Italy to Die For (20 page)

Chapter 32

Beyond the Barrier

Nicco Rizzi drove through streets I’d not seen before, all the while making and receiving phone calls I couldn’t understand, a wake-up call to never leave home again without speaking the language of any country I planned on visiting. Another trip to Italy after this one was up in the air and would stay there until I knew Margo was … safe, any deviation from safe I couldn’t live with. If only I hadn’t been so wrapped up in Lorenzo; and before Lorenzo, if only she hadn’t been so wrapped up in Giorgio. History now, at least the Giorgio part, Lorenzo was another story, one yet to be resolved.

“What about Margo,” I asked
Nicco. “Is she all right?”

“Please, signorina ….”

“Call me Ellen, or Elena.”

“Please, Elena, shut up.”

“Sorry.”

“Not another word.”

One corner after the other, Nicco took on two wheels and came back down on three. I kept my mouth shut and squeezed my eyes even tighter, any moment expecting a fiery death to take both of us. Add to that the police siren assaulting my ears. I covered them with my hands but couldn’t rid myself of the insanity. After the next two-wheeler, Nicco slammed on his brakes so fast my neck jerked and my head rattled. I held it tight but not tight enough to keep my hands from shaking after my head settled down. When I opened my eyes, what I saw sent me into panic mode and Nicco out of the vehicle.

“What about Margo,” I shouted
to his back.

Instead of answering me, Nicco waved a pai
r of surgical gloves he’d pulled from his jacket pocket.

Fifty fe
et away, the remains of an accident unlike any fender-bender I’d seen throughout Italy. What once had been a vehicle would never again cruise through the streets of Monterosso or any other village for that matter. Had there been time, I’d have taken it to give up my breakfast. Instead I hopped out and followed Nicco to where steam poured and hissed from under the hood of what I now realized was a taxi. Inside the mangled mess came a silence that spoke volumes: no moaning, no groaning, no cries for help. Tourists had already gathered; make that Fonso and his brigade disguised as tourists. Fonso, gypsies … oh my god. Connecting this taxi to my sister took all of fifteen seconds, longer than it should have but long enough for me to see Fonso turn into a hot-bloodied gypsy capable of running faster than any other person on the scene. First to reach the wreckage, he pulled out the driver and kicked his lifeless body and kept kicking until two policemen shoved him aside. Meanwhile, Nicco gave a hard yank on the rear door to open it. After maneuvering to get inside, he stayed there for a while before backing out. Blood covered the front of his shirt and the gloves he’d put on earlier.

“Margo!”
I tried to run but my feet wouldn’t obey my brain. Or so I thought before realizing it was Lorenzo holding me back, his arms protecting me in a way I couldn’t appreciate at that moment. Tears splashed from my eyes, making me think of Margo who never cried in public unless she was wearing waterproof mascara.

“Let me go.
” With a twist of my arms, I freed myself from Lorenzo’s grip. “My sister needs me.”

“Do not bother with the taxi
,” he said. “Margo is not there.”

“
Meaning what, Lorenzo, meaning what?” I pushed him away with one determined fist. “She’s dead? She’s alive? She’s injured or on her way to Rapallo.”

“If she were dead or seri
ously injured, do you think we would still be standing here?”

“I don’t know because I don’t know you, at least not the real you.”

“Nothing has changed between us, I am what I have always been.”

“Then take me to her.
And no more games, Lorenzo. I mean it. She better not be dead.”

“Trust me, Elena.”

“Not until I get answers.”

“First things first, which requires my speaking
with Fonso.”

“Not without me and no more secret
s.”

I didn’t put up a fight when Lorenzo took my arm, in fact I welcomed the warmth of it, the sensation of his skin touching mine, invoking memori
es so recent I still tasted him on my lips and in my mouth. Together we walked toward a small crowd gathering behind a barrier the police were setting up. On the way we passed by the wreckage. Nicco was kneeling beside a passenger he must’ve removed from the back seat, both of them covered with more blood than one person could afford to lose. A female, I thought, but not Margo. She would never have worn such klutzy shoes. Make that one shoe, the other was missing.

As soon as we reached the barrier, Fonso came forward and would’ve hugged me had I
not moved closer to Lorenzo, so close a thread could not have slid between us.

Fonso
smiled like a Cheshire cat wearing a baseball cap. “Ah-h, Signorina Elena, do not despair.”

I did not return the smile but demanded to see my sister.

“Si, si, please come with.” He snapped his fingers and the gypsy brigade surrounded Lorenzo and me.

Lorenzo whispered another, “Trust me,” along with a, “trust them.”

Really, trust a highly respected seducer of at least one aging virgin, okay this was Italy. But what about a highly respected widower whose wife was still alive; and what about a band of gypsies dressed like the Keystone tourists. My instincts told me I should walk to the edge of the barrier, stand beside the nearest police officer. Better yet, scream for Nicco who might come running with his bloody shirt and bloody gloves. Or tell me to shut up as soon as he saw Lorenzo. But this was about Margo, my main concern, my only concern.

“Elena, are you with me?”

I sighed but only from within, and said, “For now, yes.

Still
clinging to Lorenzo’s arm, I let him and his gypsy in-law-out-law lead me through the growing crowd of curious onlookers. The blast from one more siren announced the arrival of an ambulance. I turned my head, as would any certified rubbernecker have done. The lack of urgency when the emergency crew exited their vehicle told me they already know the injured were beyond saving. Lorenzo patted my arm, his way of urging me forward, even though each step distancing me from the wreckage became more hesitant than the one before.

When we turned into an alley
, the brigade backed off, leaving me with Lorenzo and two strides ahead of us, Fonso.

My feet turned to clay, preventing me from taking one more step. Still, I remained calm when I asked, “
How much farther?”

“
No more than the blink of one eye,” Fonso said from over his shoulder. He stopped at a bar so obscure I would’ve passed it without a second glance. A cardboard sign stuck in the window was no more than an afterthought and hardly worth the faded lettering that rendered it unreadable. Fonso tugged on the door, tugged again until it squeaked open, and with a sweep of his hand, he motioned me inside.

“
Go to your sister, signorina,” he said. “To keep her waiting any longer would be sign of poor manners, even for an Americana.”

Chapter 33

What Accident?

“You first,” I told Lorenzo.

“How many times must I tell you to trust me?”

“Until I know for certain that I can.”

He released his grip on my arm and exchanged it for my hand. I should’ve ignored the strength of his fingers, the warmth of his palm. Instead I reveled in the comfort of his leading
me into an ante room and from there through a wood-paneled bar. Its main source of lights came from flickering candles held upright in round wine bottles covered with straw baskets reminiscent of those Italian restaurants located on The Hill in St. Louis. But these patrons were none like I’d seen in St. Louis. These patrons had the look of gypsies, the dress of gypsies. The music of gypsies—pass the guitar and castanets, I could barely hear myself think. The women had scarves tied around their heads, gold dangling from their ears, bracelets jingling from their wrists. Not one of them crossed her eyes or stuck out her foot to trip me as we passed by. Some of the men wore gold earrings and puffed on their cigarettes. If not cigarettes, their cigars; one sucked on a pipe wedged in the corner of his mouth. Man or woman, they all acknowledged Lorenzo with a nod, a wink, or subtle gesture, some spoke a few words though not in Italian but rather what I took to be the Roma I’d heard from Fonso and his men.

We’d almost reach
ed the end of the bar when I saw Margo a few feet beyond, sitting at a table, not by herself but having an animated conversation with none other than Bernardo Cozzani. Seeing me, she waved with enthusiasm, as if I might otherwise think twice about joining her.

Nano s
econds later we were hugging and crying, clinging to each other like we hadn’t done since our grade school years at Holy Angels.

“Don’t go crazy with the splish-splash,” I said. “Those tears will
mess up your mascara.”

“Forget the mascara, what about my eye.”

She stepped back an arm’s length, showing me globs of hair pulled in all directions, blood caked around her nostrils, and what promised to become a spectacular shiner. I pulled out a tissue from pocket and told her to spit on it. While I wiped her nose clean, another round of tears splashed from her eyes as well as mine. Good tears, tears of joy.

Bernardo
tapped me on the arm and opened his arms. As soon as we finished our Italian hug, a waiter appeared. White shirt, black tie, embroidered vest: if not a gypsy in this lifetime then the one before. He brought wine in a bottle like those used for candle holders and four glasses. My legs were shaking when I sat down with every expectation of Lorenzo joining our table. Where was he? I got up, retraced my footsteps to a circle of gypsies, and pulled him away from the center.

“
Not one more word,” I said, “unless it begins the explanation you owe Margo and me.”

This time Lorenzo followed me.
More greetings the Italian way: nephew to uncle, Lorenzo to Margo, uncle to me again. Margo and I, no way, enough was enough. After we sat, Lorenzo poured the wine. With a click of our glasses we said our
salute.
And tasted vino with an earthiness like none I’d tasted before.

Bernardo
must’ve approved, given the smack of his lips and enthusiastic,
“Bene, bene.”

Lorenzo cleared his throat and was about to speak w
hen I stopped him with a finger to his lips, and said, “Not another word.”

To which he raised his arm and motioned Fonso to join us.

“The story is not mine to tell,” Lorenzo said. “Better you should hear it from Fonso.”

While we waited f
or Fonso to greet every man and woman and wild child on his way to our table, I asked Margo about Jonathan.

“
Jonathan, sweet Jonathan; if not for him I wouldn’t be here.”

“Jonathan from Iowa?”

“Who else but. Give him some credit, El. And me, since, as you well know, I do not associate with losers.”

“Who would’ve
thought.”

Margo
told me about her being on the phone with Jonathan when another taxi happened by and she hopped in, how Jonathan became concerned and must’ve called the police. Before she got any further with her rundown of events, Fonso showed up. It’s about time, I thought, but didn’t say. He grabbed a chair from the neighboring table, slung one leg over the seat, and sat facing the backrest, his arms positioned along the top rail.

“I
s good,” he said, “right, signorini?”

“Maybe so, maybe not, y
ou tell us.”

“What’
s to tell? Signorina Margo is alive. Those who detained her will never detain again. All is well with the world of Monterosso El Mare.”

“
About those … those …”

“
Criminals, El,” Margo said, “your gypsies from the Autogrille.”

Bernardo
murmured something in Italian that I didn’t catch but Margo did. “That’s right,” she said. “The man had a gold tooth.”

“
Yes, for sure Tas and Lila,” Fonso said. “Without a doubt they were the two agitators.”

“But
why me,” Margo said. “I had nothing to do with El’s offensive behavior.”

“
Now wait a minute. I did nothing more than protect myself, same as you would’ve done.”

“But
that is my point,” Margo said. “Until today I had no interaction with either of them. So, why would they want to harm me? And what about the two women who had their throats slit?”

“First things first,”
Fonso said. “As I mentioned before, Tas and Lila were just playing with Signorina Elena, two harmless incidents and nothing more. On the other hand, it seems that you, Signorina Margo, have provoked a certain Florentine.”

“Good grief, the only person I know in Florence is
Giorgio Molina.”

“A local mime,” I said.

“Giorgio prefers performance artist. Although we may have parted over a silly misunderstanding, I can’t imagine him going bonkers over pasta not being al dente.”

“Nor can I,” Fonso said. “But when it comes to the Italiani and their pasta, there’s no accounting for what they might do.
”

“I take exception to that,” Lorenzo said.

“Only kidding, my friend,” Fonso said. “
However, pasta aside, the prominent Lucia Molina may have been otherwise motivated. It was Signora Molina who saw fit to put a curse on you.”

“Giorgio’s
Mama from Hell, no way,” Margo said.

“
The woman had connections with Lila and Tas that go back many years. Tas let it be known to members of my tribe that Signora Molina hired him to make sure you never returned to Italy, let alone Firenze. After one failed attempt, he convinced Lila to help him, according to her best friend who never lies but shall remain nameless.”

“
Good grief,” Margo said. “So, Mama wanted to protect her precious son from me of all people.”

Fonso shrugged. “Hearsay, signorini, knowing the carabinieri, they will
give Signora Molina a stern warning and nothing more.”

“But that doesn’t explain
the two women who had their throats slit.”

“Anot
her matter,” Lorenzo said. “One not involving the Roma, of that we are almost though not totally certain.”

We
, no way would I let that pass. “What about you, Lorenzo. Just who are
we
in this scenario?”

“My
head wears many hats,” he said, “Most often that of a liaison, in this case between the Roma and the carabinieri.”

“Okay, I’
ll give you a pass, anyway for now.”

Margo’s eyes were ab
out to close, but not before I resolved a few issues with her. “You-hoo, Margo.”

S
he responded to my nudge with a jerk of her head. “Sorry, what was the question?”

“
Jonathan, where is he?”

Margo wrinkled her brow. “Maybe in Portofino, you think?”
             

“Or waiting to hear from you,” Lorenzo said. “Perhaps you should call him.”

“Bingo!” She leaned across the table and surprised Lorenzo with a mouth-to-mouth kiss that went beyond a peck between new friends. “Grazie, Lorenzo. Thank you for sending the gypsies and whatever else you did to get me away from that horrible accident. As for those horrible people who tried to kill me, may every single one of them get their just cannoli.”

“Justice has already been served,” Lorenzo said. “Both of them died at the scene of the accident.”

“Accident, what accident?”

“Margo, are you all right?” I waved my hand in front of her face, only then realizing her eye
s were dilated, the irises taking up more space than the amber surrounding them.

She leaned one elbow on the table and dropped her head to the palm of her hand.
“I don’t feel so good. Maybe you should call Mom and tell her we’ll be late.”