Stiletto (6 page)

Matteo took it. “Give me your hand,” he said.

Cesare held out his hand. Matteo placed his left hand flat on Cesare’s palm. With a quick motion he pierced each index finger with the stiletto. The blood from each man’s finger bubbled up and then ran together into their palms.

Matteo looked at him. “Our blood has mingled and now we are of one family.”

Cesare nodded.

“I will die for you,” Matteo said.

“I will die for you,” Cesare repeated.

Matteo released his hand and gave him back the stiletto. He looked up into Cesare’s face. He stuck his finger into his mouth and sucked on it to stop the bleeding. “From this time on, my nephew,” he said, “we will not meet except at my wish.”

Cesare nodded. “Yes, my uncle.”

“Should you find it necessary to communicate with me, send a message to the postmaster in the village. I will get in touch with you.”

“I understand, my uncle.”

***

That had been almost twelve years ago. True to Matteo’s word, Raimondi had died the next night while Cesare was at the fencing match. The next five years had gone quickly. The races and the motor cars. The gala balls and romances. Then in 1953, just as Emilio had said, the offer came for him to head up the American agency of the automobile company. Much was made of his appointment in the press. His wild living and dangerous driving had made him an international figure of glamour. Twice he had fought duels over women. To America he was a man from another world.

Only once in all the twelve years had he seen Matteo. Last year, he had gone in response to a telephone message to a room in a boarding house over a bar in Spanish Harlem where they had merely exchanged good wishes and Matteo had told him of his pleasure in Cesare’s success. He did not stay long as a plane was waiting to take Matteo to Cuba from where he would return to Sicily. They had parted and not until a slip of paper telling him to go at once to the castle was thrust into his hand just before the start of the race did he hear from Matteo again.

***

The chicken cacciatore had been light and delicious, the lobster fra diavolo had been tangy and spicy and he was just putting down his napkin when a car came into the courtyard.

He could not help but watch for Gio to return from the door. A moment later Gio was back. He held an envelope in his hand.

“It was the postmaster from the village. He said he had this special letter to deliver to you.”

Cesare took it from him and ripped it open. It was two pages of closely typewritten instructions. He read it quickly, then read it again. Slowly he put the letter down on the table and reached for the espresso.

Twelve years had passed. And Don Emilio had presented his note for payment. With interest.

Las Vegas is a night town. Outside the hotels are the pools, clear, filtered and aquamarine, but no one sits around them except the tourists and the hustlers who work the hotels and keep their tans as a kind of pancake makeup of their trade. Inside the lobbies it is always night.

Someone once said never let them see the daylight. There is something about the harsh white light of day that interferes with the gambler’s sense of reality. The reality of the spinning roulette wheel, the dull thumping of dice on hard felt-covered tables, the reality of the fever to win, the reality of the shifting desert sands on which the town was built.

Here is the prize, the great adventure, the promise of all the tomorrows. Free money. And everything else runs second to it. Sex, business, laughter. Free money. Pull the handle on the slot machines. It may be your turn at the jackpot.

They came out of the dining-room-theater, still laughing at the comedy of one of the world’s greatest entertainers. They paused, looking down into the lobby of the gambling casino.

It was ten o’clock at night and the tables at the Maharajah were crowded with the people who had come from the dinner show. Cesare’s eyes searched the room.

“You didn’t hear what I asked,” Barbara said.

Cesare turned and looked down at her. His eyes were glowing with a strange excitement. “No, I didn’t, my dear. What was it?”

Barbara looked up at him. Another man would have apologized or protested that he had heard. He merely said that he hadn’t. “Dice or roulette, I asked.”

He smiled suddenly. “Roulette. I have given enough to those crazy little cubes of ivory. I will never understand them.”

They began to walk down toward the roulette tables. “Too bad they don’t play baccarat here. Now there is a game for the civilized human being. For that some skill is needed, merely having luck is not enough.”

Barbara turned toward a table. He held her arm. “Not this one. It is too crowded. Over here.”

It was the table opposite the one she had been going to but he had been right: it was less crowded. He pulled out a stool for her and she sat down. She smiled up at him. “Feel lucky tonight?”

He nodded his head and smiled back at her. “Very lucky,” he said, placing a pile of chips in front of her.

***

In New York the telephone on Baker’s desk began to ring. He put down the container of coffee and picked it up.

“Jordan calling from Las Vegas,” the operator said.

“Put him on,” he answered.

Ted Jordan came on the wire. “Hello, George, how we doin’?”

“No good,” Baker answered wearily. “We’re up the creek. We still can’t figure out how Dinky Adams was killed. How’s your boy holding up?”

Jordan laughed. “Just great. Right now he’s out at the roulette wheel betting like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Is he covered?” Baker asked anxiously.

“I got a man on each side of him and one standing right behind him. Nobody can get anywhere near him.”

“I’m still nervous. We thought we had Adams covered too and look what happened.”

“If you’re that worried, George,” Jordan said, “why don’t we just lock him up. We can keep him away from everybody in there.”

“You know the deal,” Baker replied. “If we do that, the defense will know who the witnesses are before we get them into court. And if they know, the witnesses won’t talk and there goes our case.”

“Matteo must be laughing like hell right this minute,” Jordan said.

“He won’t when we get back into court,” Baker promised.

“My boy is giving twenty to one that he never gets into that courtroom,” Jordan said.

Baker’s voice was incredulous. “You mean to say he really believes that he’ll be killed? And he’s still going out to the casinos?”

“Yeah,” Jordan answered laconically. “He says there’s nothing anybody can do about it so he might as well live it up while he can.”

Baker put down the telephone and picked up the container of coffee again. There was the one thing he could never understand about them. They were cowards, pimps and murderers but there was still something in them that gave them a fatalistic approach to life. Or was it death? He just didn’t know.

***

The Twister sat at the roulette table, his gaze concentrated on the wheel. It stopped and the ball bounced into the red twenty. He made another note on the small sheet of paper. Quickly he added up the columns. He was right. The wheel was running toward the black tonight. Time for him to make his move. He pushed a small pile of chips onto the black.

He heard Jordan come up behind him. He didn’t turn around. The bodyguard behind him spoke. “Could you spell me for a few minutes, Ted? I gotta get to the john before I bust.”

He didn’t hear Jordan’s reply. The ball bounced into the red. He lost. He looked down and pushed another pile of chips on the black.

***

Cesare turned around and looked at the Twister while Barbara concentrated on the spinning wheel. Matteo’s note had been very specific. For almost three days now, Cesare had been watching the Twister.

The bodyguards were there. They were always there. One on each side of him and one standing back to back with him, his eyes constantly alert. Now the last one went away but another took his place. Cesare turned away just as the man’s gaze began to sweep toward him. He had seen enough. With a little bit of luck— He smiled to himself as the phrase jumped through his mind. Everybody used it out here. With a little bit of luck he would complete his business here tonight.

He tapped Barbara on the shoulder. “I’ll get you a drink,” he said.

She looked up at him and smiled and then turned back, absorbed in the game. He began to walk toward the lounge. He walked around the Twister’s table and glanced back.

He could see the Twister’s face now, a look of concentration on it. Opposite the Twister sat a big blond girl. Cesare stared for a moment. The girl leaned forward and he could see her full breasts pull against the two thin straps that held up her dress. Suddenly he began to smile. He knew how he would do it now. It was all because of a joke. A very old joke that was told to everyone who came to Las Vegas.

***

Jordan looked around him wearily. He wished the job was over. When he came to the F.B.I. fresh from law school and filled with the propaganda, he envisioned an exciting life filled with chasing criminals and spies. He never thought he would spend three months playing chief nursemaid to a cheap hood.

He looked at the table opposite him. That couple was there again. A good-looking couple. He remembered noticing them the first night. There was something familiar about them. As if he had seen them before. With his usual thoroughness he had checked on them.

The girl was one of the best-known models in America. Barbara Lang, the “Smoke and Flame” girl whose face he had seen in a thousand cosmetic ads and the man was Cesare Cardinali. Count Cardinali, the society racing-car driver.

He saw Cesare say something to the girl and begin to walk away. Some of the things he had read about the man came to mind. There was a guy who really lived. Leave it to those rich Europeans. They didn’t give a damn for anybody. They had a ball everywhere they went. Here he was with one of the most beautiful dames in America and just as cool as you could be. He looked at the girl again. All the promise the advertisements held was right there. Some guys had all the luck.

***

Cesare waited until the blonde sat up straight on her stool. Petulantly she turned to her escort, a fat little man. He gave her some bills from a big roll and she turned back to the table. Cesare started down from the lounge, holding a drink in his left hand.

He walked down the aisle behind the blonde and hesitated for a moment. The croupier turned the wheel and dropped the ball. Cesare’s hand moved quickly behind the blonde’s back and he started to walk around the table toward his own.

He could feel the throbbing begin in his temples and the pain. It was always like this. The pain would start there, and then, step by step, move down into his body. He knew the pain now and had a long time ago ceased to fear it. It was the pain of excitement, of danger, of looking into the abyss of time, the hell of oblivion.

He was behind the Twister who was resting his chin in his hands, supported by his elbows on the table edge. The bodyguard was just starting to turn toward him when the scream came.

The bodyguard whirled, his hand streaking toward his shoulder holster. Cesare moved quickly. Across the table, the blonde fought to hold her dress over her bosom. It was a losing battle. There was too much of her.

Cesare let go of the stiletto and felt the knife spring back into his sleeve. The Twister still sat quietly on his stool, not moving. The bodyguard turned back. Cesare could see him smiling as Barbara took her drink.

The blonde was passing their table now, the fat little man hurrying after her. Her high-pitched voice floated back to them. “They didn’t break I tell you, they didn’t! They were cut! Somebody—”

“Ssh! Please, baby! Everybody’s looking!” the little man pleaded.

“I don’t give a damn!” the blonde retorted as they hurried up the steps toward the lounge.

Cesare and Barbara laughed and she turned back to the table to make another bet.

Jordan turned around and looked down at the Twister. He was sitting there not moving, his chin in his hands. The wheel stopped. It was on the black. The croupier pushed a pile of chips to join the others on the table. The Twister didn’t move.

The wheel started to spin again. Jordan looked at one of the other bodyguards. The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Get your bets down, ladies and gentlemen,” the croupier called in his soft monotone. A few more bets came down and the croupier threw the ball into the wheel. The pile in front of the Twister grew. It was black again. He didn’t move.

***

The pain bound Cesare’s chest now, making it difficult for him to breathe. He looked down at Barbara. “This is no way to spend our last night in Las Vegas,” he said. “In this crowded place with all these stupid people.”

She looked up at him. A faint smile lurked in the corners of her mouth. “Just what do you have in mind?” she asked.

Cesare forced himself to smile. “Just the two of us. Alone.”

Excitement began to grow in her eyes. She could feel the current flowing out of him but couldn’t resist a tease. “It was the blonde that did it. There was too much for any man.”

“That’s not true,” he answered quickly. He reached for her hand.

His palm was warm and moist as if he had a fever. She looked up at him quickly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he answered. “I’m just bored with this, bored with all these people who think of nothing but money. I want to be with you. I want to feel the life inside you.”

Her lips were suddenly dry. She could feel a heat suddenly surging inside her. Inside her mind there was a flashing image of his muscular thrusting body. She held his hand tightly and looked up into his face.

There was an intensity that had not been there a moment before. “We’ll have cold champagne for before,” he said. “And warm brandy for after.”

She moved off the seat as if in a haze. Her legs felt curiously weak. She tried to smile up at him. “And then cold champagne again?” she whispered.

***

Jordan looked down at the Twister. This was the fourth time that black had won. The chips in front of the Twister amounted to almost nine thousand dollars now. “Don’t press your luck, Jake. Better pick up some of that loot.” He smiled, tapping the witness on the shoulder.