BELLA MAFIA (24 page)

Even at that early hour he was already at work in his room in the Hotel Raphael, sitting at a Louis XIV desk, his papers stacked at his feet and by his elbow. He had opened the windows to the balcony even though his room was air-conditioned. Soon the streets would be thronging with traffic and noise, but now at dawn it was reasonably quiet. His concentration was so deep that when his breakfast was brought in, he jumped from his seat, his heart pounding.

He drank cup after cup of coffee while he worked. On many of the documents he wrote the initials "P. C." with a red felt-tip pen. He had traced the buyers of more than ten of Luciano's subsidiary companies to a bank here in Rome, to a box number and had hired two men to wait for someone to collect. That person was, he discovered later, Enrico Dante, Paul Carolla's partner in a nightclub. The name on the sale contracts, however, was Vittorio Rosales, a name Domino believed was fictitious.

All the information the bank could give him was that enough money was available in the account to cover all the sales.

Domino looked at the photographs of Dante collecting from the box number and paying vast sums of cash into, the account of Vittorio Rosales. He was sure Dante was acting for Paul Carolla; that meant Mario had to put all the sales on hold. He sighed; the work seemed endless, was endless. He wanted to return to Palermo, but he had one call left to make. He was not looking forward to it; he knew it would be a long and tedious meeting.

The legal firm that was handling the Luciano business transactions in Rome was being very slow, and Domino wanted to put pressure on it. One of the businesses it handled was Sophia's mail-order lingerie line. The building it occupied was owned by the family, and it was up for sale. There were also two apartment blocks and three gasoline stations.

Domino splashed his face with cold water and patted it dry, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, but what he was seeing was Don Roberto, sitting at his big carved desk, drawing circles on a piece of paper, then holding up his drawing.

"You see, my old friend, the big outer circle is filled with the little companies, like an army. They confuse the enemy and protect the inner circle. That inner circle is really all I care about; it is legitimate and the most powerful. If anything happens to me, the piranhas will be snapping at my heels. They will have to bite through the outer circle, and as they bite, you will have time to ensure that the center stands firm, remains strong for my sons."

Domino sighed. The inner circle was broken, and the massive holdings Luciano had fought to keep, the docks, the warehouses, the ships, all were closed. There was not one son left to take over.

The pain in Domino's chest never seemed to leave him now, and the tablets had no effect. He made a note in his date-book to go for a checkup on his return to Palermo.

Adina brought the tray of lemonade. Her hands were still shaking. Graziella was sitting, perfectly calm, her eyes closed and her face tilted toward the sun. They were at a small roadside cafe, waiting for the car to be repaired.

They were just outside Mondello and had been waiting for two hours. Across the road the mechanic lay beneath the Mercedes, which had three large dents. They had not had three accidents, just a rather complicated one with a post and a tree.

"This is not as good as yours, Adina," said Graziella, holding up her glass with distaste.

"No, signora. . . . You know, maybe we could get a taxi; perhaps he will be some time."

"No, we have no need to hurry."

Adina sighed. The thought of traveling any farther with Graziella at the wheel was disconcerting. She rarely managed to get out of second gear, and the car tended to jerk. . . . They were only eight miles from Palermo, yet the journey had taken most of the morning.

"Once we pass the bus depot, I know every street; it was just coming here by road—"

"You don't have to apologize, Adina. It was a pleasant drive. I enjoyed it."

Adina's glass rattled on the tray as she put it down, but she said nothing.

"This Hotel Majestic, do you know it, Adina?"

"No, signora, I have not been here since I was a child. I know only my cousin. It is a very popular resort now, not like when I was a girl. It was just a fishing village, but the beach—"

"I know, I know. We used to bring the boys when they were young. Go and ask about the hotel."

Adina crossed the road and held a lengthy conversation with the mechanic. Eventually she returned to Graziella.

"He knows my cousin." Adina sat down and drew her chair closer to the table. "He also knows of Antonio Baranza, the old man's son. They don't like visitors; the old man rarely goes out. Maybe we should talk first to my cousin?"

"As you wish. How long will the car be?"

"Not long. We made a hole in the carburetor. I have directions; it will be no problem. The Majestic is on the far side of the square, not far from my cousin."

An hour later the Mercedes jerked through the square, causing many of the old men, sitting with their beers in the shade, to chortle.

Adina, having said she knew no one, spent much of the journey leaning out of the window addressing what appeared to Graziella to be the whole town. Since the street was too narrow for the car, Adina suggested they park in the square. She would go speak to her cousin and return immediately. It was half an hour before she came back.

Graziella was furious, but Adina paid no attention. She seemed very nervous as they headed out of the square and onto a smaller road on the north side.

"The Majestic is a cafe, signora. They rent out rooms. They have a few tables in front and a small bar, mostly used by residents. Not many tourists." She asked Graziella to stop a moment.
"Scusi,
signora, but I must ask you to be very careful."

"I am quite capable now, Adina. I know all the gears."

"No, no, signora, it's the Baranza family." She dropped her voice to a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. "They will not speak with you, will not let you see the old man. His son tells everyone he is senile, but my cousin knows the woman who helps in the kitchens. Sometimes she takes the old man for a walk; she pushes his chair along the harbor. There is a small bar, with tables outside. She will take him there this afternoon, and if you are waiting there, she and I will—"

"You know this woman?"

"Si,
signora, we were at school together. You must wait. They know who you are, signora."

"Only because you broadcast the news. It doesn't matter. I just want to speak with Gennaro Baranza."

"The Carboni family run this part of town, signora. My cousin's sister works for Alessandrini Carboni. Baranza's son also works for the Carbonis."

"I shall wait, Adina, but not for long."

Gennaro Baranza wore a straw hat, one side looking as if a dog had made a meal of it. He also wore a strange pair of ladies' pink sunglasses perched on his bulbous nose. The rest of him looked shriveled as he hunched in the wheelchair.

The plain-looking woman pushing the chair waved to Adina, who hurried to join her. They talked as they wheeled the old man toward Graziella and parked him in the shade.

Looking at the trembling man in the moth-eaten straw hat,

Graziella felt she had wasted her time. Then she heard his voice, very faintly.

"I wept for your family, signora."

His voice was slurred, and his mouth drooped at one side. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and gestured to his mouth. "I had a stroke two years ago. It has not helped."

She whispered, "So you know who I am?"

"Si,
signora, I know. We met, many times. I was only a young man."

"Forgive me, I do not remember."

Again he lifted his shoulders. One of his hands was crippled, but the other plucked at the knitted shawl across his knees. "My son tells people I am senile, but I forget nothing. Perhaps only what has to be forgotten."

"You knew my son Michael?" Graziella asked.

"Si,
I knew him well. He taught me to read and write. We spent six weeks together in the mountains. I loved your son, he was—" he touched his heart with his good hand "—an angel's soul."

They fell silent for a moment. Then Graziella sighed. "I did not know he was addicted to heroin. I discovered this only recently."

"Don Roberto said he would cut out the tongue of any man who told you. You would not be able to push such memories away. They would haunt you, believe me."

"I have only memories, Gennaro, of all my sons. I have lost three sons."

"This I know. I have two, but there used to be four. And my brothers, all gone."

She leaned forward. "Tell me how Michael died. Tell me everything you know."

She could not see his eyes behind the pink sunglasses, but he averted his face, as if he could not bear her to look at him. "I do not remember; my mind sometimes is as dead as my body."

"I do not believe you."

"Believe me, signora, the day your son died, I have every reason to forget, for I was left for dead. Maybe it would have been better if I had died. All that is clear is the pain, pain that is with me day and night."

Even in the shade the heat was overpowering. She offered

to push him a little farther along the harbor.

For all his frailty Gennaro was no lightweight. It was hard for her, but at last they reached the top of the harbor. She turned the chair to face the sea.

Gennaro smiled, cocking his head to one side as he looked over the brilliantly colored fishing boats in the harbor. "Who was King Lear?"

Graziella looked down at the old man. "King Lear? He was a character in a Shakespearean play. Why do you ask?"

He hesitated. "Diego Caruso, you know him?"

"Yes, I know him."

They fell silent for a moment. Then Gennaro began to talk in his croaking voice. "He was with Don Roberto that night. He told me the don carried his son like he was a baby, wrapped in the sheet he had taken from the bed. No one knew what to say to him or what to do for him. Standing in the doorway with his son, he cried out. Caruso told me this. He said it was the worst sound he had ever heard, a single cry, and it reminded him of King Lear. But I never knew what he meant. I still don't."

"He was a mighty king. His favorite daughter died and he carried her in his arms. I think the line is, 'Howl, howl—' "

Gennaro's face puckered into a heavy frown. "A daughter, not a son, eh?"

Graziella turned his chair so he faced her. "They were American, the men who killed my son? All I ask is that you tell me what you know. I would never make you go to court, never force you to be a witness. This is just for me, Gennaro, for me, for Michael's mama. . . ."

He gave a heavy sigh. "They were Americans."

"Did you know their names?"

"No. I was shown many photographs."

"Who showed you?"

"Don Roberto. I recognized their faces, but I did not know their names. But he found them. One by one, he found them."

He gave a hard chuckle. "Don Roberto found every boy from America who had so much as smoked a cigarette with Michael. Not one escaped."

"Did these Americans admit that Paul Carolla ordered the death of my son?"

Gennaro averted his face. She snatched his sunglasses from his face and stepped back in shock. One eye socket was empty, the lid a mass of scar tissue.

His voice was plaintive. "My glasses, signora, please."

She held them away from him. "Lenny Cavataio survived. Do you remember him?"

Gennaro grimaced. "He was the last, the one who knew everything, but he, too, is dead. My glasses, please, signora."

She handed them to him, but he could not manage to replace them. She did it for him, then rested her hand gently on his shoulder. "Forgive me . . .1 owe you an explanation. I am trying to understand why, if my husband knew of Paul Carolla's part in my son's murder, why he waited so long. Why did he wait?"

Gennaro stared straight ahead; she had to stoop to hear him. "Don Roberto had two more sons, his family. When he found Lenny Cavataio, only then did he have the evidence, the right to demand justice. But it was too late. Carolla was already in jail."

Graziella bent even closer. "If what you say is true, why did he take Lenny Cavataio's place as a prosecution witness?"

Gennaro looked up into her face. "I don't know, signora, but becoming a witness in Carolla's trial signed his death warrant. He would have had more respect if he had taken a gun and shot Carolla. Perhaps, in the end, he waited too long."

She gripped the arm of the wheelchair as Gennaro tried frantically to turn it.

"Who ordered the deaths of my sons, my grandsons?
Tell me!"