The Piranhas (27 page)

“What happens if they don’t like me?” I asked. “Do they kill me?”

“Don’t be silly,” Uncle Rocco said. “This will be a very pleasant evening.”

I met his eyes. “I’ll feel better if you can give me a machine gun.”

He laughed. “You won’t need it. We’ve got all the protection we need.”

Kim said, “I’ve got to get a dress. I didn’t know we were going to have an important dinner to attend.” She looked at Uncle Rocco. “Is Alma going to be dressed up?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Where can I get a dress?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. All the stores are open until ten
P.M.
And we won’t have dinner until midnight.”

General Gonzales said, “I’d like to see Señorita Vargas.”

Uncle Rocco nodded. “That will be no problem. You can join me when I leave here and return to the boat. She’s there.”

The general nodded.

Uncle Rocco looked at me. “You better go shopping, too. You’ll need a tuxedo. This is really a formal occasion.”

“How many people will be there?” I asked.

“Twenty-four, twenty-five. They’re really curious to meet you. Most of them knew your father when we were young.”

“Where will the dinner be held?” I asked.

“Here at this hotel. I arranged for one of the private party rooms.” He looked at me. “You don’t look very happy.”

“I’m still not sure that I like this whole idea,” I said.

“Don’t be so nervous,” he said. “Just remember, you and I are family.”

General Gonzales followed Uncle Rocco as he left the suite.

I looked at Kim. “Call the concierge. He’ll probably know the best stores to go to.”

*   *   *

KIM AND I
started to laugh as we dressed for dinner. We had had to rent our clothes at a wedding boutique. Even though my tuxedo was Giorgio Armani, it was still a three-year-old style. Kim had on a very Sicilian long lace gown.

“I think we can go to the mayor’s office and get married in these clothes,” she remarked.

“Anything’s possible,” I said. “I haven’t seen a tuxedo like this in a while. What the hell, when in Sicily, do as the Sicilians do.”

I looked at my watch. “Christ, we’re early. We have another hour to kill before dinner. Let’s have a drink.”

There was a knock at the door. I opened it. It was Uncle Rocco. He looked fantastic. And why shouldn’t he? He, at least, had brought his own tuxedo.

“Where are Alma and Gonzales?” I asked.

“They are not coming to dinner,” he said.

“I thought you said Alma was coming,” Kim said.

“I changed my mind,” Uncle Rocco said. “In Sicily, at business dinners, the women are not invited.”

“Then why am I going?” Kim asked.

“First of all, you’re American. Second of all, I told them that you were Jed’s fiancée and that you also speak Italian, which is helpful to Jed.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a drink.”

“A short one,” Uncle Rocco said. “Because we need to be in the dining room before our guests arrive.” He turned to Kim. “That’s a very pretty dress.”

She smiled. “I feel like a Sicilian bridesmaid.”

He laughed. “What the hell, nobody will know the difference.”

At a quarter of twelve we were in the private dining room. Exactly at midnight the other guests began arriving.

Respectfully, Uncle Rocco introduced me to each man as he arrived. Four of them were older men and in wheelchairs. Each was wheeled into the room by a younger man.

Uncle Rocco sat at the head of the U-shaped table. I was seated on his left, and Kim was next to me. On Uncle Rocco’s right was one of the older men who was seated in his wheelchair.

I had been introduced to each, but there was one problem. When they spoke to me in their Sicilian dialect, I could scarcely understand a word. Rocco tried to translate for me, but this was difficult as he was also busy talking to the other guests. Kim, too, tried to help translate, but her Italian was far better than her Sicilian. When the guests realized our predicament, they politely changed to Italian so that we could communicate.

The older men spoke to me about my father—how much they had respected him because he was one of the few who went his own way. They also said that they were pleased that I had followed in his footsteps.

Kim whispered to me, “What these men said about your father is really very nice.”

“Yes,” I said. “But don’t forget one thing: probably all of them are killers.”

By two o’clock in the morning dinner was over, and we were all toasting each other.

Uncle Rocco made a speech. I didn’t really catch all of what he said, but the feeling I got was that he was thanking them for allowing him to retire with honor.

The man in the wheelchair on his right said a few words and handed Uncle Rocco a velvet-covered jewelry box.

Uncle Rocco opened the box. He took out a beautiful diamond-studded Patek Philippe watch. He kissed the old man on each cheek and then turned to the other guests. It was hard for me to believe, but I could see tears rolling from his eyes as he thanked them.

Everyone applauded, then began to rise from their seats to depart. A handsome young man came to the table and stopped in front of Uncle Rocco. Uncle Rocco smiled and held out his hand. The man said something in a harsh voice, pulled a gun from his jacket, and shot at Uncle Rocco.

Automatically, without thinking, I jumped over the table and wrestled the young man to the floor. At the same time, two other men appeared right beside me, held him down, and took away his gun.

I got up and moved quickly to Uncle Rocco. He was leaning against Kim. He looked very pale.

“Have somebody get a doctor,” I said.

The two men pulled the assailant to his feet. The old man in the wheelchair who had been seated at Uncle Rocco’s right was speaking in a rough voice. He then took a gun from his own jacket and shot the assailant in the head.

I pulled open Uncle Rocco’s jacket. “I wanted to die peacefully in bed, not by a bullet,” he said.

I looked down at him and smiled. “You’re not going to die because of this wound. You’ve just been shot in the shoulder.”

The old man in the wheelchair turned to me, and this time, I was surprised to hear, he spoke to me in perfect English.

“I apologize,” he said. “It is men like this who bring dishonor to all of us.”

*   *   *

WE WERE IN
the hotel suite and Uncle Rocco groaned as the doctor picked the bullet from the flesh of his shoulder. Then he quickly swabbed the bullet hole with iodine and dressed the wound, put a sling around Uncle Rocco’s neck, and carefully placed his arm inside. He spoke to Uncle Rocco in Italian.

“What did he say?” I asked him. “I didn’t quite get it all.”

“He told him to keep his arm still—and the bandages needed to be changed every day for the next few days,” she said.

“That’s not bad.”

The doctor took out a hypodermic needle and loaded Uncle Rocco with penicillin. He spoke again to Uncle Rocco in Italian.

Again Kim translated. “He said that’s enough for the moment, and that he should take two aspirin every four hours for the pain.”

The doctor stood up and put his instruments back into his case. He said something to Kim. She nodded.

“He said that he would come by in the morning to check on him.”

“Ask him how much I owe him,” I said.

Kim did so. The doctor smiled and answered quietly in English, “One thousand dollars.”

I looked at Kim. “This is an expensive doctor,” I said.

The doctor turned to me. “I’ve not reported this to the police, and that alone is worth something.”

I opened Uncle Rocco’s jacket and took out his wallet. Quickly I counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the doctor.

“Thank you,” I said.

“No problem,” the doctor said. “You are welcome.” And he left the suite.

Uncle Rocco stared at me. “You didn’t have to give him that much money. He would have taken half. In Sicily you always bargain.”

“Why should I bargain?” I asked. “It was your money.”

“Shit,” Uncle Rocco said.

I pulled a chair up to the bed. “Now, why don’t you tell me what was going on here tonight? Every time I’m around you, somebody is shooting at you,” I said. “The only problem is that they may be shooting at me as well.”

“They’re assholes,” Uncle Rocco said.

“I don’t care who or what they are,” I said. “I want you to tell me what we’re going to do about it.”

Uncle Rocco shook his head. “You’re not going to do anything about it. The men of honor will take care of them.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked. “Maybe they are the ones after you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Uncle Rocco said. “Now we’re all in legitimate business together.”

“Do you want to stay here at the hotel tonight?” I asked. “I think you would be more comfortable here than on the boat.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Besides, it’s very late, and I think that we all need some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll talk to Alma and Gonzales. After the doctor dresses my wound again, we’ll start for home.” He looked at me again. “You’ll have to stop in New York at Inter-World Investments. They have two floors of offices at Eighty Broad. You can start meeting your executives.”

12

THE DOCTOR ARRIVED
at ten o’clock in the morning to change Uncle Rocco’s bandages. He took Uncle Rocco’s temperature and seemed satisfied—there was no fever. He quickly gave Uncle Rocco another injection of penicillin and carefully replaced his arm in the sling.

“You’re pretty good,” he said to Uncle Rocco. “All you have to do is keep changing the bandages daily, give your shoulder a rest for a while, and it will be as good as new.”

Uncle Rocco thanked him and walked him to the door. After the doctor had gone, Uncle Rocco came back and sat down at the table where we were having our coffee. “Have you heard anything from Alma yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“That’s strange. I’m surprised that she hasn’t called, or come here looking for me,” he said. “I’ll call the boat.”

“Do you have a number?” I asked him.

Uncle Rocco nodded yes. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and gave the number to the hotel operator. He waited a few moments as he listened to the phone ringing. He looked at me with a worried expression. “There’s no one answering. There should be an answer.”

“Maybe she and Gonzales are on their way here,” I said.

“I think we should go over to the boat,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, and called the concierge for a car. Fifteen minutes later we were on the quay in the harbor where the boat had been docked. The
Empress of Beaulieu
was a 120-foot motor yacht built by the Chantier D’Esterel in Cannes.

We got out of the car and looked up at the boat. We saw no one. Uncle Rocco silently took a gun out of his jacket. “Let’s go aboard,” he said, then to Kim, “You’d better stay in the car.”

“Why? Do you think there is a problem?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t take any chances.” He looked at me. “Do you have a gun?”

I did—the 9mm that Gonzales had given me. I followed Uncle Rocco up the gangplank. We boarded the boat and walked through the salon and then to the bridge.

Uncle Rocco held his hand up in front of me and pointed. A sailor lay crumpled on the floor under the wheel.

Uncle Rocco turned back and led me down a small spiral staircase that led us to the cabins. As we reached the corridor, I looked down. General Gonzales was lying on the floor, two bullet holes in his head. Quickly Uncle Rocco opened the first cabin door. Alma was sprawled across the bed, her throat cut, blood spread all over the sheets. I felt nauseous.

Uncle Rocco pushed me back into the corridor and up the staircase. I looked at him. “Why?”

He shook his head grimly. “It’s the drug trade. I told her not to try to play games with it. She wanted out, but she was trying to make a final killing.”

I still felt sick. “What do we do now?”

We left the boat and were still silent when we reached the car. I squeezed Kim’s hand as we silently pulled away and headed back to the hotel.

Kim looked at me. “What happened?” she asked as we sat in the back seat.

“They’re dead,” I whispered.

A look of horror crossed her face. She began to cry. “Oh, my God,” she said. “What will happen to that sweet child?”

*   *   *

THAT WAS FOUR
years ago. We spent several weeks in New York, while I met with Inter-World executives. Then we went back to California.

A month after that, Kim and I were married in Las Vegas. And I lost thirty-two thousand dollars at baccarat.

A month after we were married, we adopted Angela, and two years later we had our own child. A boy. I named him John after my father.

Meanwhile Uncle Rocco left Atlantic City and moved back to New York City. He rented the house he had sold me. He seemed to enjoy his life. But I had a feeling that he missed the action.

I worked all the time, and in a few years Inter-World climbed near the top of the Fortune International 500 and became as well known to the public as IBM.

It was late one evening when Aunt Rosa called me. She was crying.

“Rocco is on his deathbed, and he wanted to see you before he goes.”

I was in New York the next morning. Aunt Rosa sat outside the bedroom, crying. Her two daughters were sitting with her. Inside the bedroom, a young priest was praying. He had already given Uncle Rocco his last rites.

My uncle was gasping for breath. A nurse was sitting in a chair next to the bed. She had connected him to a heart monitor. Oxygen was being fed into his body from a portable oxygen tank. His face was pale, and he seemed to be in extreme pain. I touched his hand carefully so that I would not dislodge the IV attached to it.

He turned slowly and looked at me. After a moment he spoke. “I’m really fucked,” he said.

I tried to cheer him up. “I’ve seen people in worse condition.”

“I’m sure you have,” he said. “But they were dead.”

“Uncle Rocco, what are you complaining about? You said you wanted to die in bed. Well, here you are.”

“You are really a prick—after everything I have done for you. I’ve made your life. You’re one of the richest men in the world.”