BELLA MAFIA (66 page)

"Who is this?"

"That is no concern of yours; I am simply acting for my clients. Please do not delay. I'll call you again, on this number, in three days."

Putting the phone down, he smiled at Teresa. "You hear? I think he's gonna play ball. He's got no option. . . . Put it there!" He held out his open hand. Teresa laughed and slapped it; then he hugged her tightly. "We did good, huh?"

She looked into his face. "I want you to promise me something. Swear to me, Johnny, there will be no more killing. I want your word, it has to stop."

Luka stepped back from her and crossed himself. "Before almighty God, it's over."

It began to snow lightly as they walked along Fifth Avenue arm in arm. Teresa stopped at a furrier's window and pointed. "I want to buy something for Rosa."

"Not a fur. She won't wear a fur. It's against her principles."

Teresa laughed. "Not mine, though. What do you think? Shall I try it on?"

Teresa arrived home laden with boxes, twirled around in her new fox fur coat, and began handing out parcels.

"Happy belated Christmas, Rosa, Mama, Sophia. . . . These are from us."

"Us?" repeated Sophia.

"Yes, Johnny and I bought them. Well, aren't you going to open them?"

Sophia took her Bergdorf Goodman parcel. "Where is the boy wonder?"

Teresa smiled. "He said he would be by shortly. I think he's arranging a surprise for us, a trip, he said. It's a good idea. We should get away for a couple of days, just in case any more men in masks decide to pay us a visit."

Teresa was in such high spirits she was almost hysterical.

"Open your present, Sophia," said Teresa. "We spent hours choosing it."

Sophia's box contained a Ferrucci cream silk shirt. It was worth a fortune. She smiled. "Thank you, I'll go try it on."

Beaming, Teresa handed the two largest boxes to Graziella and Rosa. "Come on, open them."

Suspicious, Sophia paused in the doorway. "What did Salerno say, Teresa?"

"He has to discuss it with the others. We are going to call back in three days' time."

Rosa ran her hand down Teresa's coat. "Mama, this is not Sophia's. Did you buy it?"

"Yes, but please open your gift. Come on, Mama, open your box, too."

Sophia lingered at the door. "Why did he speak with Salerno and not Barzini?"

"I don't know." With a shrug, Teresa changed the subject. "Aren't you going to try your blouse on?"

Sophia was sure Teresa was up to something. She watched as Graziella and Rosa lifted the lids from their big boxes.

Rosa's face fell. "Oh, Mama, how could you? I won't wear it!"

Teresa snatched the coat from the box and shook it out. "Oh, yes, you will, because it's a fake."

Graziella held up her own fake mink jacket. "What is it?"

Teresa tried to help Graziella into the coat. "It's supposed to be mink, but it's a fake."

"What's fake? I don't understand—"

"It's a fake fur, Mama, you know, it's not real? And this isn't fox fur; it's a fake, too, a fake."

"Fake? What animal is a fake?"

Teresa threw her hands up in despair. "Man-made, the animal is man-made. . . . What do you think, Rosa?"

Rosa's face was a picture; she loathed her coat. "Well, Mama, it still means that it looks real, and someone will throw a pot of paint over me. It's just as bad as wearing a real fur because it still encourages—"

Teresa snapped, "Fine, forget it. I should have known there's no pleasing you. Take the receipt and change the goddamn thing!"

Graziella stood looking at her reflection in the hall mirror, a deep frown on her face. She gestured for Sophia to come to her side. "Fake? This is a fake, you mean, like a painting is fake?"

"Si,
Mama, it's because so many people don't like to wear the real thing."

Graziella nodded and adjusted the collar. "It's okay . . . Teresa,
grazie . .
. You think it'll be warm enough? It's very light—"

Just then the front door opened, and Luka walked in, wearing a fur hat. Sophia collapsed laughing. Luka doffed his hat with a bow.

"It's not real, Rosa. It's fake fur, see? It says, 'man-made fiber.' " He looked from one smiling woman to the next. "Teresa bought it for me. ..."

Luka was beaming. He had brought flowers and champagne. He told them proudly that he had hired a limo for a surprise trip early the next morning. Stern-faced, he instructed them to be ready before eight.

He excused himself for not staying; he wanted to get everything ready for tomorrow. Before he left, he went to Rosa's side and whispered, "This is for you. I knew you wouldn't like the coat, but she wouldn't listen to me."

He handed her a small jewelry box and left quickly. Rosa flushed as she opened it. Then she gasped. The diamond was in the shape of a tear, on a fine, thin gold chain. She hurried after him.

"Johnny . . . Johnny, wait!"

He turned and watched her as she ran down the stairs. "It's so beautiful, it's just lovely, thank you. . . ."

"I'm glad you like it, I picked it out myself."

She stopped two steps above him and leaned down to hug him tightly. "Thank you."

She tried to kiss him, but he took her hands, held them tight. "It's just a friendship gift, Rosa, because I like you. . . · Don't read anything into it."

Rosa looked into the clear blue eyes. "Has Mama been talking to you?"

He released her hands and turned away. "I have to go. I have things to do."

She ran down the stairs and caught his arm. "Wait, please—"

He jerked himself free. "No."

"Johnny, please." She grabbed him again, pulling him back. He resisted at first, then relaxed as she said, "You know how I feel about you. You do, don't you?"

For a moment he seemed confused, and she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly. He didn't respond, and she looked at him questioningly. His eyes were those of a child. She held him tighter, kissed his neck, his cheek. ... As she found his lips, she felt his arms squeezing her roughly.

"Rosa, Rosa, come back here."

Luka released her and pressed his back against the wall. They both looked up at Sophia, standing above them, eyes blazing. "You'd better go, Johnny."

He ran down the stairs and out of sight. Rosa marched back up to the landing to confront Sophia. "What's the matter, jealous?"

Sophia pushed her into the hallway. "Don't be childish. Teresa, you'd better talk to your daughter. I found her on the stairs with Johnny. Talk to her. Make her see sense—"

Rosa turned on her aunt in fury. "Why don't you mind your own damned business? I'll do what I want. You don't have the right to tell me what to do; nobody has—"

The telephone rang, the shrill, insistent ring striking fear into them. With a glance toward the study Teresa said lightly, "So, the telephone's ringing; it could be my hairdresser." But no one made any attempt to pick up the phone.

Finally Teresa answered. She turned her back on the others, who were waiting impatiently to know who it was. "She's not at home right now. . . . Yes, she is staying here. ... Of course, yes."

She covered the mouthpiece and said to Sophia, "It's someone asking about you. It's a detective from Milan. Gennaro. Do you know him?"

Sophia shook her head, and Teresa said into the phone, yes yes, I'll tell her as soon as she returns. Do you have a number where she can call you?"

Teresa wrote down the number on a used envelope. As she did, she covered the mouthpiece again. "He's in New York. ..." Then she asked Gennaro, "May I know what this is about? . . . Oh, I see. . . . Well, then, I will get her to call you."

Sophia was at her side. "What does he want?"

Teresa gestured to her to keep quiet. "Yes. ... I will, thank you."

Replacing the phone, she turned to Sophia. "He's been trying to contact you, something to do with Nino Fabio. You'll have to get rid of him. The last thing we want right now is the police coming around. What do you think he wants?"

Sophia sat down and lit a cigarette. She was shaking, and her face had lost its color. Teresa told Graziella and Rosa to stay in the kitchen. Then she shut the study door.

With a searching look she asked, "What's it all about?"

"I'll show you," Sophia replied. She went to her bedroom and returned with the suitcaseful of Nino's drawings. "Johnny gave them to me. I tried to tell you about them."

"Yes, I remember. But why would he come all the way to New York to talk to you about them? Oh, shit, did Johnny steal them?"

Sophia bit her lip. "I think so. . . ."

Teresa tore off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "That stupid boy . . . My God, this is all we need. It's your fault, you know. He's got this thing about you, never mind about him and Rosa. . . . It's you he's always staring at, has been since you came back. Did anything happen between the two of you in Rome?"

Sophia slammed the case case shut. "Don't be ridiculous. . . . Do you think I would encourage him? I was the one who wanted you to get rid of him at the very beginning; he's the one who got us into—"

Teresa interrupted. "I don't want to hear that now, Sophia. If it weren't for him, we would all have been shot. Anyway, are they worth money? The drawings? Is that why the detective is here?"

"Yes!
They are worth a lot of money. It's almost his entire collection, but—"

She was trapped. If she told Teresa about Nino Fabio's murder and Johnny's part in it, Teresa would know that the detective wasn't in New York just to inquire about the theft of designs. Sophia's mind was so scrambled that she couldn't think what she should admit to knowing. . . .

Teresa was pacing up and down the cluttered room. "Okay, let's take it step by step. Do they know about your connection with Fabio?"

"Yes, of course." Sophia rubbed her head. "I went to his factory when I tried to buy them from him. Johnny was with me; he was driving the car. I told you that."

"Did anyone see you there?"

Helplessly Sophia shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I can't think."

"Well, start thinking. Who saw you there?"

"No one, I didn't see anyone. Wait, when I was leaving, I saw a girl who used to be my receptionist. She was still working for Nino. I talked to her outside the building."

"So she also saw Johnny?"

"Yes, of course. He was driving the car."

Teresa sighed. "Okay, first of all, get rid of the drawings: Burn them, do anything, but get rid of them. They mustn't be found anywhere near us. Next, call this detective, seem very willing to see him, and tell him you saw Fabio but you left. Come on real innocent."

Sophia sat immobile.

"Are you listening, Sophia?"

She nodded. "Yes, yes, I'm listening."

"Okay. You have to call him before he calls again. Otherwise it'll look suspicious. Tell him you don't know anything about anything, admit you wanted the designs, but when Fabio refused to let you have them, you gave up your business and came to the States. It all makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Yes . . . Yes, when should I call?"

"I don't know." She looked searchingly at Sophia, then asked again, "That is all there is to it? You sure there isn't anything else you need to tell me?"

Sophia picked up the suitcase. "I'll go down to the basement. Luka lay on his small bed, staring up at the light bulb. He had arranged every detail of the weekend trip with care. The small satchel containing all of Paul Carolla's papers was stashed by his bed, and he put his hand out to touch it, then slid his hand inside to feel the folded papers and bundles of bank notes. Then he rolled over onto his belly and pulled the pillow over his head. Paul Carolla's dream of the good life was now contained in one small bag. He saw clearly the potbellied man who had foolishly tried to be his father, could smell the cigar smoke, feel the way the fat hands used to grip him, hold him in that bear hug. . . . He giggled, hugging the pillow.