BELLA MAFIA (43 page)

"Yep, that's Paul Carolla's son, Giorgio."

Ancora's mouth fell open. Pirelli nodded at the photo. "Luka was adopted by Carolla when he was twelve or thirteen. No one's too sure of his exact age; they've got no birth certificate. But Carolla adopted him, took him to America after that poor, malformed creature died." Suddenly he picked up the phone and dialed records. "It's Pirelli. Do you think you could trace the records of a kid arrested in July 1968?"

The voice at the other end of the phone laughed and told him, humorously, to fuck off.

"I'm serious. All I've got is that he was blond, named Luka. I've got no surname, but he was in a bad way, brought in with a bunch of kids working the waterfront. He needed hospital treatment. Would have been about five or six years old."

"You got an arresting officer?"

"Nope, but the hospital was the Nazareth."

"Oh, come on, Pirelli, that burned down ten years ago."

"I know, but do what you can." Pirelli hung up and swiveled his chair. Only then did he notice the memos in his in tray. He picked them up, read them carefully, and leaned back, closing his eyes.

"Sweet Jesus ..."

Ancora looked over. "That came in this morning. It's from the Luciano file. Must have come loose."

Pirelli shook his head. "I don't believe this! It says the chef from the San Lorenzo, the restaurant where the Lucianos were all poisoned, was shot, according to ballistics, with a Heckler and Koch. The other . . . How old is this? When was this report done?"

Ancora shrugged. "Must be months back. What, eight, nine months old?"

Pirelli turned over the page. "Second waiter was shot in the back of the head. Weapon, a forty-four magnum."

"They found the bodyguard stuffed down a well, but he'd been cracked over the head. There was no trace of the extra staff, the dishwasher, but they think he must have been a plant, you know, to get them into the place. There were three, possibly four men on the hit, judging by the footprints around the well. Joe—Joe, you listening?"

Pirelli was standing poised, his mouth open. "You're not gonna believe this ... I just brought in a weapon from the monastery, and it's Luka Carolla's, and it's a forty-four—magnum."

It was Ancora's turn to gape. "You're kidding?"

"No fucking way . . . Get back to the labs; they've given no details of the bullets in this report. Find out if they were marked, you know, with drills, like the others."

Ancora got on the phone as Pirelli started to pace the office. He was sweating. The Paluso boy, the two Luciano children, Paul Carolla, the restaurant staff—had their killer left his calling card on all these murders, the telltale scratches on the bullets? Could the same man have been responsible for the poisonings of Roberto Luciano and his sons?

"Hey, man, take it easy. . . . Take it easy, this is crazy," Pirelli said aloud.

"That's the first sign, talking to yourself." Ancora was getting no reply. He dialed again.

Pirelli pointed to the wall where the photographs were displayed. "I want pictures of all the Lucianos up there and of everyone else murdered at the restaurant. I want Paul Carolla up there. ... I want to see all their faces. Because I think they were all, and I mean all, killed by the same man."

"What are you, crazy?"

"No, I'm not, but I think their killer must be."

He got up and crossed the room to stand directly in front of the Luciano children's photo. "Look at the way he's positioned those two babies—shot them and then turned them to face each other, put their arms around each other as if they were sleeping."

The two men stared at the pitiful Carlo and Nunzio. Then they looked at the tragic Paluso boy, lying beside his bicycle in the gutter, his face a mass of blood, the back of his scalp blown away. The ice cream he had been holding had melted and mingled with his blood on the pavement. Pirelli chewed his lips. "The Luciano children were killed at what time? Nine, nine-fifteen, yes?"

"They weren't discovered until eleven o'clock, I think Lemme check ..."

Pirelli rubbed his hair until it stood on end. "The Lucian men were not discovered until after eleven, but their bodies were still warm. . . . The chef, the staff, you got a time 01 them?"

Ancora's hands flew over the files, slammed one drawer shut, and opened another. He took out a file and thumbed through it, turning page after page. Impatiently Pirelli snatched the file and dropped it; the papers scattered on the floor. H swore, got down on his knees, and scrabbled around until h triumphantly held aloft the page he wanted.

"Now, let's see ..." He got to his feet and threw hi hands in the air. "There's no time; this report's only half fin ished. What the fuck have those guys been doing? Get me Min celli on the phone. . . . Never mind, I'll go up."

About to slam out of the office, Pirelli paused. "Did you read about the Luciano women? What do you think is going on?"

Ancora shrugged. "The docks are swarming with men clearing the warehouses. They must have some big shot behind them, smells like trouble to me."

Pirelli nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"That's the problem with this city: We can see trouble coming, but we're all too busy to do anything about it. Those women should watch out for themselves; something's going down. . . . You want a word of advice? Don't get involved we've got enough going on. You start looking for—"

Pirelli had already left. Ancora sighed, turning to look a the bulletin board, then glanced back at the confusion of paper covering the desk. Pirelli was very good at unearthing evidence but it was always up to Ancora to check it out. Still, he had t admit that he and Pirelli had moved things forward at a gallop But Ancora had the uncomfortable feeling that the horse was out of control.

Teresa worked herself to near exhaustion, driving a heavy truck from one location to the next, overseeing the workers and paying out the cash—always cash—and it was Teresa who ordered supplies, organized the painters and glaziers.

Rosa and Sophia worked well as a team. They were in charge of the twenty women cleaners and the army of men who were doing the heavy clearing, ferrying them from one place to the next. The women needed careful handling because they fought among themselves, argued about who should do which tasks, and complained if they thought they were doing men's work.

Rosa began to enjoy driving a pickup truck, wearing an old pair of overalls and a cloth cap, while Sophia spent her time hiring industrial cleaning machines and mechanical diggers, because along with the general cleanup they needed to uproot dead trees and remove tons of rotting fruit from the orchards. The sprinklers were repaired in readiness for the next season.

The three women worked from five in the morning until the last light of the evening. On occasion, when the factory's generators were restored, they stayed until after ten. They would arrive home at different times, baths would be run, food eaten. Then they would collapse into their beds exhausted, too tired to argue. They used a rotation system for taking care of their so-called houseguest, and he had been warned not to attempt to leave his room or to be discovered by Graziella.

Graziella shopped and cooked, helped wash their work clothes, and took their lunches to them in the factory. She enjoyed feeling a part of it all but knew not to meddle because Teresa's temper would make her own rise. Rather than stir up trouble, she kept herself busy.

One afternoon she returned home earlier than usual. Adina was at the market, and the house, she presumed, was empty. She decided to take a nap and was about to lie down when she heard a creak. A little afraid, she listened, then crept to her door. Someone was moving slowly down the stairs from the top floor. She inched her door open.

Luka had not heard Graziella return. As he made his way down the stairs, he checked each room, familiarizing himself with the layout. He passed Rosa and Teresa's room with its two single beds. Sophia's room had been left with the curtains drawn; he saw the pill bottles, the unmade bed.

He continued along the landing and was almost caught; Graziella was just going into her bedroom. He moved quickly into the nearest room, wincing as the door creaked badly. The room was obviously unoccupied; he left the door ajar and peeked out, listening. All was silent. He looked around at the small, neat bedroom with the sports equipment, the guitar with loose strings, the old posters on the wall.

He was just about to leave when he heard Graziella calling for Adina. He saw her pass along the landing and lean over the banister.

"Adina? Are you home?"

Through the gap he saw Graziella turn and stare toward him, at the partly open door. He had no idea that it was unusual, that he was in Michael's room and that Michael's door was always closed.

Slowly Graziella crossed the landing and pushed the door wider, wider. . . . There was no hiding place. He was caught, trapped, in the center of the room. But the scream he had expected didn't come. Instead, she stared at him and continued walking into the room.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "Who are you?"

"Don't be afraid," he stuttered. "I won't harm you. They know about me, I work for them, don't be afraid. . . . They said I could stay here, do you understand me?" Luka had spoken in English and was afraid she had not understood.

"Teresa? Did she say you could have this room?"

"No, no . . . Upstairs. I had a fall—see, I've injured my shoulder."

"But you're American?"

"Didn't they tell you about me?"

She was staring at him, moving closer and closer. "No, nobody told me. How did you get in?"

"They gave me a key."

"They should have told me; you gave me a fright. What is your name?"

"Johnny."

"You are in my son's room."

She came closer, staring into his face, then looked at his shoulder. "Did you break your collarbone?"

He put his hand across his chest. "I guess so, kinda wrenched it when I fell—fell onto a rusty nail."

"You want me to take a look?"

"No, they've done it up for me. . . . But I'm hungry."

She nodded and gestured for him to leave the room, closed the door behind them. "What part of America are you from?"

"New York."

When Adina arrived home and let herself into the kitchen, she was surprised to discover Graziella sitting with a strange boy, each enjoying a large dish of pasta.

But when Teresa returned, hours later, there was a different Graziella waiting, an irate one who didn't even wait for her to take her coat off.

"I want to talk, Teresa. I don't mind your using Papa's study as your own, but when you want someone to stay, you ask me. You don't let strangers come to this house without my permission, you understand? You don't know where he came from, who he knows, and you never let anyone have a key."

Teresa was so stunned she was hardly able to follow Graziella's meaning. "Wait, wait, Mama, what are you talking about?"

"You know, Teresa, the boy, the American student. I founc him in Michael's room. Nobody goes in there, nobody."

"Shit, where is he now?"

"In the kitchen, helping Adina wash up. First I wanted t< talk to you. You want to apologize now?"

"I, uh, I'm sorry, Mama. I'll go and talk to him."

"You do that. If you think he should stay until he's better then we'll talk it over, but he's never to have a key to this house.'

That night Teresa announced to the rest of them that John; Moreno, an American student, had been hurt in an accident a the factory and was staying with them until he recovered. So Sophia waited until she was alone with Teresa before asking jus how long their guest intended staying.

"Until he's fit to leave."

"He looks fit enough to me. I don't like his hanging around Mama while we are working."

"You just don't like him."

"And you do? Teresa, for God's sake, get rid of him. H makes my skin crawl. Pay him off, but get him out."

"He needs a few more days, okay?"

Sophia looked hard at Teresa as she stubbed out her cigarette. "For now, Teresa, but not for much longer."

The workers applauded as the freshly painted sign,
luc ano export company
, was hauled into place. It was hard
to
believe that the dockland warehouses were the same ones that so recently had resembled rat-infested sewers. They had been painted, the doors repaired, and the cavernous interiors swe] and washed clean.

A navy blue Alfa Romeo was parked near the main war house, beside the white boundary markings. Its two occupance looked on all the activity with as much interest as Sophia. One of the men was using a camera with a telephoto lens, and as Sophia turned, shading her eyes against the sun, the camera clicked rapidly, bringing her face closer and closer.