Ded Reckoning (31 page)

The Russian duo, much the same except less obvious in that they are yards down the concourse at a shoe shine stand nonchalantly getting their scuffy brown shoes polished by a babbling old Italian man with gnarled and stained fingers lonely for conversation and eager for business.

The earlier call for her flight, and its subsequent boarding call reminders, caught the attention of the two duos producing anxious glances toward Dee and one another. The scene has diminished from Bogart and Robinson to an Abbott and Costello standard.  The duos watching each other while pretending not to watch Dee, or Catarina, or whoever she is at this moment. An airport "who's on first" routine.   A thin line of perspiration forms on Dee's forehead.  Hands tremble.  Even her thoughts seem to quiver.

When the time comes and passes for Hunter's flight from Geneva to have arrived, and the boarding for the next flight, his, to Pisa is called, Dee shifts uneasily.  No Hunter.  She would like to feel or sense his presence, but doesn't.  She mumbles, "Hunter, you...." her eyes trolling the concourse, other shops and waiting areas as her mumbling turns to thought.  
He'll appear, his
soothing, confident voice will tell me to be calm, and then he'll crumble the duos like plastic
mannequins.
 

A body tremor brings reality and she murmurs, "I'm losing my mind.  He's not here.  He's not coming.  He's gone."

She blinks.  Regains focus.  The Pisa flight has departed.  She inhales deeply.

Everyone appears to be getting edgy, including the waitress who has poured yet another cup of espresso for the lonely and chic lady sitting in her stylish blouse, slacks and shoes,  with the not-so-elegant clothes bag draped over one of the other chairs at the table.  As another hour passes, Dee's attractiveness and panache fades into distraught expressions and glances. The German duo splits, one window shopping nearby and the other to the food bar in Dee's ristorante.  If he were home or in NYC he'd order bratwurst sandwiches, piled high with sauerkraut, on a pretzel roll.  However, he's in Roma and fumbles with two meat ball sandwiches and plastic glasses of red wine.  When he hands it to his partner, he spills a splash of wine on his associate's  suit.

Dee sourly laughs to herself.  
Can't
hurt that suit.
 

The two Russians, shoes shined at least twice, move closer.  One sits in a waiting area.  The other makes a purchase at a newsstand then returns to sit with his partner.  He takes out a pen and dabbles in his magazine.  Dee stares.  
Do they have crosswords in Russia?  Difficult to imagine.
  However, no one in this cast is convincing or committed to the play.  Only to waiting.  And watching.  

Forehead dry, hands steady now, Dee as Catarina, hails the bored waitress.  Then stands, nods and slaps cash on the table.  Smiles for all to see, snatches her clothing bag and strides with a pronounced hooker's gait to the bank of public telephones.  Steps into the booth, sorts through some coins, and enters what she is sure to be sufficient.  Dials, making her collect call.

During a few exchanges with an operator, and the persistent clicking and pauses, Dee notices one of the Russians has moved close to the phone.  She snaps open the door, glares at him, extends her leg out of the booth and stomps her spike heel into the toe of his newly polished shoe.  He yelps in anguish, and hops away toward his teammate, scarlet-faced and sputtering, while drawing the quizzical attention of a passersby.   Dee slams the door and hears, as if on cue, the operator asking the person on the line to accept the call or not.  It is accepted and the voice says, "Dee, I know where you are from the operator, but why?  What's happening?"

Dee whispers, "Hunter is not ..."

"Speak louder.  I can't hear you very well.  Hunter is what?”

Louder, and accelerating her rate as she often does, Dee snaps, "Hunter is not here.  He didn't show.  And I'm being followed by two different teams of two men.  Both are poorly dressed.  Cheap suits and if you can believe this, white or light gray socks.  With dark suits.  My God they look like European Archie Bunkers.  I don't ..."

"Dee, you're off and roaring.  Calm down."

"Yes.  Thank you.  I'm a little edgy right now."  She takes in a deep breath, and peers through the glass of the booth.  "Okay."  Another breath.  "Now, where was I?  Oh, yes ..."

"Dee."

"Yes.  I'm fine now.  Well," accentuated with a sigh, "based on his yelp, I'd say one is Russian.  The other crudely dressed duo could be from anywhere in eastern Europe.  What am I supposed to do?"

"One second, darling.  How do you know this guy is Russian?"

"Because I understand the F-word in Russian."  A pause.  "In any language actually."

"What?"

"That's what he screamed when I stomped on his foot while he was trying to listen to me on the phone."  A snarly tone has crept into her responses.  She continues and explains Hunter's plan, and why she has remained in Rome.  Then goes on, "He's not here.  He's not coming here, is he?  I know that I didn't miss him or something like that.  That bastard is on to me.  On to us.  So, now what?"

There is an uncomfortable pause, accompanied with the intolerable noise of fingers drumming on what might be a wood table.  Added to that is the accentuated rustling sounds coming from her shifting and  twisting in the booth trying to get comfortable.  The tight shoe allegory is not working.  She hisses, "You there?  Now what, dammit?"

"Okay.  Calm down.  Wherever he is now, he will be in Pisa.  May be there already and it's apparent he's trying to dump you.  So, get on the next flight to Pisa.  Go to your hotel as expected.  I'll have one of my men who has been tagging along go there as well.  I'll arrange a flight for him."  His tone of voice changes.  "And don't shake those four idiots.  Let them come along thinking they've got you covered.  They'll be cared for there in Pisa.  You ..."

"How?"

"How what, Dee?"

"You said they would be cared for.  How?"

"I'll handle that.  They won't be checking in.  They'll be checking out.  You stay out of the way and in your room.  Order in until my man tracks you down.  Possibly Hunter will show up.  If he doesn't that'll mean he has information we don't.  So if he doesn't show, stay closed-up until my man contacts you."

"Wonderful.  What is his name?"

"Oh hell, Dee, I don't know what name he's using at the moment.  He hasn't checked in yet.  Probably trying as we speak.  But he will use my name and speak fluent Italian so you can speak with him as a native.  Will draw less attention in public.  Questions?"

"Yes, how much longer is this going to go on?  I'm getting nervous.  I didn't bargain for any of this.  I'm beginning to feel I'm going to have to do ... do this myself.  I want this to be over and us gone.  I want you.  You and me.  You prom ..."

"Dee.  You're doing it again.  Calm down, darling."

"I know.  I know.  But this has gone way beyond ... I just want you and I want us to be gone."

"Dammit, Dee.  We knew all this when you pleaded for me to get rid of Angelo.  I did that.  It was part of the deal, and now this is as well.  Now get that hot Italian blood to simmer down and regain that vineyard toughness that allows you to conduct business.  Business as normal.  You had it once, now get it back for just a few more hours, days.  This will be over soon, I promise.  And we'll be long away and far wealthier than you or I or anyone can imagine."  There is a pause on the line.  He can hear deep breaths being taken.  Finally.  

"Okay, I'm fine," then in a more resolute tone.  "Let me get on with it."

John MacBeer softens his voice, says, "It'll be soon.  Now, be careful and next time call me only at the number I gave you.  Bye."

Click.  A rushing noise.  Then nothing.  Except four sets of eyes staring at the booth although it feels as if all in the concourse have stopped and all eyes are focused on Dee, more accurately Caterina Frati. Of course, they aren't.  Only Frick and Frack, and Bogart and Robinson.

Dee takes in a deep, calming and yet sinister breath.  Steps out of the booth, unbuttons two top buttons on her blouse and heads to the ticket counter.  
If they're goin' to stare, give them some cleavage.  And hips.
  She wiggles, jiggles and bounces on her way.

Lookin' good, huh guys?

 

 

Alfonse Battaglia, or Hunter in a wig, mustache, and the thickening of his dark beard steps from his charter flight, a private early model of a French Cravelle.  Before debarking, he scans the area from the tarmac, outward.  Everything registering.  It's a small commercial airport at
Reggio di Calabrea,
and now there are no other aircraft incoming or departing.  Two commercial jobs parked in a hangar.  That's it. Possibly it's because the city has a major crime war going on at present.  Except for the car and driver he arranged waiting to take him to the boat to cross the
Stretto di Messina
and into Sicily.  There he'll travel by the hotel's pick-up bus, the Hotel Lido Mediterranean on
Via Nagionale
in Taormina, Pisces' new home town. The hotel is close to
Spisone Beach
; close to town, has its own private beach, bar and lounge and a new and helpful concierge.  He calls a yacht dealer, gets a line on a 78' Stephan's launch that just came on the market.  Alfonse will take a walk-about, just a wealthy tourist enjoying the warmth of August and the smell of sea air.  The concierge will have a car waiting to take him to the yacht dealer in the harbor.

 

 

Roberto Catalano and Chiarina Russo enjoy their wine poolside, watching this August sun settle on the Tyrrhenian Sea.  The red glaze on the sea's edge makes ancient seafarers' fears of a flat earth seem true.  The chat between the two is of each of their villas, his boat, real estate on his seaboard and advantages of his village of Taormina, as opposed to this western coast of Sicily and the thickening of the smog over Palermo.  The port city is busy and growing fast, perhaps too fast.  No conversation about Taormina could be void of the recent eruptions on Etna.  It is the largest active strato-volcano in Europe and just a few months ago, April and May it had vigorous activities ruining wonderful farmland, ski slopes, forests and fruit orchards.  The May activity brought huge crowds and assumed something of a fiesta atmosphere, and enterprising locals brought in pizza stalls, Coca-Cola and beer stands while others fished large lumps of molten rock out of streams near the boccas and beat them into ashtrays to sell to crowds of tourists.  Still in all, Chiarina is adamant about leaving the Palermo area.

As dusk rapidly swallows her villa and pool, Chiarina takes a last sip of wine from her glass.   Roberto reaches for the bottle which is empty.  She puts her hand over her glass, smiles.  Estella has arrived out of the shadows with a fresh serving of wine and snacks still wearing the seen-everywhere  black and white maid outfit obviously minus undergarments.  Chiarina stands, stretches.  Her long, sea-side tanned, slender legs accentuated by her heels and white shorts.  She undoes her full, thick pony tail letting her hair cascade around and below her shoulders like a velvet curtain dropping on an off-Broadway stage.  Her smile turns from one of pure happiness to one of suggestion as she says, "Roberto, I believe we should swim, and perhaps play before dinner."

Catalano nods as he  stands.  "Sounds wonderful.  I assume I can cha ..."

His words hang in a white puff as printed words in a cartoon strip as Chiarina slips out of her emerald green, sleeveless blouse dropping it in her chair before stepping out of her shorts.  Regardless of the wide swath he has cut through life, Roberto is motionless and momentarily speechless.

Chiarina cants her head to the side, eyebrows raised and hands on hips after simply allowing her shorts to lie at her feet.   She coos, "You like?"

Regaining some form of composure he utters, "I like."  Cocks his head, inhales deeply, "Oh yeah.  God-damn!  I sure as hell do."

"Then hurry for I feel like a young girl again."  Trailing her fingers across his pale blue shirt she steps to the edge of the pool.  Dips her left toe in the pool, utters, "Good. Warm."  She turns at the waist, chin tucked in and down, then adds.  "Cold would be refreshing but not good."  Giggles softly.  She looks to Estella who is standing at the table's edge watching Roberto finally begin to strip off his shirt.  Chiarina engages Estella's eyes, says, "Stell, come join us.  Three is always more fascinating and pleasurable."  Then all in one motion, turns back, sits and wiggles from the edge into the pale aqua water as smooth as a water moccasin and looking as menacing.

Roberto slips off his loafers and hurriedly tries to get out of his beige linen slacks.  Staggering and tripping in haste.  Estella is out of her simple maid outfit which did not include panties and a bra, and teasingly strolls past the struggling Pisces.  She is a pure redhead and alluringly pink.  Estella is in the pool alongside Chiarina faster than an aircraft carrier cat shot.

As his trousers tangle around his ankles, Roberto mutters aloud as he finally steps out of the heap, "Oh man, how good can it get," already becoming aroused to the delight of Stell and Chiar.

Chiarina, with Estella swimming on her back doing lazy circles around her, chirps, "Better and I hope you're up for it."

Roberto launches into the pool's warm water and soft lights like a hungry croc.

 

 

The inky night sky has swept dusk under the Sicilian carpet.  The soft pool lights remain on and the veranda lights help spread a warm glow to the table in the corner, overlooking the cliffs and sea.  Chiarina and Roberto relax in terrycloth robes at the candle lit table.  His hair slick and combed; she with freshened make-up and her hair blown dry and cascading over her shoulders.   Estella has already poured two glasses of wine and is serving a freshly baked tuna casserole and Cannoli with ricotta cheese.  She is now in a fresh, relaxed outfit of slacks, halter and a full apron.  It's as if the previous splash party was not spontaneous. Possibly planned and habitual, perhaps common place.  Whatever the rhyme or reason, it was both a dream and not. Roberto thinks, if ole' Bobby Camack from the streets of Philadelphia could see me now.  This is Eden, and the serpent has been satisfied.  Well, hell, he can.  A comment by Chiarina brings him back to the table, and life as it is.