Sweetheart (4 page)

“No, it don’t,” Leroy Bass said with supreme confidence. “Like it was back in school, he’s still scared of us — now even more.” There was a smile. “We got nothin’ to worry about.”

Wally Bass loosened his coat, producing an odor exactly like unaired bedding. Now he smiled. “Remember the time down in the basement I told him I was goin’ to shove his head in the furnace?”

“No,
I
told him. All you did was hold his arms.”

“But I’d’ve done it,” Wally Bass said.

T
HE DAY
after the autopsies were completed, the medical examiner released the bodies of Santo and Rosalie Gardella, which were then delivered in a hearse across state to Boston, to Ferlito’s Funeral Home in the North End. Sammy Ferlito and his nephew worked diligently in an attempt to ready the charred remains for viewing, but the task was staggering, the results dismal. “Tony, I don’t advise it,” Ferlito said apologetically and miserably to Anthony Gardella. They stood in Ferlito’s dark-paneled office, where ficus trees sprang out of ornate pots and were kept healthy by a special blue light. Gardella nodded with understanding.

“It’s Rita who wants the caskets open.”

“Do you want me to explain to her?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Tony, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Augie feels bad too,” Ferlito said, referring to his nephew.

“Tell him not to worry.”

“Maybe sometime you can use him. He’s a good boy.”

“You say he’s a good boy, I believe it,” Gardella said and reached for his overcoat, which was dark and glossy, with a midnight-blue lining. Ferlito, who was short, went up on tiptoes to help him on with it.

“Cashmere, huh? Feels like a million bucks.”

“A thousand is all.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I hope not,” Gardella said. “I hope you don’t fool easy.”

Later in the day Gardella walked up the plowed drive of his sister’s house. It was next door to his, nearly its twin, built by the same contractor. Hers was smaller, with less security, no alarm system, no peephole in the front door, no metal mesh shielding the windows that faced the street. Gardella entered without ringing and came face to face with the slender, bearded Cuban his sister had brought up from Florida. Galled at the sight of him, Gardella at first ignored him, then said, “Where’s Rita?”

The Cuban pointed upward. “Taking a nap. She couldn’t sleep last night.”

Gardella regarded him aloofly. They faced each other in the small foyer, where the floor was stone. Twin mirrors captured their images. “Making yourself at home, Juan?”

“The name’s Alvaro.”

“What are you sucking around my sister for? You like fat women or something?”

Alvaro’s brown eyes flared. He had on a crinkly saffron shirt and seersucker pants suitable for Miami, not for the Massachusetts winter. “I don’t think Rita would like you asking me these things. She told me what she does is none of your business.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Gardella said, and Alvaro shrugged, undaunted. “You speak English okay. Where’d you learn it?”

“Harvard.”

Gardella flushed. “You’re a wise little prick.”

“I learned it like you did. I was a baby when I came to the States.”

“What are you, Puerto Rican? Mexican?”

“I’m Cuban, like you didn’t know.”

Gardella’s eyes veered up. His sister came halfway down the stairs and clutched the rail, hovering in a robe that didn’t fit her, her face sour from sleep and her eyes feeble from too little of it. He viewed her with momentary disgust. With effort, she came down the rest of the way and said, “You haven’t asked him what he does for a living. Tell him, Alvaro.”

“I’m a towel attendant at the Sonesta.”

“You’re what?”

“You heard him.”

Gardella frowned with an air of sadness. He remembered when she was less large and more secure, though never reasonable, always self-indulgent in her rash choices of companions and self-destructive to a degree that never ceased to disturb him. At the same time, because she was of his blood, she was the only person in the world he totally trusted.

Alvaro made as if to leave them alone, and she said, “Stay!”

Gardella said, “Go. I want to talk to my sister.”

Alvaro vanished, with a small fatalistic smile. Gardella led his sister into her living room, where they remained standing, facing each other in a solemn way, all disagreements cast aside. With care and delicacy he briefed her on the funeral arrangements and added that the caskets would be closed. Her eyes filled as she confronted feelings mostly buried until now.

“That means I don’t even get to say good-bye to them.”

“You say good-bye at the church,” he murmured. “That’s where we all say it.”

“I’m going to miss them so much,” she said hopelessly. “I was Pa’s angel.”

“You broke his heart a hundred times.”

“Don’t be tough with me, Tony.”

He didn’t mean to be and didn’t want to be, not at this time, and he placed an arm over her shoulders. He was fourteen years older than she. She had been his angel too, and he her hero. His voice dipping, he said, “Is it forever, Rita, this way you feel about the spic?”

“Nothing’s forever, Tony. I’m smart enough to know that.”

“Good,” he said. “Then I can live with it.”

• • •

Deputy Superintendent Scatamacchia of the Boston Police Department personally directed traffic, and four white-helmeted officers manned motorcycles to lead the procession of more than fifty cars. The cars wormed their way through constricted North End streets from Ferlito’s Funeral Home to St. Leonard’s Church on Hanover Street, which had been scraped of snow. It was a cold, brittle day, which did not prevent a crowd from gathering. In the forefront, conspicuously displaying themselves, were Supervisor Russell Thurston and special agents Blodgett and Blue. Thurston was nettled. “Look at those cops on bikes. Like an honor guard.” Blodgett agreed with an epithet. Blue said nothing. He scanned the crowd, his the only black face in a neighborhood that tolerated none.

“Who’s the coon?” Rita O’Dea whispered as she struggled out of a limousine. She was wearing mink and stood voluminous in it. “He’s cute.”

“He’s a fed,” her brother said harshly, shading his eyes. “Feds you expect, a spade you don’t. It’s an insult.”

Victor Scandura sidled up. “The tall one’s Thurston. I had him pointed out to me once.”

“I’d like to squeeze his throat.”

“One thing at a time,” Scandura advised.

A seemingly endless line of mourners filed into the church for the solemn high mass, family members sinking into front pews. Gardella’s older son, the marine, was there in full dress uniform, his hair barbered close and his shoulders squared. The other boy, the Holy Cross student, sat less rigidly, with his head bowed. His grief was deep. Rita O’Dea sat next to him and pressed his hand. The church filled and overfilled. Out of respect for Anthony Gardella, Carlo Maestrotauro from Worcester was there, as was Francesco Scibelli from Springfield, both aging but still active, still in control. Raymond Patriarca, ailing, had sent a representative from Providence, and Joe Bonomo had dispatched a lieutenant from the Coast. Local respect was embodied in the presence of Gennaro Angello and Antonio Zanigari. In the back of the church, the last to enter, was Special Agent Blue.

Outside, Russell Thurston and Agent Blodgett loitered near the Caffè Pompei, which had a
closed
sign on the door, though some people had gathered inside. Through the window Thurston spied the high-level police officer who had directed traffic. The officer had made himself at home. He had his cap off and was drinking coffee at a small table, one foot up on a chair. “What’s his name?” Thurston asked.

“Scatamacchia. They call him Scat.”

“We got a file on him?”

“A little one.”

“Let’s make it bigger,” Thurston said and didn’t take his eyes off the man. Scatamacchia had a virile head of steel-gray hair and a nose like the curved powerful bill of a parrot. The eyes were slits and the mouth compressed. When he finally came out of the Caffè Pompei with his cap planted hard on his head, Thurston said in a voice that carried, “While he’s at it, he ought to run in the church and kiss Gardella’s ass.”

Scatamacchia stopped dead. At that moment, had they been alone together on a dark street he might have killed him. Instead he merely shrugged, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew Blodgett by sight and guessed at once who Thurston was. Thurston he knew by reputation, that of a zealot, unyielding and overbearing, with never a good word for the Boston Police Department.

Blodgett said, “Hello, Scat. Met my boss?”

He tugged at his cap, the visor filigreed in gold, and said in a savage undertone, “Keep him to yourself.”

“What’s that, Scat? I didn’t hear you.”

“I’ll let this pass, but I won’t forget it.”

Thurston said, “That’s what we’re counting on.”

With satisfaction they watched him stalk off. Thurston’s eyes flashed with excitement, as if he could see into the future, nothing but successes in it, big achievements, private rewards. Then slowly he scowled. Though the service was not yet half over, Agent Blue had left the church and was joining them. Thurston said, “I told you to stay to the end.”

“Don’t use me to bait them,” Blue said after seconds of silence. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have a say in the matter,” Thurston said carelessly, a small smile forming. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with the Civil Rights Commission. Otherwise get back in that church.”

“Is that an order?”

“Blodgett, tell him.”

“It’s an order.”

Inside the church the monsignor swung a censer over one casket and then over the other, and a sharp fragrance wafted into the front pews. For a wild moment Rita O’Dea looked as though she might sob. Instead she silently mouthed prayers, including a special one that may have been to the devil.

Deputy Superintendent Scatamacchia entered the church on surprisingly gentle feet and, slipping into a back pew, sat next to a large, baggy-faced man named Ralph Roselli. After a few moments Scatamacchia leaned against him and whispered, “Too bad you guys don’t whack feds.”

• • •

The day after Santo and Rosalie Gardella were laid to rest in Boston, Lieutenant Christopher Wade, always an early riser, drove to a coffee shop in downtown Lee. He was the morning’s first customer, a regular, a place already set for him. His order seldom varied: dropped eggs on toast. Other customers arrived, and he nodded to most. He was on his second cup of coffee when a stranger entered and glanced casually about. With continued nonchalance the man hung his hat, scarf, and coat next to Wade’s things and said, “May I?”

“Plenty of other tables,” Wade said, but the man, who had an easy way of moving, every gesture timed, joined him anyway. He had scant, coarse hair, like a coconut, and wore a vested suit and gold-rimmed glasses that seemed bolted into his face. He could have passed for a lawyer or a broker of sorts.

“I was told you eat here.”

“You must’ve got up early to get here.”

“That’s a fact. The name’s Victor Scandura.”

“I know what it is. I used to study pictures, a whole book of them.” Wade, who had quit smoking and was starting up again, opened a green-and-white pack of Merit Menthols. “I never got close to you, but I busted up a booking operation a cousin of yours was running.”

“You didn’t bust it up. You made it difficult for a day.”

Wade smiled pleasantly. “You’re probably right.”

Scandura removed his glasses, diminishing his eyes to specks, and breathed on the lenses. He polished them with a silk handkerchief. The waitress brought him coffee. It was all he wanted, as if the thought of food so early sickened him.

“Ulcer?” Wade asked.

“If I had an ulcer I wouldn’t take the coffee.” He returned the glasses to his face, carefully fitting them on. “I’m here on behalf of Anthony Gardella.”

“I figured.”

“You can understand what he’s going through. His mother and father were wonderful people. Twenty-five years ago he bought the farmhouse for them. They wanted the country, he gave it to them. He wanted them to have a mansion, but the little house was all they wanted. The old man, you know, was never involved in anything. A straight arrow. Look where it got him.”

Wade drew on his cigarette. The waitress freshened his coffee. “What can I tell you?” he said with a shrug.

Scandura spoke low. “How close are you to grabbing the bastards who did this thing? Anthony wants to know.”

“You want an honest answer, I’ll give it to you. There are plenty of local yokels around here capable, but we’ve got no solid lead. Maybe something will develop.”

“That’s not good. These yokels you talk about, there must be some in your mind stand out bigger than others. You must’ve picked up something.”

“Nothing.” Wade sat back, his chin pulled in, his thoughts on his wife. The last time he had seen her, a hurried but sincere attempt at reconciliation, he had kissed her soundly, instantly, after which she had eased away from him with the words that there were no fresh starts in life, no erasures, no rolling back of a decade or even a year or two. All a person could do, she had said, was swerve. He said to Scandura, “The only thing I’ve got is an old guy who drove by the house in his pickup. You probably read his name in the paper. Maybe he’s telling God’s truth when he says he didn’t see much, I don’t know for sure. I’ve put as much pressure on him as I’m allowed … by law.”

Victor Scandura instantly caught and read the inflection. “I like what you’re saying.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Wade shot back. “You and Tony Gardella don’t interest me. I’m bothered that two homicidal morons are walking the streets.”

“Not too many streets out here. This is another world. How the hell do you stand it?”

“I’m trying to get back to Boston. Maybe it’ll happen.”

“Maybe we can help,” Scandura said casually, and Wade looked at him severely.

“You don’t do anything.”

“I think we owe you something.”

“You owe me nothing,” Wade said. He had snuffed his cigarette, but it still fumed in the ashtray.

“How can you smoke those things?”

“I don’t know. I hate ’em.”

They left the coffee shop together, an icy wind stabbing them. Soiled snow that looked as hard as rock barricaded each side of the downtown street. Wade saw the long dark car that Scandura had driven up in. He saw two men sitting in the front.

“You can scare the old guy, but you don’t lay a finger on him. Understood?”

Scandura said, “You have my word.”