The Scarlet Thread (35 page)

“I can see quite a network in a few years, if things work out,” she had said, and he'd nodded eagerly.

It was all wrong, and he knew it. His instincts were flashing warnings like neon lights, but he had gone on sitting there; she had made it sound so reasonable. The agency would move to New York, where she had an appropriate office in mind. He would recruit a reliable staff. His police connections would surely help there. He'd agreed that they would. The agency must have a broad perspective, offering a comprehensive service to clients, and it must be prepared to accept business from corporations.

At one point O'Halloran had been constrained to interrupt. “Lady, I did twenty years on the beat and made detective sergeant, but what I don't know about corporations you could put in a book!”

“You don't have to know about them,” was the answer. “That'll be my responsibility. You'll just do what's needed, when it's needed. Okay?”

“Okay,” he'd said, and from that moment, he had shut down the switch on the warning lights. He needed money; he was being offered the chance to be rich for doing the same sort of thing he was doing now for peanuts. He could afford good schools for the kids, nice clothes for his wife, a new car. He had leaned toward her and said, “So long as it's legal, it sounds like one hell of a good deal to me.”

As he sat slumped down in the car seat, listlessly watching yet another marital two-timer sneaking out after an afternoon in the sack, he remembered her smile. It was a strange sort of smile, almost friendly for a moment. He had given her something she wanted, and she was pleased with him. He had laid the foundation for their partnership with a lie, and she answered it with a lie of her own.

“It will always be legal,” she'd said. “I promise you that. Do we have a deal, Mr. O'Halloran?”

“We have a deal,” he'd said.

She had got up and solemnly shaken hands with him. He insisted on paying for their drinks. She thanked him. She had magnificent black eyes. He was a bought man, and he knew it by the way she looked at him. He had a twinge about his old partner, Pacellino, and the holes in his gut.

“You're sure you wouldn't want Tony in on this?”

“I'm sure,” she had answered. “I'll get the new office set up, and you get out from under him. Call me when you're ready to move. And make it soon.”

He had her card in his pocket. Mrs. Clara Falconi, and a ritzy-sounding address on the East Side.

Noting the time the errant wife emerged, he drove back to the office. His partner was out. He looked around him. The agency was small, untidy, run on a shoestring. He paused for a moment, tempted to call someone in New York and ask him to run a check on the lady. He even reached for the telephone. But he never picked it up. He didn't want an answer. He didn't want to know for sure what he suspected.

He typed his report for the afternoon's work and went home. He made a big fuss over his wife and kids and told them he'd had an offer to run a new agency in New York.

Steven was right about Sicily in the month of September. It was perfect. The fierce August heat had given way to a lovely constant temperature, with a light breeze that came up in the evenings.

They started in Messina, then drove up the winding roads and over the mountains to the coast. Steven showed them Greek ruins and Roman amphitheaters, abandoned for two thousand years to the ravages of sun and weather. They wandered through hillside villages where the streets were too narrow even to admit the painted carts that trundled behind the sad donkeys. They saw the grand fortress houses of the ancient aristocracy, mostly abandoned in favor of life in the agreeable confines of Palermo or on the Italian mainland. Little by little, Steven taught his son about Sicily, and the word Mafia crept in unchallenged.

Charlie listened, infected by Steven's passionate interest in the strange, barren country with such a violent history. It helped a lot that Steven was such a good storyteller. He made boring ruins and crumbling buildings come to life, and Charlie responded by asking questions and wanting to know more.

It was a pilgrimage full of memories for Angela. They crowded in upon her as they traveled toward Palermo. When they reached the city, she took Charlie to the site where the hospital had stood. A four-story hotel was built on it.

“I was a nurse here,” she said. “My best friend, Christine, was killed when the hospital was bombed. There's nothing left of it now.”

Charlie linked his arm through hers. “Don't be upset, Mum. It was a long time ago. Why don't we go and see the place where you married my father? You told me it was up in the hills near here?”

He didn't see the quick glance she exchanged with Steven or his nod of agreement.

She smiled at him, “Why not? It was in a little village called Altodonte. Do you think you could find it, darling?”

“I'm sure I could,” Steven said. “I'd like to see it too.”

Little had changed. True to his promise to the priest, Steven had arranged immunity for the village and its people. They paid no Mafia dues and suffered no Mafia murders. It was sleepy and sunlit. The paint on the houses was faded and peeling, the geraniums still bloomed in fierce profusion, the wash fluttered between the houses like flags of poverty above the dark little streets. The church was smaller than Angela remembered it, the inside even darker.

Her son said, “It must have been a funny wedding, Mum. It's jolly gloomy in here.”

They walked up the aisle toward the gilded, painted altar, passing saints dressed in real clothes, faded flower offerings withering at their feet. The red eye of the sacristy lamp burned above them.

“It was a wonderful wedding,” Angela said, and reached covertly for Steven's hand.

The door of the sacristy opened. It was a young priest, and he came hurrying toward them, buttoning his cassock.

He bowed to the tall bearded man, to the woman and the boy. He spoke no English.

Steven took some large bills out of his wallet. He handed them to the priest. “Give this to the families that need it most,” he said in Italian. “And keep some for your church and yourself, Father.”

“Dad must have given him a big present,” Charlie whispered as they came out. “Did you see his face, Mum? He couldn't believe it.”

“It's the custom,” she explained. “And you know how generous he is.” And then, because she knew how much it meant to Steven, she said, “Now we'll go and see where Steven's ancestors used to live.”

Charlie stared at her. “You mean they were here too? The same place where you and my father got married?”

“Yes, isn't it a coincidence, darling? … Steven, I was just telling Charlie that your ancestors came from this village. Would you know where the house was? It would be nice to see it, wouldn't it, Charlie?”

“It's not much,” Steven said. He put his arm around Angela, pressed her close in silent thanks. “They were poor people, poor peasants. I think I know where it was.”

Charlie asked him, “Will it still be there?”

“Nothing changes in Sicily,” Steven answered. “It'll be there.”

And it was, just as Angela remembered it from so many years ago. The door and shutters were freshly painted a bright green, and a young woman nursing a baby sat on the doorstep, her bare feet in the dust. She looked up at them suspiciously as they passed and briefly paused. The baby suckled greedily, and she gave it her attention when the strangers moved on.

Steven said to his son, “Not what you expected? I told you, they were dirt poor. That's why they emigrated to America.”

Charlie said, “I don't blame them. Still, they must have done jolly well over there. Look at you, Dad!”

“Yes,” Steven said. “They did well, Charlie. All they needed was the opportunity. But I'm proud of my ancestry. They were poor, but they were men of respect in this village. Now let's see if there's anywhere we can get something to drink and eat. You hungry, sweetheart?”

“Yes, and thirsty,” Angela said. “It was good of you to help the priest, darling.”

“It was expected,” Steven said.

They had the best suite in the Palazzo Palermo hotel. Charlie had gone to his room to read after a rich Sicilian dinner and a lot of the heavy local wine.

Angela had laughed when she saw the bed in their room. It was an antique and quite narrow by current standards, but it made up in splendor for the lack of space. It was dressed in crimson silk, with gold cherubs supporting the drapery from the ceiling. More gold cherubs disported at the foot of the bed, and a red-and-gold confection topped with a ducal crown and coat of arms towered above the pillows.

It was the bridal suite, the manager informed them. Furnished from the sale of the last duchess of Finciula's estate. The dressing table was a crimson-and-gilt extravagance, miniature cherubs supported an elaborate mirror above the silk flounces, and the chairs were carved and gilded thrones with matching footstools.

“It's unbelievable,” Angela exclaimed. “It's amazing! Did people really live in rooms like this?”

“The Finciulas were poor,” Steven told her. “They had big estates but no money. This stuff was sold for pennies, I expect. I can't wait to see you sitting up in that bed!” And they both laughed at the idea.

It was indeed a narrow bed, and their bodies were so close that it was well into the night before they finished making love and drifted off to sleep. In the morning, with the sun streaming through the drawn curtains and the shutters fastened back, Angela woke him.

“Last night was the best ever,” she whispered.

“It was the bed,” he teased her. “All the old dukes and duchesses must have been sick with envy, watching us.”

“What are you talking about? You talk such nonsense, darling.” She drew back, teasing him, holding him at bay as he strained to kiss her.

“It's not nonsense. If you make love in someone else's bed, they come back from the dead to watch you. All Sicilians know that. That's why they only put foreigners in here.” He pulled her down on top of him. “And there's another superstition. When you do it like this, you make daughters. I want a daughter.”

Charlie flew back from Italy.

“It's been a wonderful trip,” he told Steven. “Really super. I'd love to come again.”

Steven embraced him. Angela could see the pleasure in his face.

“You will. We'll have a proper holiday on the island. Now work hard, or I'll get in trouble with your mother for keeping you out of school.”

Arm in arm, they watched the aircraft take off.

“He did enjoy it, didn't he? Maybe he felt some tie with the place.”

Angela hadn't noticed anything beyond a schoolboy's enthusiasm, but she knew how much Steven wanted to think it was more.

“I wouldn't be surprised. You have such strong roots; but you brought it all to life for him, darling. You made it real. He got quite upset about the way the landlords treated their tenants. He actually said to me the Mafia were the only protection those poor people had. He'd always thought they were a lot of gangsters in America.”

“And what did you say to that?” he questioned.

“I said what you said. It started out well and went wrong.”

“It sure did,” he said. “My grandfather killed tax collectors. Now we
are
the tax collectors. Come on, darling. I'm looking forward to going home. I must call Maxton and tell him to have a car at Nice to meet us.”

“Why don't you spend Christmas here?” Ralph Maxton asked.

Angela shook her head. “My father's not well enough to fly out. He's insisting on staying at home, so we've got to go over and be with him.”

It was a slight deterioration of his heart condition, nothing serious, Jim Hulbert had reassured her. But long journeys and upheavals were not sensible at his age. Especially during bad weather. Steven had agreed to a second Christmas at Haywards Heath, though Angela knew he wanted to stay in France.

The villa belonged to them now. He had persuaded the owner to sell it by offering twice its market value. So Angela could change the furniture and redecorate, but she found little to alter. She liked the previous owner's taste, and it seemed as if the task of transforming the casino had exhausted her inventive powers. She bought some pictures from a gallery in Cannes that specialized in good French contemporary art, changed the curtains in the dining room and decided to leave anything else till the spring.

A gala evening was planned for the middle of October, after which Maxton recommended that they close down till spring. When the casino was profitable, they could afford to stay open during the quiet winter months, but not yet. He and Steven had decided on a benefit performance as their curtain call for the season.

It was Maxton's idea to contact Renata Soldi's agent. She was the most promising young opera singer since Maria Callas.

“She'll come because she's poaching on Callas's territory. And the glitterati'll come to give Callas a poke in the eye. She's made a lot of enemies. Renata Soldi can't hold a candle to La Callas, but that's not the point. She'll pull the crowds. We'll sell out for the charity and pick up some of the big gamblers who can't afford not to be seen at this sort of thing. And we'll shut up shop with a bang!”

As always, Angela wished he would tone down the ruthless cynicism. It spoiled the excitement of the evening. She was looking forward to hearing Soldi sing. She didn't want to connect a great artist with malice and infighting toward another great artist and to see her audience as little more than spectators at a social blood sport.

Ralph Maxton saw her reaction and tried to put it right by changing the subject and talking about something agreeable. Like Christmas.

“It'll be fun having Christmas in England,” he said. “You had snow last year, didn't you? It was just cold and rather wet here.”