The Scarlet Thread (41 page)

“Good night, Mrs. Falconi.”

“Good night. And you get started right away.”

He said, “Right away.” He glanced at her as he left the room. She hadn't moved. Her hands were still smoothing her skirt. He closed the front door behind him. Sicily. England. He could write his own expense account, she'd said. On the way home he stopped off at a florist's and bought his wife fifty dollars' worth of flowers.

He hoped that would make it easier to tell her that he'd be away on a job for quite a while.

Steven had planned to fly to Paris and then directly to Morocco. But Angela wanted to spend a few days in Paris and show some of the sights to Charlie.

Charlie was less than enthusiastic, and so was Steven. Charlie didn't want to waste part of their precious holiday in the sun by going to museums and art galleries with his mother; and Steven was reminded of Clara. She was haunting his mind by day as well as by night these days.

Clara wouldn't be hurt; women weren't targets for high-level contracts on a Mafia boss. Aldo would die, and Clara's new husband, and perhaps even some Fabrizzi lieutenants who couldn't be trusted. Clara would see them being slaughtered. She would be spared, only to live with the memory of horror for the rest of her life. The thought of her plagued him, and it was worst of all in those few days in Paris. It seemed to Steven that they were following exactly in her footsteps, going to the Louvre, the Tuileries, the tomb of Napoleon at Les Invalides. Charlie was impressed by that, in spite of himself. He lingered by the great black marble mausoleum sunk deep in the heart of the monumental building and stared down. The solemn splendor of it caught his imagination. “I must say, Dad,” he remarked at last, “it beats anything we've got in Westminster Abbey.”

“Let's go,” Angela urged. “It's overpowering. It's so dark.”

“Death
is
dark,” Steven said. “Such a huge tomb for such a small man!”

“He was a great man,” Charlie protested. “Even though we beat him in the end. All right, Mum, we'll go; you're looking a bit green. But this is the best thing I've seen so far.”

As they crossed the street, Steven looked up and almost halted in the path of the traffic. It was the Rue Constantine, and there on the opposite side was the classical facade of the beautiful apartment Clara had wanted to buy. The windows were shuttered. “A place we can come back to, just to remember how happy we've been.” He could hear her saying it, feel the tug of her hand on his arm.

That evening, Angela said, “Aren't you feeling well, Steven? You seem so off color.”

“I didn't want to stay here,” he said. “I told you, I wanted to go on to Morocco. Clara and I spent part of our honeymoon in Paris. We've been to the same places, done the same things. It makes me think of her.”

“I'm so sorry,” Angela said. “You should have told me. I really wanted to let Charlie see it. All he really enjoyed was that awful tomb!”

Sitting on his lap, she slipped her arm around his waist. “Why are you thinking about the past now? Your family's safe, you told me. She'll be married soon. Why now, darling?”

He drew her close to him. “You've made me soft, you know that? I don't feel the way I used to anymore.” Aldo had planned to murder his father and his brother Piero; he deserved no pity. It never occurred to Angela that the executioners would be executed.

He reached up and kissed her. “Why don't we cut it short and go tomorrow? I'll telephone the Mamoulian and change our reservations. Charlie's had a bellyful of culture, and I've had a bellyful of Paris.”

“I happen to have a bellyful too,” she reminded him. “I felt some movement today. You were in such a funny mood I didn't tell you. Why don't you ring up now?”

He turned her around to face him and pressed his face close up against her. “If it's a girl,” he said, “what are we going to call her?”

“If you go on doing that,” Angela murmured, “it'll be a sex maniac, whatever its sex. Aren't you going to phone the hotel?”

“In a while,” he said. “We can call from the bedroom.”

On the way to the airport next day, he stopped off at a bookstore and bought his son a biography of Napoleon, translated into English.

“You look feverish,” Aldo said. He touched Clara's forehead with the palm of his hand. There were two bright scarlet patches on her cheeks, but her skin was cold.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Shouldn't we be going?”

“There's time,” Aldo assured her. “And remember, when it happens, you've got to be surprised, eh? You think you could faint?”

“No,” Clara answered. “But I'll try not to clap and cheer. I just hope you've got the best men.”

“The best money can buy. Two top piecemen from the West Coast. They'll get them coming out of the church. And we'll be right there, with all our people. Clean-handed for all the world to see.” He laughed, excited by his imagination. Hate had festered in him for a long time, and vengeance was only a matter of an hour or so away.

They'd betrayed his daughter; they'd humiliated and rejected his blood and tried to make a fool of him. The Falconis would pay for that in the only coinage acceptable. His hired assassins would gun them down as they left the wedding ceremony. Two superb marksmen, ex–army snipers who had gone into the contract business. They cost a fortune, but you paid for results. And the results were very final. He had enjoyed the planning of it. He had personally handed them photographs of Lucca and Piero and a snapshot of Tino Spoletto taken without his knowledge. They had studied them and nodded. They were men who didn't talk much. One of them said he wanted a closer look so they would be sure. Aldo gave them addresses and asked no more questions. He looked at his watch. Eleven-ten exactly. The wedding limousine was waiting outside, festooned with bunches of white ribbons.

Bruno Salviatti would be waiting for his bride in the church. Aldo had gone the night before with Luisa to make sure that everything was right. The church looked like a florist shop, with big arrangements of hothouse flowers, garlands stretching the length of the nave from pew to pew, and the altar itself massed with lilies and mimosa, the flower of Italy, specially flown in.

Luisa knew nothing of the plan. Women were never told about such things. She was delighted with the church, worried because Clara had defied superstition by trying on her wedding outfit the day before.… Aldo let her chatter on and smiled secretly. Clara had the nerve; he was proud of her coolness, the steel of her resolve. She had the heart of a man, he exulted. And maybe Salviatti would give her children. Then Aldo's cup would overrun with happiness.

“Let's go,” he said. “Here, take your flowers, Clara. Are you happy? Are you happy with what your old Papa's fixed for you?”

She turned to him. “I'll be happy when I see those bastards dead at our feet,” she said. “When it's all over, Papa, I've got something else to tell you.”

He opened the front door and they went down to the limousine, shadowed by three bodyguards, as always. “Tell me now,” he said.

“Not now,” Clara answered. “Later. After the wedding.”

“I know what you're thinking,” her father said. The doors were closed, and the car moved away toward the Church of Saint Mary and the Angels. “You're thinking of Steven. Don't worry; he'll show up, and we'll be waiting.” Clara glanced out the window for a moment.

The winter sun was shining. “I'm not waiting,” she said.

Bruno was nervous. His wedding suit was tight, or so it seemed, and he was sweating in the warm church. The smell of flowers was overpowering. His cousin had the ring in his pocket. Clara for some mean motive had refused to give him a ring in exchange. Later he'd have one. All married men had a proper gold wedding ring. She was just being a bitch when she said no.

Once they were married, he promised himself, he'd make her behave herself. If she gave him the kind of lip she'd been handing out before the wedding, he'd take his belt and lather the skin off her. He rather liked the prospect. It made his sense of humiliation easier to bear. The organ played, and the congregation waited; people turned in their seats, watching as the pews filled up. He saw Don Lucca Falconi with his son and his sidekick Spoletto take their places high up in the church, places of honor, as in-laws of the bride. Lucca bowed to Clara's mother, who smiled and waved her hand to him. Bruno knew all about the first husband. He'd ratted on the family and on Clara, and they'd knocked him off.… Bruno didn't think about it much.

It was a hell of a marriage. Everybody said so. His friends and his family were all impressed. He was going to be a big man. Groomed for stardom, someone said. He liked the sound of that. Then the music changed to a triumphant peal, and they all stood. Clara and her father were walking toward them down the aisle.

“It's such a lovely place,” Angela said. “And the weather is perfect.” She reached out for his hand. They were sitting in the warm sunshine in the Hotel Mamoulian gardens. She felt relaxed and deeply content. This pregnancy was easy; very little sickness in the early weeks, and nothing now but a sense of expectation. Steven said she looked beautiful and teased her about a string of babies in the future.

Charlie was playing tennis with an American girl he'd met. She was flirtatious and pretty. He had already confided to Steven that he usually let her win.

The hotel was luxurious, the food exotic, and the service better than the best in Europe. Above all the sun shone, though it grew cold in the evening. There was nothing to do but wander through the lovely grounds or laze on the terrace. “I'm so glad we left Paris and came early,” she said. “You were quite right.”

“I hate Paris,” he said. “I never want to go there again. I'm glad you like it here, darling. I'm glad you're happy.” He held her hand tightly. “It makes everything right.”

Angela said, “Why do you say that? Everything's perfect for us. I can't believe it sometimes. You and I and Charlie and a new baby coming. And just when it seemed as if our luck was running out, your family was safe after all. I prayed you'd come back to us. And you did.”

He didn't answer. He went on holding her hand, seeing her smile at him. Let her believe in her prayers. Let her go on being happy and seeing the world through a prism of honesty and innocence.

As they sat there in the Moroccan sunshine, Aldo Fabrizzi was still alive. Clara had not awakened to go to her wedding. He didn't want to work out the time variable. He didn't want to look down at his watch and say to himself, “Now. It must be happening now.” He had put an ocean between himself and his family and the act of cold-blooded murder. By the time they went back to France and Charlie flew home to school, it would be stale news. Angela need never know.

“Why don't we go and watch the tennis match?” Angela suggested. “Charlie's got a real crush on her; it's so funny.”

“He's growing up,” Steven said. “At eighteen I had a lot of girlfriends. He'll be a man soon. Let's go and watch them.”

He helped her out of the chair. She didn't need help, but it was an excuse to touch her, hold her close to him for a moment.

“Come on, darling.” She led him by the hand toward the sound of balls thudding and shrill cries of excitement. Charlie's laughter could be heard in the background.

The girl's parents were on a tour of Europe with their daughter. Their name was Thorpe; they lived in Westchester and were eager for companionship. The daughter was their only child and the center of their world. He was a senior executive with an oil company; he found Angela charming but reserved judgment on the husband. Lawrence was less than outgoing, he confided to his wife. And owning a casino was not his idea of a respectable business. Still, the son was a good kid. Nice manners, and Sharon liked him. It was so important that Sharon have a good time on this trip. She'd taken a lot of persuading to come with them. But she was an easy teenager. No problems. They encouraged Charlie but gave up on Steven and Angela after one dinner date. He couldn't have explained why a fellow American should make him feel so uneasy.

Steven was on his way down to the cocktail bar before dinner that evening, when he met his son rushing up to change.

“Dad?” They paused on the stairs. “You going to the bar?”

“I feel like a drink. Get dressed and join me. Your mother's coming later. Had a good day?”

“Great,” Charlie said. “Mr. Thorpe's got the most fantastic radio. He tunes in to the States every day for the news broadcasts. He was just telling me about some gangland massacre at a wedding. It sounded terrible!”

Steven stood very still. His son looked excited. “Mr. Thorpe said it was like Saint Valentine's Day. I didn't know what he meant.”

“Never mind,” Steven said. “That happened a long time ago. I don't want you talking about this in front of your mother. She hates that kind of thing. It makes her feel bad. So you forget it.”

“Yes, yes, I won't say anything.” Charlie looked bewildered. “I'll go up and change. Shall I see if Mum's ready?”

“You do that,” Steven answered. He still hadn't moved to continue downstairs. “And remember what I've told you. It's bad for a pregnant woman to hear about people getting killed.”

He saw his son sprint up to the landing, and then he walked down to the cocktail bar. The Thorpes were sitting there. He went over. He didn't smile at them. He said, “Charlie's been telling me about the news from the States you got on your radio. My wife'll be joining me in a minute. I'd be glad if you don't tell her any horror stories.” He went and sat at a table and left them looking at each other. After a few minutes, Thorpe whispered to his wife, and they both got up and left.

By the time Angela came down, Steven had put down two large bourbons on the rocks, and there was a bottle of champagne on ice waiting for her and for Charlie.