just that it concerned Steven Falconi. McKie was no fool; he hadn't even hinted that there was anything wrong.

Thompson didn't feel sorry for her. She was lucky, only she didn't know it yet.

She said suddenly, “Major, has anything happened to Steven?”

He'd sailed for Naples three days before. There was still an ache in her breast, as if the parting had been a physical blow.

“No,” he answered. “He landed, and he's busy right now, I guess. Miss Drummond, you're close friends, I understand?”

She flushed. “Yes … we are. Major, what is this all about? What have my private affairs got to do with you?”

“Before he embarked, Captain Falconi asked me to arrange a passage to America for you,” he said.

His eyes were cold, and she felt as if he and she were antagonists.

“He did mention that,” she admitted. “I told him I couldn't leave my post at the hospital.”

“It would be strictly illegal,” Thompson went on. “A forged passport, for example, official instruction to all kinds of people to look the other way. He knew all this, of course, but he still tried to pressure me. So I thought that before I went any further, I'd better talk to you.”

She thought Steven was being accused, and she didn't hesitate. “I'm having a baby,” she said. “That's why he asked; he's worried about leaving me alone. If anything happened to him, he wanted me to be where his family could look after us.”

She had guts, Thompson decided. She wasn't going to let Falconi take any blame.

“How much do you know about Steven Falconi, Miss Drummond? How much has he told you about this family of his?”

“I don't understand you,” she said. “Walter, what is this all about? Why did you persuade me to come here? I think I'd like to go.”

McKie put a hand on her arm. “Listen to him, Angela. Don't walk out now.”

“Miss Drummond.” Thompson stubbed out his cigarette and stared at her. “Have you heard of the Mafia?”

“Mafia? I don't think so.” McKie's hand was still on her arm.

“You've heard of gangsters in America? Seen movies about them?” He had such a flat, ugly voice; it was deliberately toneless.

“Major Thompson—”

“Your friend Falconi was born in Sicily. His family came from Altodonte.”

For a moment she saw the pink-washed houses on the hillside and the church where they had been married.

“I know,” she said. “I know they came from Sicily.”

“A lot of people came to the States from here. And from Italy. They brought the Mafia with them. Murder, extortion, prostitution—every dirty vice and racket in the book. That's what they brought to America. And that's what Steven Falconi is; and that's why he's over here. I'd like to show you something, Miss Drummond. Read it.” Thompson got up and handed a folder to her. He was surprisingly small and thickset without the shield of the desk.

Angela looked up at him. “What is this?”

“It's Falconi's criminal record,” he said. “You'll see there are no convictions. They could never make anything stick. The Falconis are big-time racketeers on New York's Lower East Side. They're into everything: betting, vice, and especially the labor unions. You don't pay your dues, you don't work. You talk back, and you get beaten up the first time and murdered if you do it again.”

The blue-covered folder was open in her lap. His photograph was in the top right-hand corner. Full face, profile. It was hard to recognize at first because the expression was flat and dead. But it was Steven.

“Take your time,” she heard Thompson say.

The typescript blurred as she read, then it pitilessly came back into focus. Grandfather: Stefano Falconi. Emigrated to U.S. 1923 to escape conviction for three murders. Convicted for bootlegging, served jail sentence, released; rearrested on charges relating to unsolved murder of rival “family” boss. Released, lack of evidence. Founded Falconi “family” on Lower East Side. Died in hospital after assassination attempt, 1933. Father: Lucca Falconi. Mafia debt collector, Palermo. Suspected of two murders; not arrested, lack of evidence. Intimidation of witnesses in related case. Emigrated to U.S. 1925. Naturalized 1931. Head of Falconi “family” since 1933. No U.S. criminal convictions but indictments on charges of attempted murder, attempts to pervert the course of justice by bribery of witnesses in corruption charges against members of the Teamsters Union; currently under investigation by the Internal Revenue Service.

“Angela, are you okay?” she heard Walter McKie say. She looked around the room. The major was lighting yet another cigarette, and the blue folder was open at the last page on her knee.

“I don't believe this,” she said. “It isn't true. I don't believe it.”

“It is true,” McKie said. “He's a mobster. That's his police record.”

Grandfather, father and son. “My family.” He had talked about them so often that she had formed a picture of them in her mind. Like other Italian families, a tribe of uncles and aunts and cousins. “We all speak Italian among ourselves … go to church, eat pasta.… My family will look after you … you and the baby …” His words were mocking her as she looked first at McKie and then at Thompson, impassive behind his desk.

“He's in the army,” she managed to say. “He couldn't be in the army—”

“He's got no criminal conviction,” Thompson interrupted. “Not that it matters with guys like him. We've let murderers out of jail to come back here. Don't ask me why, Miss Drummond, because I'm not proud of it. We need them, that's all I can tell you. You never asked Falconi what he was doing here in Sicily?”

She just shook her head.

“What did he tell you—administration?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“Yeah, well, you could call it that. You see, people around here know that family. They're scared of guys like Falconi. It makes them cooperate with us. So now he's in Naples. You still want to go to the States, Miss Drummond? You want your kid brought up with the Falconis?”

Angela closed the dossier. She didn't want to see the photograph of him again. Dead-eyed, full face, profile. Gangsters. Yes, she'd seen it all in the movies. Murder, extortion … every vice in the book. The mean little house in the narrow street where his grandfather Stefano Falconi was born. He had murdered three men, that report said.

We'll call our boy after him, he had said.

She stood up; she drew away from Walter McKie as he tried to take her arm. She walked over and placed the dossier on the desk.

“I don't believe my Steven is the man in this,” she said. “I know him, and he couldn't do these things. But I can't argue with the rest of it. I'd like to go now, Major, if there's nothing else.”

“Would you like a drink?” he offered. “You look as if you could use one.”

“No, thank you. I'd just like to go.”

He rose and opened the door for her. “No passage to the States?”

“No,” she said. She didn't shake hands with him. “We got married, you know. In the church in Altodonte.”

Thompson nodded slowly. “I wondered about that. They don't mind murder, but they won't accept a bastard child. It's against their honor. You've had a lucky escape, believe me.”

She walked past him through the door without answering. McKie didn't try to catch up with her till they were out in the street.

“You want to go back to the hospital right away?”

“Yes. I told Sister I wouldn't be away more than an hour.”

Sitting in the jeep, she turned back her sleeve, and the elegant gold watch gleamed in the sunshine.

“He gave me this,” she said slowly. She slipped her hand into the neck of her uniform and drew out a chain with a gold ring on the end of it. “And this. They came from the same jewelers. I passed there one day and the place was boarded up. How did he get the ring and the watch?”

McKie didn't like the look of her. He said, “What the hell does it matter? I'm sorry, Angela. I'm sorry you had to find out. Can Chris and I do anything to help?”

“I don't think so,” she said quietly. “From now on I've got to help myself. Do you think I'll stop loving him?”

“Sure.” He turned the jeep into the short drive up to the hospital forecourt. “Sure you will. What worries both of us is the baby. How are you going to manage?”

“I'll be all right,” she said. She stepped down and looked at him. “I'll have some part of him in my life. That's something. Goodbye, Walter.”

“I'll be seeing you,” he called out.

She nodded and quickened her pace as she came to the entrance.

Sister Hunt checked her watch. She noticed that Nurse Drummond was a ghastly color and bit back the rebuke for being a few minutes late.

“Sister,” Angela said, “when I come off duty, I'd like an appointment to see Matron.”

Sister Hunt had been hoping she would go of her own accord. “Very well. I'll ask when she can see you, Nurse. Over there, bed number eight. He had a transfusion an hour ago. Pulse and respiration to be monitored.”

“Oh, Angela! I'm going to miss you. But you're doing the right thing.”

“I'll miss you too.” For a moment they embraced, and she knew Christine was close to tears. She was close to them herself.

She hadn't cried, even when the supervisor had spoken of the disgrace she had brought on the nursing service and on her family. She had been calm, almost detached, throughout the interview. At the end, the older woman had taken a little pity on her.

“You're very young,” she'd announced. “But you have your life ahead of you. You must think about adoption. I'm sure your parents will advise you that's the best course.”

Angela had paused. “If they do,” she'd said, “I shan't take any notice of them. Goodbye, Matron. And thank you. I'd like to go on with my duties till the last moment, if I may.”

“You may.” The tone was frigid. “But only because we're so short of trained nurses.” Then she had turned away.

“You promise you'll keep in touch?” Christine was saying. “You'll write and let me know how you are, and about the baby, won't you?”

“I promise.” Angela hugged her once more. “And give my love to Walter. Say I'm sorry I didn't see him to say goodbye.”

“I'll tell him.” Christine was grateful. “He had to do it. He couldn't let you walk into that, once he knew. You've been very good about it, Angie.” She paused. “I'm fond of him.”

“I know you are, and he's fond of you. It's been such fun working together, and you've been a real friend to me through all this. The last couple of weeks have been sheer hell—”

“They're a lot of cows,” Christine declared, referring to the senior staff, who had been bearing down on Angela for the least infraction. Only Sister Hunt, renowned for her fierce adherence to the rules, had gone out of her way to be kind. “They can stuff themselves now. You'll be back home before you know it. And a sea voyage'll do you good. I wish I could have seen you off.”

“Don't worry. I've got transport. I'd better go. I'll write, and you write back. Here, take this. It's a present.” She thrust a little box into Christine's uniform pocket. “It'll stop you being late,” she called out, and started quickly down the stairs.

Christine opened the box. Inside was the gold watch Steven Falconi had given Angela.

The hospital ship docked at Southampton. Angela had worked her passage among the wounded being repatriated from the Italian campaign. There had been no time to think and little time to feel. Feeling would come later, when the reality of what she had done sank in. She hadn't written to Steven, although his letters had arrived from Naples. She didn't open them. She didn't trust herself. Later, when she was safe in England and the last link between them was broken, she might read what he had said.

Southampton in late October was gray and chill in the early morning. A thin rain fell as they prepared to dock. Those able to had climbed on deck to cheer at the first sight of home. Leaning along the railing, beside the young airman she had helped climb up, Angela felt as sad as the morning. There was no one to meet her. They had only her letter explaining that she was coming home and would call when she arrived. She couldn't take the coward's way out by writing what had to be spoken face-to-face.