Dust Devil (20 page)

“
No.
No! It was an accident! A terrible accident, that’s all!”
Sarah exclaimed from where she knelt at Renzo’s side, dabbing
blindly with her beach towel at the cuts and scrapes that seemed to
have bloodied him all over.

“
No,
Evie’s right! Renzo shoved Sonny!” somebody said.

“
He
did not!” someone else insisted.

“
The
law’ll decide. Drew’s gone for the sheriff.”

“
Why
wait? Get a rope, and we’ll string the guinea bastard up
ourselves!”

The
fight that had brewed earlier erupted then, quickly escalating to
riotous proportions as beer bottles were broken so their jagged necks
could be used as makeshift weapons. Girls ran screaming in every
direction, trying to reach their cars, to lock themselves in, to
escape. During the melee, fearing for his life, believing that at the
very least he would be charged with and convicted of murder in the
small, biased town in which he lived—most of which was owned by
the Holbrookes—Renzo stumbled dazedly to his feet, staggered
desperately toward his Harley. His head throbbed horribly. He had
struck it somehow in the fall, and blood seeped into one eye from the
nasty gash on his forehead.

He
never heard Sarah calling his name. Never saw her trying frantically
to reach him, only to be knocked down and nearly trampled in the
brawl. His only clear thought was not of her, but of getting away.
Gunning the motorcycle’s engine, he tore off, thinking he
didn’t dare return home. Sheriff Laidlaw was certain to head
straight to the Martinellis’ bungalow, looking for him. Renzo
thought he needed to go someplace where he could lose himself,
someplace like the big city.

So
once he was free of the woods and meadows, he turned the bike on to
the dirt road that led from town, ripping along at such a furious
clip, his mind and emotions in such a turmoil, that he completely
forgot about the railroad tracks, didn’t slow for the bad,
uneven crossing with its old, peeling white warning signs, but hit at
full speed the rough dip just before the steel rails. The violent
impact blew out his front tire, and the Harley, unable to sustain
this further damage, slid into an uncontrollable skid that left Renzo
lying stunned and hurting in the ditch alongside the road.

After
several long minutes, the adrenaline pumping wildly through his body
got him shakily onto his
feet.
Clutching
his ribs, he limped toward the bike and saw it was done for. Hardly
thinking, he snatched his jeans and tank top from his saddlebags,
somehow dressed himself, then forced himself to press
on afoot. He
was
a
mile down
J
the
road before he realized he hadn’t put on his shoes, but had
left them behind. Now and then, he glanced back, terrified, over his
shoulder, expecting to hear the wail of the siren, to see the
flash of lights belonging to Sheriff Laidlaw's patrol car. Renzo
didn’t know how far he had traveled when he did at last dimly
discern the frightening sound of an automobile engine behind him. He
flung himself
down
into
the ditch, peering up over its edge. The oncoming car was long and
sleek and black. It
wasn’t
the
sheriff’s.

In
desperation, Renzo scrambled from the ditch, stuck out his thumb in
the hitchhiker’s age-old gesture, knowing he couldn’t
walk much farther. He was in too much pain; he felt as though he were
going to pass out. Still, he didn’t know whether to be relieved
or filled with apprehension when the automobile rolled to a halt, its
back door was slowly opened from the inside, and then a low, thickly
accented voice from his past ordered tersely, “Well, donna just
standa there, boy. Getta in.”

Misery
acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

The
Tempest

—
William
Shakespeare

Renzo
eased himself into the car’s backseat, next to its passenger,
closed the door.

“
Drive
on, Guido,” Papa Nick instructed his chauffeur. Then, pressing
a button, he rolled up the glass partition that separated him and
Renzo from Guido. “Where you headed, boy?” he asked.

“
The
big city.”

“
Uh-huh.”
His gnarled hands resting on the silver-knobbed malacca cane propped
between his legs, Papa Nick deliberated on this piece of information.
“Whadda you gonna do there?” he inquired at last.

“
Get
a job.”

“
Uh-huh,”
Papa Nick thought hard some more. “What kindajob?”

“
One
at a newspaper, if I can.”

“
Uh-huh,”
Papa Nick said yet a third time. He reached into his trouser pocket,
drew forth two pieces of gold-foil-wrapped chocolate, handed one to
Renzo. “I remember you like chocolate, from that first time I
ever see you. Whadda scarecrow you were then! Eh? But even then, I
know whadda fine man you gonna grow into someday.” They ate the
candy, chewing silently, Renzo thinking that cracking his skull must
have addled his wits. Or else Papa Nick was as crazy as a June bug,
picking him up off the road, sitting there, not saying a word about
the cuts and bruises and blood that covered his body, the fact that
he looked as though he had been dragged through a combine backward,
that his feet were bare and that he could properly be thought to be
running away from home—even though he lacked even so much as
the battered old suitcase with which he had years ago arrived at the
Martinellis’ bungalow.

But
apparently, Papa Nick knew more than Renzo suspected, as was made
clear when the old man finally spoke again. “You kill J. D.
Holbrooke’s golden boy, Renzo?”

“
No.
Yes. I mean... it was an accident. Why? How— how do you know
about it?”

“
I
got my ways, and besides, news travels fast in a small town. You
wanna tell me what happened outta at the quarry, uppa on toppa that
rock?”

“
Well,
the truth is, I’m—I’m not exactly sure what
happened. Sonny and I...we had decided not to make the dive, after
all. We’d... ah... sorta patched up our differences up there,
realized they weren’t worth risking our lives over. We turned
to head back down, and then... I don’t know. I felt a sudden,
sharp pain in my shoulder, like I’d been stung by a wasp or a
bee. They’re always buzzing around out there at the quarry. But
it startled me, so I flinched. I lost my footing, bumped into Sonny,
and the next thing I knew, we were falling. He wasn’t nearly as
good a diver as I am, so he couldn’t get himself into position
before we hit the water. He was twisted around all wrong. We struck
the stones under the surface. I cracked my head, just a glancing
blow, I think, or I’d probably be dead, too. But Sonny broke
his neck, got all tangled up in some willow roots or something. He
might have drowned, but I figure he was already dead by then. Are
you—are you going to turn me over to the sheriff, Mr.
Genovese?”

“
Papa
Nick, boy. Everybody calls me Papa Nick. And no, why woulda I wanna
handa you over to the sheriff? Do you t’ink I shoulda or
somet’ing?”

“
Well,
no. I mean... Sonny’s death... it
was
an
accident. But Evie and the others...they were all shouting I’d
murdered Sonny, that I’d deliberately shoved him off that rock,
knowing he couldn’t hack the dive, would probably be killed.
They were going to lynch me, for Christ’s sake! That’s
why I have to get away. Nobody in town’ll believe me over the
Holbrookes.”

“
I
believe you.”

“
Yeah,
but you’re Italian.”

“
Whadda
gave it away? I got spaghetti on my tie?” Papa Nick queried,
then laughed heartily at his own joke, his big belly shaking as it
had that day on his veranda so long ago.

Renzo
forced himself to smile, but the mention of spaghetti had reminded
him of Sarah. He was deeply stricken by the sudden realization that
he had left her behind. Still, what kind of future could he offer her
now, especially if he were to wind up being charged with murder,
hunted by the law, a fugitive from justice? She deserved better than
that, much better.

Papa
Nick reached out, took hold of Renzo’s upper arm, examining it
intently for a moment. “That sure donna looka like no wasp
sting to me,” he observed of the gouge in Renzo’s
shoulder. “Looka like a flesh wound from a bullet, if you ask
me.”

“
A
bullet? No, that’s impossible. I must have just scraped it
going under.”

“
Uh-huh.”
From his shirt pocket, Papa Nick withdrew a business card. Turning it
over, cupping it in his palm, he wrote something on it with a gold
pen, then handed the card to Renzo. “There. Keepa that. Donna
throw it away or lose it. When you getta to the big city, give the
man whose name I’ve written there a call. Tell him I told you
to contact him. He works for the
Herald.
If
you’re any good at reporting, he’ll see you getta hired
on there.”

Renzo
stared at the name Papa Nick had written on the card, abruptly
shivering. He told himself he had been injured and was in shock, so
it was only to be expected that he felt chilled. But deep down
inside, he knew his shudder had nothing to do with his physical
condition and everything to do with Papa Nick’s shadowy,
spidery web of power and influence. Instinctively, Renzo knew he
didn’t want to be beholden to the old man.

“
Thanks,
Mr. Geno... ah... Papa Nick. But even if it means I have to get out
of your car right now and walk from here on out, I have to tell you
honestly that I’d rather not be put into a position where you
might someday come to me and say I owe you a favor.”

“
Donna
worry. You’re not. Hal Younger’s not in the business. And
I donna wanna not’ing from you—not’ing, except for
you to make somet’ing of yourself, somet’ing to be proud
of.”

“
I
wish I could believe that—”

“
Believe
it. Besides, you already owe me. You just donna know it yet.”

“
What—what
do you mean?”

“
When
Sofie, that slut who called herself your mother, wanted to unload
you, who do you t’ink set it uppa for you to live with Joe and
Madonna, eh? Who do you t’ink paid for that fancy motorcycle of
yours, and your college education, among other t’ings? I did,
that’sa who! You donna know alla this before, but I t’ink
maybe it’sa time you know it now.”

If
the old man had suddenly reached over and whacked him on the head
with that silver-knobbed cane, Renzo couldn’t have been more
stunned. He thought he must be dreaming, suffering a hideous
nightmare that was delivering multiple jolts to his system. He told
himself more than once to wake up. But to his dismay, he didn’t
suddenly find himself at home in his bed.