Vendetta Trail (8 page)

TANGELENO WAS ON THE BACK PORCH CAREFULLY
trimming and working on his orchid plants when Sal Vizzini stepped out onto the back porch.

Tangeleno put his hand on the orchid and held the petals out so Vizzini could see them. “This is the Vanda Limbata,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yeah, beautiful,” Vizzini said.

Tangeleno sniffed, then sniffed again before realizing that the smell was coming from Vizzini.

“What the hell? Are you wearing perfume?”

“Yeah, I, uh, had a little accident,” Vizzini said. “I took a bath, but I could still smell it, so I put on a little perfume.”

Tangeleno chuckled. “Just so long as you don’t turn strange on me.”

“Huh, you don’t have to worry about anything like that,” Vizzini said.

“What do you want, Sal? You don’t normally come out here just to enjoy my flowers.”

“Nick Morello’s carriage has returned,” Vizzini said.

Tangeleno squinted his eyes in curiosity. “What do you mean, Nick’s carriage? Not Nick?”

“I think maybe you should come into the parlor,” Vizzini suggested.

Putting down his trowel and scissors, Tangeleno moved quickly into the parlor. There, three of his men were standing, waiting for him.

“What is it?” Tangeleno said. “What’s going on here?”

One of the men pointed to a wicker box. The lid was closed.

“What is that?” Tangeleno asked.

“This was on the seat of Nick’s carriage,” one of the men said.

“What’s in it?”

“We don’t know what is in it, Don Tangeleno,” Vizzini said. “We thought we would wait until you saw it, before we opened it.”

“All right, I’m here. Open it,” Tangeleno said.

Vizzini nodded to the man standing nearest the box. He released the clasp, opened the lid, then stepped back with a gasp.

“Well?” Tangeleno demanded. “What is it?”

“I…I think you should look, Don Tangeleno,” the man said.

Tangeleno stepped up to the box and looked down inside. Like the man who had opened it, Tangeleno gasped.

There, inside the box, was the severed head of Nicholas Morello.

“Nicholas, oh, Nicholas, my friend,” Tangeleno said in a choked voice. He stared at the head for a long moment, then turned to Vizzini. “You say his carriage brought this back? No driver?”

“The gardener saw the equipage coming in without a driver, so he moved out front to halt the horses and investi
gate. That was when he saw the box and brought it in. There was no message from De Luca.”

“Oh yes. Yes, there was a message from De Luca,” Tangeleno said. He pointed to the head. “This was his message.”

“How could De Luca do such a thing?” Vizzini asked, shaking his head sadly.

“I want him dead,” Tangeleno said. “I want De Luca and Provenzano dead. I want everyone who works for them dead. I want their soldiers dead, I want their servants dead. And if he has any dogs, cats, or goldfish, I want them dead too!” Tangeleno said, ending with a loud shout.

“Sí, sara, Don Tangeleno,”
Vizzini said. “It will be,” Vizzini promised.

THE
DELTA MIST
LEFT HER MOORING PLACE BEFORE
dawn the next morning and moved over to one of the boarding docks in order to facilitate passenger loading. Prospective passengers were advised by circulars and by advertisements that had been placed in the city newspaper to “board between the hours of seven and nine in the morning.”

Hawke had never been on a riverboat before, and he watched with interest as the passengers began to stream aboard.

“Oh, Papa, look how big this boat is!” one little boy exclaimed as he stepped onboard with his family. “Why, I bet this is the biggest boat in the whole world!”

“I wouldn’t say that,” the boy’s father replied. “But it certainly is a nice big boat.”

The boy’s mother looked around and held on to her husband’s arm, and Hawke could read in her face the changing expression of all her feelings: excitement, hope, fear, determination, and courage. Seeing families like that sometimes made Hawke realize how shallow and empty his own life
was, and, cursing himself for such thoughts, he turned away from the loading passengers.

“Sorry, sir,” a deckhand said. “But passengers aren’t allowed on this part of the deck.”

“I’m not a passenger,” Hawke replied. “I’m a crewman.”

The deckhand looked at Hawke, clearly not believing him. “You say you are a new crewman?”

“I’m a crewman in a manner of speaking,” Hawke replied.

“What do you mean, ‘a manner of speaking’?”

“I’m Mason Hawke, the new pianist.”

“The new what?”

“I’ll be playing piano in the grand salon,” Hawke explained. “At least until we reach St. Louis.”

“A piano player?” the deckhand said. “Well, yes, sir, I reckon that does make you a crew member.” He stuck his hand out. “The name is John Lee, and I welcome you aboard the
Delta Mist
.”

“I’m happy to be aboard,” Hawke said.

About half an hour later, with all passengers aboard, the captain pulled on the chain that blew the boat whistle and its deep-throated tones could be heard all up and down the river.

The captain put the engine in reverse and the steam boomed out of the steam-relief pipe like the firing of a cannon. The stern wheel began spinning in reverse and the boat pulled away from the dock, then turned with the stern pointing downriver and the bow pointing upstream. The engine lever was slipped to full forward, and the wheel began spinning in the other direction until it finally caught hold, overcame the force of the current, and started moving the boat upstream.

Hawke stood on the deck watching the dock fall away as the boat beat its way against the current, then negotiated the wide, sweeping bend that gave the Crescent City its name.
The engine steam pipe continued to boom loudly, as if the city were under a cannonading.

In midstream now, the
Delta Mist
started working its way upriver, with its two engines clattering and the paddle wheel slapping and the boat itself being enveloped in the thick smoke that belched out from the high twin stacks.

The sound of the boat whistle and the booming of the steam pipe rolled across the city, awakening Rachel. Opening her eyes, she lay with her head on the pillow for a moment or two, enjoying the very bright sun that streamed in through the window, illuminating the room.

She thought about the boat and wondered if that was the boat that Hawke was on. Perhaps Fancy had been right. Maybe she should have told him who she was. As it stood now, they were never going to see each other again anyway. It might have been interesting to reach back in time—if just for a moment or two.

To her surprise, she felt a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes.

“This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “What did I think he would do, even if I had told him? I did the right thing.”

“Mary! Mary, you get those clothes hung up on the line, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama, I’m doing it now,” a young girl’s voice answered.

The voices were coming from outside, drifting into the room on the soft breeze that filled the muslin curtains at the slightly raised window and lifted them, cloudlike, over the carpeted floor.

Rachel heard the little girl singing a cheery morning song and she got out of bed and walked over to the window to look down onto the alley. She saw a young girl of about twelve,
hanging a wash on the line. Mary lived in the house that was just across the alley behind the House of the Evening Star.

Rachel lifted the window all the way up. “Good morning, Mary,” Rachel called down to her.

“Good morning, Miss Rachel,” Mary called back.

“Mary!” her mother scolded from inside the house. “I’ve told you not to talk to any of those women.”

“But, Mama, Miss Rachel is my friend.”

“Women like that are friends of no one, except Satan,” the woman said.

Stung by the harsh words, Rachel put the window down, then looked at the clock. It was ten o’clock, and she knew that most of the city had been awake for several hours now. The house had been quite busy last night, and after Professor Tompkins, she had entertained two more men. But it was very quiet this morning, and that made it conducive to sleeping late.

Rachel got dressed and stepped out into the hallway. When she did so, she saw Doney folding towels and sheets and stacking them on shelves in a hall closet. Rachel smiled. She remembered wondering, when she first arrived, how one place could use as many towels as this place did. That curiosity had been one of the last vestiges of her naïveté. She had been here for over two years now. She had experienced many men, in many different ways, and by now there was no curiosity left unfulfilled.

The door across from Rachel’s room opened and Fancy stepped out into the hall, yawning and stretching.

“Good morning, Fancy,” Rachel said.

“Good morning, Rachel,” Fancy replied. “Did you have a busy night?”

“Not too busy,” Rachel replied. “How about you?”

“Just Vinnie, but he stayed all night,” Fancy said. She
turned to the maid. “Doney, I had to come down here and get my own towel last night.” She brushed her hand through her hair to push the strands back away from her face.

“The towels was here, wasn’t they?” the older woman answered. “I brung ’em in from the line and folded ’em. I just hadn’t gotten around to puttin’ ’em in the rooms yet.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to have to come get them, Doney, I want them in my room,” Fancy said. “I thought we had an understanding. We spread our legs for the men, you keep us supplied with clean towels.”

“I just be one person, Fancy,” Doney said, walking away in a huff.

Fancy turned to Rachel, who had been watching everything in amused curiosity.

“I tell you, sometimes that woman can be pure mean-spirited,” Fancy said. Her comment, however, was ameliorated with a smile.

“Doney’s all right,” Rachel said. “And she is overworked.”

“Don’t ever let her hear you say that she’s overworked. Lord, we’ll never get another lick of work out of her,” Fancy said, laughing.

“Fancy? Fancy, I must be going,” someone called from the room with the open door. A man followed the voice, stepping out into the hallway. He was still wearing his hat with a small round crown and a small brim, but he was wearing absolutely nothing else.

“Hello, Mr. Provenzano,” Rachel said.

“Rachel,” Provenzano said, lifting his hat. When the maid came back, bringing more towels, Provenzano spoke to her. “Doney, did you get my clothes washed?”

Provenzano showed no more concern over being naked in front of the maid than he had being naked in front of Rachel and Fancy.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Provenzano,” Doney answered, and she
pointed to a table where freshly laundered underwear, shirt, and pants lay.

“Thanks,” Provenzano said.

Smiling, Rachel went back into her room to make up her bed. She was just finishing when there was a light knock.

“Yes?” she said.

“It’s Provenzano.”

Rachel opened the door and saw Provenzano standing there. He was still wearing his hat, but now he was fully dressed.

“I would like to invite you and Fancy to a dinner tonight, to be hosted by Don Carlos De Luca. The dinner will be at his home.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“I realize we will have to pay for your time. I’ll clear it with Clarisse.”

Looking over Provenzano’s shoulder, Rachel saw Fancy standing behind him.

“What do you think, Fancy?” she asked.

“I think it will be great fun,” Fancy said. “Oh, do say that you will go.”

“All right,” Rachel agreed. “I’ll go.”

“Good!” Fancy said, clapping her hands in delight.

“Where is Mr. De Luca’s house?” Rachel asked.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Provenzano said. “I’ll send a carriage down to pick you up.”

HUMMINGBIRDS FLITTED AROUND THE CREPE MYRTLE
bush, darting from bloom to bloom. Near the bush was the alabaster statue of a nude woman holding a basin. The basin, which was filled with water, gave the birds a place to drink and bathe. Throughout the garden, flowers bloomed in colorful profusion.

Carlos De Luca’s backyard was one of the showcase lawns of New Orleans. The grass was well manicured and kept free of weeds, the lawn was terraced, beautifully landscaped, and filled with statuary of all sizes and shapes. There was also a large round pool, crowned by a very ornate fountain. De Luca was clearly proud of his yard, and when Rachel and Fancy arrived earlier in the evening, he showed it off with great relish.

Rachel responded to the show with the proper enthusiasm and enjoyment, though in truth she thought that the many statues, birdbaths, fountains, and pools made the garden a little too extravagant for her tastes.

Although some of Rachel’s clients had taken her to dinner
at restaurants from time to time, this was the very first time she had ever been to a private home, and she commented about it to Fancy.

“Oh, I’ve been in private homes many times,” Fancy replied.

“You have?”

“Yes.”

“Why, that’s wonderful.”

“Not so wonderful.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know why I’m never taken to a restaurant?”

“No.”

“Think about it, Rachel. I’m colored.”

“But you are only half-colored.”

Fancy laughed. “That might be true, but I haven’t been able to figure out how to separate the white half that they will let into the restaurants from the colored half that has to stay outside.”

Rachel laughed with her.

“To be honest, Fancy, I sometimes forget that you are colored. I never think of you that way anymore. I just think of you as my friend—and my sister.”

As the two young women surveyed the garden, they walked around the backyard in their butterfly-bright gowns, almost as if a couple of the flowers themselves had come alive. Provenzano asked them to wear their most beautiful gowns and, acquiescing to the request, Rachel was wearing a bright yellow gown, while Fancy chose lavender.

“This is a celebration,” Provenzano told them when he issued the invitation.

“What sort of celebration?”

“Fifteen years ago, on this date, our Sicilian brotherhood overthrew the Bourbon authority in Palermo.”

“Oh, then it is like your Independence Day,” Rachel said.

“Yeah,” Provenzano replied. “You might say it is something like that.”

They would be dining outside in the garden and, even as the women strolled around enjoying the garden, unaware that, by their beauty they were actually a part of the scenery, servants hovered about as they prepared for the meal.

They weren’t ordinary servants, though. As Provenzano explained, someone like De Luca could not afford to have ordinary servants because it would be too dangerous. Therefore all his servants were Sicilian soldiers.

“Soldiers? You mean like in the army?” Rachel asked.

“Sort of like that, only this isn’t the U.S. Army. This is more like Don De Luca’s private army.”

Whether servants or soldiers, they knew their jobs and they did them well. The dining room table was covered with a damask tablecloth and set with glistening china, sparkling crystal, and shining silver.

The women were escorted to the table and seated before De Luca and Provenzano took their seats. One of the servants immediately poured a small amount of wine into De Luca’s goblet. He swirled it around, inhaled the aroma, then tasted it.

“Ahh,
Il Chianti è eccellente. Lei può servirlo, Guido.
You may serve,” he translated for the women.

“
Grazi,
Don De Luca,” Guido replied. He poured Chianti into Rachel’s glass, then Fancy’s, then De Luca’s, and finally Provenzano’s glass.

“Saluto,”
De Luca said, lifting his glass.

The others lifted their glasses as well.

“Saluto!”
they responded.

They took a swallow, then De Luca lifted his glass again.

“To Nicholas Morello,” De Luca said.
“Lui possa vagare attraverso inferno quardando per la sua testa.”

De Luca, Provenzano, and the Italian servants standing
around the table all laughed. When Provenzano saw the confused look in the faces of Rachel and Fancy, he interpreted for them.

“The Don said of Morello, ‘May he wander through hell, looking for his head,’” Provenzano said. “It is a joke about someone we knew.”

“Oh,” Rachel said, not understanding the humor.

Guido returned to the table then, carrying an envelope.

“Don De Luca,” Guido said. “Here is the money you asked for.”

“Is the money all in federal bills? I don’t want any local banknotes.”

“
Sí,
Don De Luca. It is all in U.S. Government greenbacks,” Guido said.

“Grazi,”
De Luca said, taking the envelope. He pulled out some bills, counted them, then returned the bills to the envelope and stuck the envelope into his inside jacket pocket. He looked across the table at Rachel and smiled.

“Forgive me for the interruption,
signorina,
” he said. “But the cost of doing business with the police is quite high, and they insist upon federal bills. No local bank or promissory notes.”

“I understand,” Rachel said. “From time to time it has been necessary for Clarisse to do business with the police. They can be quite particular when it comes to how they wish to be paid.”

“And sometimes they want to do business with us without paying at all,” Fancy said.

“If your madam would agree to let me protect her operation, nobody would ever try and do business without paying again,” De Luca said.

One of the servants brought out a serving dish and set it on the table.

“Ah,
la nostra cena,
” De Luca said as the servant removed the silver cover.

“Our supper,” Provenzano interpreted.

A few moments after they began eating, Guido came again to the table, then leaned over to speak quietly to De Luca.

“Show him in,” De Luca said. “Luigi, set an extra plate for the police commissioner.”

“
Sí,
Don De Luca.”

The police commissioner was escorted back to the garden then. He was tall, gray-haired, and had a mustache, but no beard. He was wearing a white suit with a brown silk vest. De Luca rose to speak to him.

“Signore Hennesy, how nice of you to join our celebration.”

“‘Celebration’?”

“
Sí,
our
celebrazione di indipendenza.
I’m having an extra plate set for you.”

“Thank you, no,” the commissioner said. “I can’t stay long.”

“I will be very disappointed, Signore Hennesy, if you do not honor our independence celebration,” De Luca said pointedly. “You are here for your money, I know. But surely you can take the time to have supper with friends and two beautiful women?”

Finally realizing that De Luca’s invitation was more than an invitation, Hennesy acquiesced.

“Of course I will stay and have dinner with you, Don De Luca. And I thank you—very much—for your kind invitation.”

“I am honored that you accepted.”

“I have heard that Tangeleno may be looking to have a…what is that word you Italians use for revenge?”

“We are Sicilian,” De Luca said. “And the word you are looking for is ‘vendetta.’ But do not worry yourself about Tangeleno. We can take care of ourselves.”

“Perhaps that is true, but I’m sure you realize what difficulty a full-scale war between you and Tangeleno would cause. For all of us,” Hennesy added pointedly.

De Luca laughed. “You mean you are afraid that if I am killed, your money will be cut off.” De Luca reached for his inside pocket. “Well, don’t worry about a thing. Tangeleno will not dare attack me. He knows I am too…” The sound of a gunshot interrupted De Luca’s comment.

“Uhn!” De Luca grunted.

Rachel saw blood spurt onto the table, then she looked up in horror as De Luca put both his hands to his throat. His eyes were open wide in pain and surprise, and she saw his hands turning red with blood.

“It is Tangeleno!” Hennesy shouted. Pulling his pistol, he spun around, but the police commissioner went down before he could get off a shot, taking a hit in the chest by a shotgun blast.

The first few shots were followed immediately by a fusillade of gunfire as more than a dozen men suddenly burst into the garden, shooting pistols, rifles, and shotguns.

Nearly all of De Luca’s men were armed, and they began firing back. Bullets and loads of buckshot whizzed through the air. Wine bottles burst, sending out showers of wine, food was hit, and pieces were scattered across the table.

The men screamed at each other, and even though it was in Italian, Rachel knew that they were shouting curses.

Rachel and Fancy were exchanging looks of terror when suddenly the front of Fancy’s lavender dress turned red with blood as she was hit.

“Fancy!”

“Rachel?” Fancy said. She sounded more surprised than frightened. As Fancy called out Rachel’s name, blood began oozing from her mouth. She went down.

“Fancy, oh my God, no!” Rachel cried as she started toward her.

“Rachel, get down!” Pietro Fanchetti shouted, suddenly appearing as if from nowhere. Pietro ran across the garden,
firing at the invaders, roaring curses at them as he did so. When he reached Rachel, he shoved her hard, pushing her down to the ground.

Rachel lay where she fell, trying to block out the horror of what was going on. She looked up at Pietro and saw him take a hit from a load of buckshot that sent a shower of blood and brains bursting out the side of his head.

That blast slammed Pietro against the dining table, knocking it over. The table fell on Rachel and she felt a blow to her head.

After that, everything went dark.