To Save a Son (28 page)

The trowel was offered and the immediate family began the ritual of casting earth in upon the coffin. Franks took the tool when it was offered to him, made his token gesture, and thought, who's being hypocritical now? The priest escorted them to the waiting cars and there was the delay of farewell, and then the line crocodiled out of the cemetery and back to the main highway. The FBI photographers kept shooting right up to the moment of departure, and, looking more closely, Franks realized that there were some newspeople with cameras, as well.

At the house Franks formed part of the family receiving line, touching hands with people he didn't know and accepting mumbled commiserations he didn't hear. People assembled in family ghettos: tight, unmixing groups—protection again? he wondered. He followed Tina's lead, moving with her among them, parroting the words and wishing it would end. Franks had never been able to understand the need for a gathering after a burial: tears and tea, crying and cake.

Extra caterers had in fact been brought in, and waitresses moved among them; there were drinks as well as tea and coffee, and during the tour Franks took two gins. As he reached for the third, when they'd almost completed the circuit, Tina said, “Is that really necessary?”

“We're not here to fight.”

“Or to get drunk.”

Franks didn't bother to reply, but took the drink anyway. Booze had never been a problem for him and it wouldn't become one now. He'd taken too much after the first meeting with the district attorney, but he didn't mink he had any reason to feel guilt about that; most people would have drunk far more, and he'd sobered up quickly enough to initiate the changes he wanted in Europe. So maybe he did average three at night; sometimes more since the crisis had arisen. It was well within his capability. A lot of people drank a damned sight more than that. Tina wasn't concerned at his drinking; she couldn't forgive him for making the arrangement he had to get to Europe. Which was stupid and something he hadn't expected from her. The tension; that's what it had to be. Europe had just become the object, something she could focus on, for all the other feelings and fears.

“You should say something to Mamma and Poppa,” said Tina.

“They didn't seem keen on any conversation when we arrived.”

“Haven't you got any feelings, for anything?”

“What shall I say?”

Tina had thrown the veil back, so he could see the abrupt tightening of her face. “Just something. I don't care what it is. Just something to show you're human.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It isn't supposed to mean anything,” she sighed.

The Scargos were by the door of the main room. Maria was with them, protective still, standing behind the chair in which the old lady was sitting. All three watched him as he crossed the room, still unsure what sympathy to offer. He wondered if he should kiss the two women but decided against it. He didn't think they would want the gesture and it seemed too late anyway; he should have done it when he arrived. Instead, he indicated the roomful of mourners and said, “He was very much loved,” hating the words. They sounded like something out of a television soap opera.

“Yes,” said Enrico, seeming to make a point. “He was.”

“I know the investigation is going on,” said Franks, trying to recover.

Enrico snorted a laugh. “Taking photographs of those who come to pay their last respects!”

“Other things,” said Franks.

“They know who did it!” demanded Maria. She looked quite composed and dry-eyed.

“I don't know the details,” avoided Franks. “Just that they're hopeful.” Would they be grateful for what he was going to do; the risks he was going to run? He wasn't doing it for their gratitude. He was doing it for what Pascara and Dukes and Flamini did to him. Until this moment he hadn't so clearly defined it in his mind as personal revenge. He was going to enjoy it, Franks decided. He was going to enjoy being in court and seeing those unemotional, supercilious bastards who'd sneered at him behind his back have their crooked little worlds crumble around them, like they'd been prepared to see his world crumble about him. That moment was going to justify a lot of worry and a lot of irritation and a lot of inconvenience. Even the widening gap between him and Tina. That was only temporary, he determined.

“No one will be brought to justice for Nicky's death,” insisted Enrico, resigned.

“I think they will,” said Franks, wondering how much personal guilt Enrico felt. Should he tell them more? There was a temptation to do so—they deserved it, after all—but he held back. Enrico had been the original link to Pascara, the
cause
of it, if anyone bothered to analyze the entire sequence. The old man must hate Pascara now. But Franks remained unsure. Better—safer—to wait until the indictments had been handed down and the arrests made. To tell them today would be premature. Boastful. Why did he need to boast to Mamma and Poppa Scargo? Contest time was over, forever. Would it be to them he would be boasting? There was also Maria. Franks frowned curiously toward the woman, intrigued by the sudden question. Why on earth would he want to boast to Nicky's widow, on the very day of her husband's funeral? Seeing his expression, Maria frowned back and said, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” said Franks, disconcerted. A drinks tray passed nearby and Franks wanted one but he held back, sure that Tina would be watching from somewhere in the room and reluctant to provide her with any more ammunition. “They're keeping in touch with me. The FBI, I mean. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Yes,” said Enrico dully.

Throughout the encounter Franks realized that Mamma Scargo had remained absolutely unmoving, arms stretched along the chair rests, staring up at him. He felt uncomfortable, not knowing what she was expecting. To Maria, Franks said, “You staying on here?”

“I haven't thought about it,” said the woman. “I haven't thought about anything.”

“Of course not,” said Franks. “Anything I can do to help …” Quickly he added, “Tina or me.”

“I know.”

“Tina will keep in touch.”

“I'd like her to.”

Franks looked around for his wife and moved toward her, glad to leave one tense situation although possibly entering another; it would be a relief to get away to Europe. Franks supposed he should feel guilty at the thought, but he didn't. He felt like a stranger here: a casual acquaintance rather than a member of the family.

“I've done the rounds,” said Tina.

“And I've done my duty.”

“Is that how you regarded it—a duty?”

“That's how they made it seem.”

“They're burying their son, for Christ's sake!”

Tina seemed to have forgotten who was responsible for everything, thought Franks. It didn't seem important to remind her. “Shouldn't we get back to the children?”

“We're
family,”
she said, angrily. “We can't leave ahead of everyone else. What's wrong with you?”

“Actually there's nothing wrong with me,” he said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Let it mean whatever you want,” said Franks. He moved away from her. A waitress passed conveniently and he took the drink he'd earlier denied himself. Fuck Tina! All he was trying to do was work things out in the best possible way—the best possible way for her and the kids—and he didn't deserve the hard time. So he'd left them hostage, which was theatrical, like so much else. But she should understand why he was doing it. She wasn't stupid. He tempered the thought; she hadn't been until now. He was aware of Maria looking at him. He smiled, briefly, and briefly she smiled back. He looked away, moving near the window with its garden view, so he was able to see the assembly of cars when departures began after a little while. Inside the room a vague line had formed, to file out past the family with further, parting condolences. Tina didn't move, to re-form the original receiving line, so Franks remained gratefully by the window, glad to be spared the empty repetition. At least, he thought, looking out, the FBI appeared to have stopped taking photographs. He wondered if the newspeople had gone. Around him the caterers began clearing the debris and he moved out of their way. His glass was empty and he looked hopefully for a refill, but service was finished. He placed the glass on a table. A lot of other people here today would have had more than he had, Franks knew. He moved back, trailing the final line of departing guests, until he reached Tina, and then the immediate family.

“We'll be getting back,” said Tina.

“Yes,” said her mother.

“Maybe I'll come up tomorrow. With the children,” said Tina, filling in the abrupt silence.

“Yes,” said the old lady again.

“Or would you like to come down to us; get out of the house for a while?”

“No,” said Enrico. “You come here.”

“Good-bye,” said Franks.

“Good-bye,” said Maria, the only one bothering to reply.

“I'll let you know anything that happens,” he promised again.

“Thank you.”

To kiss them—the old lady, at least—would be appropriate now, but Franks couldn't bring himself to do it. Outward emotion had always been easy for them, but never for him. Now it seemed difficult for them as well. Tina did it instead, hugging her father first and then her mother, and then kissing Maria.

Franks and Tina had come in their own car from Scarsdale, with the FBI escort in a following vehicle, and that was how they returned. For a long time they traveled in heavy silence, and then Tina said, “I wonder what Maria will do?”

“I got the impression she'd stay on there for a while,” said Franks, not understanding.

“I didn't mean that. I meant now that Nicky's dead. Maria never seemed to have many friends of her own.”

“I always thought you were her closest friend.”

Franks was aware of his wife looking at him across the car. “Did you tell her about the trial?”

“No,” said Franks.

“Why not?”

“We don't know if there's going to be one yet,” he said. “Nothing has been presented to a grand jury.”

“When are you going to England? To Europe?” demanded Tina, coming to the point of tension between them.

“As soon as everything is settled with the prosecution, I suppose.”

“You didn't say how long for?”

“I don't know how long for,” said Franks. “All the preliminary work is already being done. I've only got to do the final signing and the Swiss arrangements. It shouldn't take long.”

“How long?” she demanded.

“A week,” he said, not wanting to resurrect the argument between them. “Not more than a fortnight.”

“I'm beginning to find all this very difficult,” she blurted suddenly. “All of it.”

And it had hardly started yet, thought Franks. “Me, too,” said Franks, trying to ease things between them.

“I couldn't live like this forever,” she said.

Seeing the opportunity, Franks said, “That's why I am doing what I am: to ensure that you won't have to.”

“I liked the way things were before,” said Tina. “When it was a proper life.”

“It'll be like that again,” promised Franks, hoping he sounded convincing.

“It'll have to be,” said Tina. “I don't think I could live any other way.”

22

Franks had the impression that he and Tina were circling each other, seeking an opening, like prizefighters or matadors. His own affairs had entered an abrupt lull. He maintained daily telephone contact with Rosenberg—eager to go into the city to escape from the restrictions of the house, however slender the excuse—but the trial lawyer kept insisting there was no reason and that they should await the next move from Ronan and his investigators. Franks pressed for permission to take the promised European trip, but Rosenberg said they should wait until Ronan was prepared to present what he had to a grand jury.

Toward the end of the week Franks gave in and let David have his photograph taken with the police gun—the pump-action shotgun as well as a pistol. Tina seized upon it when she heard, ranting at him for hypocrisy and stupidity, and Franks made only a token defense, conscious that she was right and that he was wrong and had let the pictures be taken because he couldn't be bothered to refuse the child anymore. Several times she ate with the children, early, to avoid dinner with him. Franks was grateful rather than annoyed because he didn't particularly want to share the meal with her, either.

Rosenberg insisted that Franks stay out of disposing of the Bahamian and Bermuda hotels, denying a further excuse for Franks to go into town, but at least it provided a reason for some telephone conversations, giving the impression of work. Anxious to have something further to do—to make the large hand on the clock move from one marker to the next—Franks maintained twice-a-day contact with London, checking on the arrangements he had initiated there.

Tina sought her escape in visits to her parents. She started making the journey almost every morning and not returning until late evening. Franks rigidly controlled his drinking, always conscious—confident—that there was no problem but equally aware that with so much time on his hands the habit could grow insidiously. He allowed two—but positively only two—at lunch-time and two each evening and possibly a final one—but not always—after his usually solitary supper. Nothing wrong with five drinks, spread over the course of the entire day; and he didn't have a single glass of wine with any of his meals. When he did, Franks was always careful to ensure that there was wine left in the decanter until the following day, yet further proof that he was in absolute control. At all times. And going to stay that way.

During one of his days alone—in the second week—Franks recognized that, temporary though it might be, the erosion between himself and Tina was ridiculous and moved to stop it. She ate with him that night, providing the opportunity. Franks refused all her challenges, deflecting every one of her attempts to exacerbate their differences, instead remaining courteous and considerate, which seemed to annoy her further. When the meal was over, there was still wine left, as he made sure she noticed. He poured brandy for them both and said, “This has got to stop, hasn't it?”