The Scarlet Thread (19 page)

“You talk about doing your share! Well, let me tell you—Piero did your share! Who dealt with Musso? Eh? Who set it up that he had to make peace? Your brother! He got his hands dirty, and he took the risks for
you
—while you sat in your big office keeping your nose clean and your eyes shut! You don't like what he did to the detective and the agency? You want white hands, my son? Then let the Fabrizzis kill your woman and your boy! That's the choice. If you can't live with the truth, then get out! Run, hide yourself. The family is no place for you. I wish you'd never been born.” He sat down, glaring up at Steven.

Steven said slowly, “You lied to me, Papa, to keep me in the business. I knew it, but I didn't ever want to hear you say it. It doesn't matter now. I owe my brother, I know that. I owe you and Mama too. And I love you. Don't think it'll be easy for me to walk away from all of you. You're my family. But I've made my choice. I'm going tonight. I'll see Clara before I go; I'll make it easy for you with the Fabrizzis. But I promise you this: If you ever need me, if things get tough here and you want me, I'll come back. I swear it.”

Lucca stood up again. Steven walked toward his father.

Lucca glared at his son, daring him to defy him and come closer. But Steven refused to be stared down. Suddenly Lucca was locked in an embrace that he wasn't strong enough to break. He heard Steven say, “Goodbye, Papa. Remember. If you ever need me.” And then Lucca's arms came up, and he held his son for a moment. He didn't speak. He didn't trust himself. Steven understood and left him.

He called Piero. The car took him uptown to the building they owned, which contained the offices of a half-dozen companies that controlled various enterprises. Steven's office was on the top floor. It was big and luxurious, as befitted his status.

His secretary was outside at her desk as usual. She smiled and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Falconi.” So far as she was concerned, it was a legitimate business, a trading corporation that paid big salaries and bonuses.

Steven opened the door to his private office with a special key. He went through his desk drawers. He had a file of private papers, a list of his stock holdings, government bonds, property interests. A fortune of over two million dollars. Some could be quickly liquidated, others would take time. He called his brokers, gave some brief instructions, and then hung up before they could argue. The rest could be left to Piero. Steven trusted his brother to do what was best for him and to keep the details secret.

He put some personal documents, including his will, into the shredder, then called his brother to say he was on his way down.

“You're crazy,” Piero kept saying. “You're selling at the wrong time. You're losing good money, for Christ's sake! What's Pa going to say? Why the fuck do you have to go
tonight!
I fixed the agency; Clara's got nothing on you or the kid and his mother. Oh, yeah, she'll get herself another gumshoe, but so long as you've gotten them out, what can she do?”

“Nothing,” Steven answered. “I'm not doing this because of Clara. I'm going now, Piero, before my life gets screwed up all over again. Wish me luck, won't you?”

“Ah, for Christ's sake,” Piero protested. “You know I do. You know. If it's what you want, it's okay by me. Don't worry about the assets. I'll take the best advice and get the best I can for them. I'll get you a new passport and a driver's license—just tell me the name.…”

“Lawrence. I'll tell you where to send them,” Steven said. “I don't know just yet where I'll be. I'll square it with Clara. I told Papa I'd make it easy for him. And you've got to go along, Piero. So far as you and the family are concerned, I'm yellow shit. You understand that?”

“I guess so.” His brother sounded uncertain. “It won't be easy. But you're goddamned right. We can't have a war.”

“No war,” Steven agreed. “But if Papa or you ever need me, just send word. I'll be back. Say goodbye to Lucia for me. Kiss the kids.”

Piero hugged him, fighting back emotion. He could best express it by cursing at the fate that separated them. He was so unhappy that he wanted to go and hit somebody.

No war. No war with the Fabrizzis. So his father said, and his brother. He'd said it himself. But now he wouldn't have minded. He lit a cigarette; he struck the match so hard it broke. He picked up the burning end, not feeling the pain as the flame licked his fingers. Peace needn't be forever.

“Is it the new job?”

Angela said, “Yes, darling. But we have had a lot more time here than we expected, haven't we?”

“Yes, we have, Mum.”

He'd been very good about it, puzzled by the dramatic change of plan, but he hadn't grumbled. He helped her pack, and together they tidied the little apartment. He stacked the luggage in the hall and looked around wistfully. “I'll never forget this place,” he said. “It's been the best holiday ever. Is he coming to see us off?”

“Who?” Angela asked, knowing exactly whom he meant.

“Your boyfriend.” He grinned. “Sorry, Mum, only a joke.”

She didn't answer. She went into the bedroom and shut the door, saying, “I must see I haven't left anything behind. I'm always doing it.”

She sat down on the bed where they had made love, talked of their plans for a new life: their small oasis. If she closed her eyes she could imagine him there with her, the feel of him close against her, the sound of his voice saying he loved her.
I've asked the impossible. He won't come. I know he won't
. She opened the door and shut it hard behind her, as if she were closing it on something tangible. But something else, something much more important, lay in that room. She had just shut the door on memories, on the exultation of their passion for each other, on the fantasy that they could extend it into the framework of an ordinary life.
He won't come
, the silent voice insisted.
You know it
.

“Charlie darling, we should be going soon. The traffic gets so snarled up at this time of the evening. Are you all ready?”

“Yes, Mum. Ready.”

She saw his bright face and forced herself to smile.
You mustn't know, whatever happens. You mustn't know what we've both missed
.

It was a long, slow journey to the airport, inching through traffic, while everywhere the lights sprang up and New York lifted the veil on its evening face. The cabdriver didn't talk, unlike the one that morning, who had helped to wreck her happiness. She sat looking out of the window and saw nothing but a blur.

“Maria, where's Mrs. Falconi?”

The maid shrugged. “I don't know. She gone for lunch. She no say when she come back.”

Maria was a widow. Her husband had been one of Don Lucca's humbler “soldiers,” killed during the battle with Musso. Her reward was a free house and a well-paid job with the Don's eldest son. It kept her safe in the family. The family always looked after its own.

Steven went through to the big drawing room. Clara had gone overboard with some fag decorator five years before, and the place was cluttered with checks and stripes and tables thick with trivia, which drove Maria crazy when she tried to dust. It wasn't the kind of room where he could put his feet up, nor did he dare spill ash on the specially woven carpet. Their house wasn't a home.

He poured himself a Scotch and wondered where Clara was. Lunch was taking a long time. Lunch followed by one of her endless shopping sprees. His watch showed five o'clock. Angela's flight would leave at eight. He had to pack an overnight bag, get there and check in. His ticket would be waiting.

He settled down to wait, stilling his impatience. She'd be home soon. He'd told her he'd spent the weekend in Florida. Then he had hurried out of the apartment. He'd expedited arrangements with the efficiency of a veteran business traveler.

He'd made the decision and acted upon it. Making the decision had been the hardest part: to leave his family on such short notice; to wind up his life in a few hours and set off into a world he didn't know. A strangers' world, without the protection and support of his own kind.

He was not a coward. He had faced death in the war and death as part of his life as a Falconi. It was a risk inherent in his heritage. It didn't trouble him. But after Angela had left him that afternoon, courage had been needed. The courage to cut loose from it all and make a new life with her and their son. He didn't hurry that choice. He stayed on in the little apartment, ordered food he didn't eat, and thought about the future. He thought of the look on her face, the despair and the confusion when she had said to him, “I've known what loving you was going to mean. So why am I shocked?” Business, he called it. It covered a broad spectrum. It made murder and extortion sound respectable. He went through the books and added up the millions. He sat in on the meetings where the policies were formulated. He didn't carry a gun. He didn't have to. There were men with guns all around him. They did the killing. Piero's men had responded to a personal call with clubs and hammers. They'd tossed a human being from a sixth-floor window, to smash like an egg on the street below.

So it was done to protect him. To protect Angela and his son. Piero would do the same to protect a business interest. As his father would. As he himself had done in the past. And Angela had known. For all her innocence of his way of life, she had seen through to the fundamental truth. “Next time, it won't be your brother.… It'll be you.”

And suddenly the choice was clear. Not easy, but clear beyond doubt. Who could be sure, Steven asked himself, that without this ultimatum he mightn't have been persuaded to some compromise … kept some thread of attachment to his old allegiance. If he left that night, the thread would be cut forever. Only his pledge remained, and nothing would stop him from honoring that pledge if ever he was called upon. “If you ever need me … I'll come back.” To his father, to his brother.

It left him with his honor. He smiled slightly. How strong the Sicilian blood was still—as strong as in his son, with his dark hair and Falconi eyes. One day he would take him to Sicily. The choice was made with that thought. He had paid for his food, slipped into his car and told the driver to go straight to his father's house.…

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear Clara open the door. He looked up suddenly and saw her standing there, a ribboned box on one arm.

She dropped the box on a sofa and slipped out of her mink stole. Sitting down across from him, she crossed her legs. He could feel the tension coming from her. The detective agency, of course. She couldn't say anything, but she knew. “Isn't it early for you?”

“Early for what?”

“To start drinking.”

He looked hard at her over the glass. He drained the whiskey. “I need it,” he said. “So will you.”

She responded instinctively, as Piero's wife, Lucia, had done. “There's trouble? What's up?”

“Trouble for me,” he told her. He saw a flash of satisfaction light her face and then vanish. “What would you say, Clara, if I told you I was quitting?”

“Quitting? You mean quitting me? Leaving me?” She jumped to her feet then.

“Quitting you, quitting the family.” He said it calmly. “I've dealt myself out. And I've been dealt out.
Finito Benito
.”

She said, “You're crazy. I don't believe you. You can't quit the family, and you can't leave me! You're drunk!” She turned away impatiently. “I should have known better. Go sober up. Mario and Nina are coming over for dinner. Take a shower, do something!”

“Wait a minute,” he said. He stood up. She was aware at once that her accusation wasn't true. “I saw my father today. I told him what I've told you. I want out. I said it. He didn't believe me either. Not for quite a while, Clara. He said I was crazy, too.”

She was rooted, listening to him. Her pale face was as white as the blouse knotted at her throat.

“But I'm not crazy. I don't want to go on in the business. I don't want to live with you. I don't want to do anything I've been doing since I got back from the war. I should have made a new start then. I wanted to, I tried, but I let Papa talk me out of it. The war changed everything for me.”

She interrupted him with a furious cry. “The war's been over since 1945! What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and my father,” he said, “saying the same words. He cursed me, Clara, do you know that?”

“I can believe it,” she said. “So would any father if a son talked to him like that!” Then with an effort she forced herself to be calm. She said, “Sit down, Steven. I'll get you a Scotch. You're not drunk. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Get yourself one,” he countered. “I have to pack.”

She turned on him, frantic, as she realized he meant it. She barred his way to the door. “Pack? You're not going anywhere. You're not going to walk out on me, on all of us! Why? Why, Steven?” She caught his arm, her long nails sinking through the cloth, seeking his skin.

He wrenched away from her. “Because I hate myself,” he said. “I hate what I am, Clara. That's what I told my father. I want clean hands. I want a new life. That's when he cursed me. He called my mother and Piero, and he cursed me in front of them. They didn't say a word. They didn't defend me.”

“I'll curse you too,” she shouted.

He pushed her aside. She followed him into their bedroom. He was putting clothes into an overnight bag. Blind with tears, she came and caught hold of him, and in spite of what the years had brought her, her love came rushing back.

“Take me with you,” she begged. He hadn't known she could surprise him still. “I don't care. They can throw me out too. I'll go with you, Steven.” She held on to him, weeping. She tore at her blouse, ripping the silk over her breasts in her anguish. “If I'd had a child this wouldn't have happened,” she lamented. “We'd have been happy. Mother of Jesus, why did you do this to me?” She rocked to and fro, and he took time to sit beside her and try to ease her pain. His heart was empty, but he could still feel pity at that moment.