The Scarlet Thread (28 page)

Clara was restless. She wasn't sleeping well either, but she wouldn't take pills. She knew too many women who'd started on that path and slipped into tranquilizers and dependence. She would cope on her own. The maid got on her nerves. She was always shuffling about, pretending to work. She was a sly old bitch, and Clara didn't trust her. She was one of Falconi's people. Clara toyed with the idea of sacking her. It gave her pleasure to imagine it. But she did nothing.

It was getting hot and humid in New York. Her parents were moving to Key West for the summer. She didn't want to go with them. She didn't know what she wanted to do or how to occupy herself. Her father had already mentioned the need to marry again.

“I don't want another man,” she declared, and for the moment he accepted that. But only for the moment. In a few months, when there wasn't a pretense of mourning, he'd start pressing her. She felt dead sexually. Cold in body and in spirit, as if she, and not Steven, had died. He'd paid the price of his betrayal. They'd killed him, as she'd warned him they would. She wished in her desolation that she had been with him in that car.

She had a hair appointment and lunch afterward at the Plaza with two women friends. They weren't Italians. They didn't belong to her world, and she had nothing in common with them except money and a liking for clothes and plush restaurants. She didn't feel like going. The day stretched ahead in emptiness. Dinner with her parents, TV in their family room, and usually an invitation to stay the night. She dreaded going back to her lonely house.

Clara wanted to scream. She had been looking at a fashion magazine without taking any of it in, flipping the pages impatiently. She threw it aside and got up. She was thinner than ever, taut inside her black dress. No appetite still, living on her nerves. Maybe she couldn't face dinner at home that night, with her mother's sidelong glances at Aldo, as if to say, What she needs is a good husband to take care of her, maybe some children this time. She'd go to a movie instead.… But they'd be hurt. She couldn't cancel on them. She went into the bedroom to get ready. The hairdresser and the lunch would kill her enemy Time for a few hours.

She retouched her makeup, drawing darker lines around her eyes to emphasize their size. They were huge and black as sloes in the thin face. She painted her mouth scarlet and opened the dressing table drawer to choose some earrings. There was a smart new fashion jeweler whose costume pieces were as pricey as the real thing. Kenneth Lane earrings and a matching brooch. They looked good. But the earrings pinched, and swearing, she pulled them off.

There was the little box. She'd put it in the drawer, right at the back where she couldn't see it, but it had worked its way forward and was under her eye. Her fingers touched it, a small square leather box with gold tooling around the edges. Inside was Steven's ring, which she'd made her father give her.
Open it
, temptation urged her.
Touch it, indulge your pain
. She took it out. The proof of his death. The pledge given by the Falconis that the debt to her was paid in full. It lay cold in her palm. She remembered the wedding service, when she had exchanged it for the one still on her finger. The fierce joy and expectation welling up in her as she circled the room in his arms, dancing the “Wedding Waltz.” She shut her eyes. It was an agony she couldn't resist reliving: his beautiful hands grasping her waist, sensitive and erotic. They had always roused her when she looked at them, imagining their touch. They'd struck her too, and even that became a memory she savored. Once she'd slipped the ring off his finger and locked it over the one he'd given her. It was a symbol of her passion, her need to possess him completely and be herself possessed.

She did the same thing now. She slid the ring on her finger, over her own wedding band. It hung loose. So loose that if she bent her hand it fell off, clattering onto the dressing table. She stared at it. She tried again. Again it fell off.

Clara held it in one hand, turning it to see the inscription. It was visible, a little worn but still quite clear. “S. & C.” and the date in figures, “5/18/50.” It was the ring she had given Steven. The ring he had been wearing on the day he walked out of that bedroom and left her. But it was three sizes bigger. She went through the ritual again, with the same result.

She held it up and stared at it again. No man with hands like Steven's could have worn it. She clutched it tightly, and her reflection in the mirror contorted suddenly until the face was hardly recognizable. She stood up, knocking over the stool. She kicked it aside. She shouted a blasphemous Sicilian oath.

“
Porca Madonna!
”

Maria heard it and cowered. She hid herself in the kitchen. She heard the bedroom door slam on its hinges and then the front door, hurting her ears. An hour later she answered the telephone. The hairdresser was calling to ask if Mrs. Falconi had forgotten her appointment.

The ladies at the Plaza waited half an hour, then decided she wasn't coming and started lunch.

“Clara, Clara, you can't disturb your Papa. It's business.”

Her mother pleaded, wringing her hands. She had never seen her daughter like this. She was used to temper and outbursts, but not this deadly rage.

“This is business, believe me. Now do you call him, or do I?”

Clara swung away from her. She was trembling. She couldn't unclench her hands from the handbag that held the box with the gold ring inside.

Her mother was arguing again. She was such a fool, such a stupid fat doormat of a woman. Savage thoughts chased through Clara's brain, cruel, unthinkable criticisms that yesterday she would have suppressed with shame.
No wonder Papa goes for big tits and blondes
.

She shouted suddenly, “Shut up! Shut up and listen to me! Give me the number.”

“He'll be angry,” her mother said. “He's with Gino over at the warehouse. There's a meeting today.”

Clara didn't listen. She knew the number of the warehouse where her father summoned his henchmen. She knew the big upstairs room above the containers and storage, where they sat around a table. It would be smoky, and smell of wine and garlic and human sweat. She knew, because she'd been there once. Aldo had given her a fur coat for her eighteenth birthday. He'd laid minks and silver foxes out on the table upstairs in the warehouse and told her to pick what she wanted. She chose the most expensive, and he had laughed and put it on her himself. She had it in a closet somewhere. A pastel-blue mink, which was not fashionable anymore.

She dialed the number, and a man answered.

“I want to speak with Don Aldo.”

“He's busy.” The tone was rude.

Clara spat back, “It's his daughter. You tell him it's urgent.”

“Okay.”

It seemed a long time while she waited. Then her father said sharply, “Clara? What the hell do you want?”

She said in a calm voice, “If there's any of Lucca Falconi's people with you, don't say anything. They've cheated us, Papa. Steven's alive.” Then she hung up.

She turned to her mother. “That'll bring him home,” she said.

“Yes, yes, it's been altered, all right.”

The jeweler put down his loupe. He had been an associate of the Fabrizzis for many years, a second-generation Russian Jew who ran a pawnbroking business on the West Side and fenced stolen goods for a few big clients. Aldo trusted him.

“Made bigger?” Clara demanded.

He nodded. “By two sizes at least. It's well done. They haven't spoiled the inscription.” He checked again, with the loupe to his eye. “You wouldn't see it without this, Don Aldo. It's a good job,” he said again. He handed it back.

Aldo weighed it in his hand for a moment. “Thanks, Leo. I just wanted to be sure, that's all.”

“They used eighteen karat, even, to keep the color of the gold the same,” Leo added. “I guess it was altered for someone else to wear.”

“I guess it was,” Aldo said. “Thanks. The family's well?”

He never neglected the formalities. It was expected of him to inquire about the Rabinoviches' welfare and to spend a minute or two while Leo answered.

The woman was fuming with impatience. The old Jew was surprised to see the Don with a brunette, however striking. He brought his blondes along to buy them jewelry. Not too expensive, but nice pieces. Leo always gave him a special price.

He said, “Julia's had some troubles. She has pain in the hip, but as I tell her, we're not so young anymore. But the boys are well and the grandchildren. They make life good for us.”

“Give Julia my best,” Aldo said formally. “And keep well.”

They got into the big limousine, Aldo's bodyguard in the front seat, and sat in silence as the car sped home. He took his daughter's hand and held it. It was a fierce grip that sealed a pact between them.

“They gave us a dummy,” he said. “They set us up, Clara. They cut the finger off some guy and changed the ring to fit. They won't get away with it. I promise you.”

“I know they won't,” she answered. “I want him found, Papa.”

He turned and looked at her. She was all he cared about, his only child. He'd watched her suffer, tear herself to pieces over Steven Falconi. He thought suddenly,
She's clever, my girl. She's got a brain. She saw through it
. He was proud of her.

“We'll find him,” he said. “But we settle with all the bastards now. We wipe them out.”

“Yes,” Clara said. “And we take over everything that's theirs.”

He noticed that she had said “we.” It didn't sound as presumptuous as it might have. As they drew up before the entrance to his house, he said gently to Clara, “You were tough on Mama. I don't blame you, but you will make it right.”

“I'll make it right,” she promised. And as soon as her mother came out to the hallway to meet them, Clara put her arms around her and said, “Forgive me, Mama. I didn't mean it. You're the best mother in the world.”

She looked at Aldo, who nodded in satisfaction. He liked peace in the family. He sat down and let his women wait upon him. He took wine, a man at ease in his own home. And he planned the systematic murder of the Falconis, down to the last surviving male.

Tino Spoletto hadn't wanted to leave his home in Florida and come to New York. His wife had complained bitterly about uprooting the children from their schools and selling their nice house. They had a good business. They owned a chain of restaurants and bars, with illegal betting on the side. Tino didn't need to employ accountants. He was too good with figures himself. He carried everything in his head, and he was never out by a cent.

Not once had he been in trouble, even as a boy. He was the quiet one in the Spoletto family, always doing well at school. His wife, Nina, was happy with him, contented with their life and devoted to her three children. They were part of the family, but on the fringe. Little was asked of them except a favor now and again, which paid for their protection in their businesses. No one reneged on a debt to the Spolettos. No one in the local police department raided the back rooms where the bets were being taken.

When the call had come, Tino knew he must obey. It was an honor to be asked by Don Lucca himself to fill a place left vacant by his eldest son. An opportunity not to be refused. They'd sold their house, found a good parochial school for the girls and a high school for their boy. Nina wanted a house in a neighborhood where she'd make friends. They bought one in Little Italy. Her mother lived with them. She'd never learned to speak English, and at least now she could go to the nearby shops and find a few old women to gossip with.

And after all the months of settling in, they were happy. The Don and his family had taken them to their hearts. They were invited for the family Sundays, and the children played with Piero's children. Nina and Lucia Falconi went shopping and talked women's talk together. Tino hadn't moved into Steven's office. That was taken by Piero, now designated as the Don's successor. Nobody mentioned Steven. Tino didn't ask questions. There was disgrace and dishonor involved. It wasn't his business as a distant relative to inquire about details.

He was doing a very good job. Don Lucca was pleased with him, and Piero slapped him on the back and invited him out to Minoletti's for a good dinner and to talk business. Tino had respect for Piero, who would be the top man one day. He wanted to please Piero and was devoted to the old Don. He had been good to them, generous over the new house, fond with their children. The Don was a family man inside the family. Now when they came to the house on Sundays, he greeted Tino with a kiss.

It was a nice summer day, and they were in the walled garden. A big table with a white cloth was set out under the trees, and the women were busy in the kitchen while the men sat around in their shirtsleeves and talked over the Chianti.

Tino said, “I got a letter from a cousin yesterday, Don Lucca. She mentioned the Fabrizzis are having a big get-together at their place in Key West.”

Piero said sharply, “How the fuck does she know?”

They hadn't heard anything about it. Courtesy between them indicated at least a mention, if not an invitation.

“She's in the catering business. Her husband and his brother specialize in wedding parties, anniversaries, that kind of stuff. They didn't get the Fabrizzis' order, but they know someone in the business who did. Eighty people, she said, and all the families too.”

Don Lucca said slowly, “What sort of party?”

“She didn't say.”

“I'd like to know who's invited,” Lucca Falconi said. “And the reason.” He didn't show his anger. They were partners and tied by marriage. Clara was a Falconi by name at least. Aldo Fabrizzi had said nothing about a big party.

Piero looked at his cousin Tino. He was sharp-eyed and long-eared. He'd picked up that item on the Fabrizzis and their “party.” Piero could smell disloyalty in a man. And loyalty too. Tino was playing watchdog in his quiet way. Piero liked him for that. From the first day, he had made his feeling about the Fabrizzis clear to his cousin.