BELLA MAFIA (34 page)

Pirelli nodded, keeping his anger in check. The chief patted his shoulder. "This could be the lever to get him to talk. They've agreed to let you see him right after today's adjournment. They need something to bargain with; Emanuel is going to throw the book at him today."

Graziella's heart was pounding as she made her way slowly to her seat. She was one of the first to be allowed into the courtroom that morning.

Luka propped his cane against the wall as the guards ran their hands down his body. They would not meet his gaze; they were embarrassed to be searching a father from the Holy Mission. Luka had leaned against a guard as he reached for his cane, then asked in a throaty, watery voice if it would be possible to have an aisle seat at the far side because his leg gave him pain if he could not stretch it out.

He was shown to an end seat four rows in front of Graziella. She sat staring straight ahead, her face hidden by her veil. As Luka eased his body into his seat, he placed the cane against the seat in front of him.

Paul Carolla was five feet nine inches tall, and Luka knew he had to raise the tip of the cane, which now pointed to the empty cell at the end of the line, Paul Carolla's cage.

Graziella opened her handbag, purposely dropping her rosary. She did not have long; the seat beside her was vacant for now, but the court was filling up and someone might sit there at any time. She had chosen an aisle seat today. When the time came, she would step into the aisle and shoot from there.

She bent down as if to retrieve her rosary, opened her handbag, and took out the gun. She rested it beneath her bag as she sat back in her seat. The gun felt cold. Her fingers searched for the safety catch.

After eighteen months the prisoners in the cells below the court were accustomed to the routine. The guards opened each cell as the occupant's name was called out, and the handcuffed prisoner was linked to the others by leg irons.

Dr. Ulliano's clerk argued with the guards that he had to speak with his client. It was against the rules, so there was considerable shouting and much gesticulation, but at last he was given permission to make his way along the narrow corridor to the last cell. The noise of the prisoners was deafening.

Carolla stood with his face pressed desperately against the bars. At last he saw the clerk making his way with difficulty toward him. Twice the red-faced young man was stopped by guards, but he eventually pushed his way to Carolla's door.

"You got any news for me?" Carolla demanded. "There're rumors flying around down here."

The clerk shook his head. He was under strict instruction not to tell.

"You would be the first to hear, Signor Carolla. You know this is irregular. If you continue to abuse the privileges you have been granted, they will not allow me to see you as frequently. ..."

The clerk was pushed roughly aside as two prisoners started arguing with a guard. Carolla reached between the bars and caught the young man's sleeve.

"Wait, wait . . ."

"Signor, they are leading everyone into court. Unless you have something of the utmost urgency ..."

"Closer, come closer. ..."

Carolla drew the clerk nearer to the bars. "About what Dr. Ulliano said, I got a name, but I want your word you will use it only if we don't get the injunction—"

"Signor, please."

Carolla was sweating with fear, terrified that the other prisoners would overhear. He lowered his voice so much that the clerk had to press his face against the bars to hear him.

"A name?"

"He said if I could give you a name, someone who might have been responsible for the Paluso kid . . ."

The line of prisoners was moving out as cell after cell was emptied. The shouting and the noise of the roll call made it almost impossible for the clerk to catch what Carolla was saying.

Carolla grabbed the young man's hand through the bars. "You trace my son, trace Luka Carolla. . . ."

The clerk could hardly believe his ears. Was he naming his own son? It was too late to ask again as the guards ordered him to leave. They were opening the cell next door.

Carolla was weeping.

In the robing room the clerk joined the rest of the lawyers. He took Dr. Ulliano aside and helped him into his robe, saying, "He's come up with a name, after our talk last night. He's come up with a name for the Paluso boy."

"What, are you serious? Can you trust him?"

"He's named his son, Luka Carolla."

"What?"

"That's what he said. What do you want me to do about

it?"

The guards were calling the lawyers to stand by for the beginning of the session. Ulliano began gathering his things together.

"Get over to police headquarters, get Commissario Pirelli to see me during my lunch break, but don't say why until I've spoken to him."

Ulliano approached the prosecution counsel and gestured for Emanuel to come to his side. "Lunchtime, can you give me a few moments? I might have something to—"

Emanuel turned, his face pinched. "Too late to make any bargains now. You had your chance. I'm going to crucify him today, and you know it."

He strode out, heading the group proceeding through the underground passage to the courthouse. As he edged his way to the back of the courtroom, Ulliano's clerk was already running toward police headquarters. Unable to get a seat, Pirelli stood up at the back of the crowded courtroom.

Luka twisted the handle of his stick gun. Now the safety catch was off, and his finger was on the trigger within the handle of the cane. They were filling the next to last cage. His hands were steady as he waited.

Graziella's hand was sweating. She felt for the safety catch on the Luger and released it.

The guards were locking the cage next to Carolla's. She turned her head to look at the prisoners' entrance just as the signal was given to lead Carolla into the court.

As always, he was hemmed in by guards to his front and sides. As he shuffled toward his cage, there were catcalls from the other prisoners. Many of the men cheered, and some tried to touch him.

Carolla, his head slightly down, looked to neither right nor left. But as he reached his cage, he stepped aside to allow it to be slid open and glared around the court. And that was the moment.

The door began to slide back. One guard stepped aside, the other moved to Carolla's left, and he was completely clear. He turned his head, and his small eyes flickered.

Graziella rose to her feet, sending her handbag clattering to the floor.

Luka's hand never wavered.

Both guns fired together as if the split-second timing had been rehearsed. Carolla was hit in the face, the impact blowing his skull apart.

Graziella's bullet went wide, hitting the cage bars and splintering the wall, but it was she, rather than Luka, who drew the attention of the courtroom. Screams and scuffles broke out as guards ran toward her. Spectators rose from their seats, hysterical, and Luka turned like the rest of them to see what was happening.

Pirelli couldn't see what was going on. All he knew was that a gun had been fired and Carolla was hit. He began pushing his way down the aisle, holding up his ID card.

It was pandemonium. People tried to run from the court while the guards grabbed Graziella. Within seconds she was overpowered and the gun taken from her. Above the screams and shouts the guards tried to call for order.

The prisoners screamed and clanked their chains while Luka carefully steered himself closer and closer to the exit. The guards asked the spectators to remain quiet, stay in their seats, it was all over. . . .

Dante didn't recognize the garbled, hysterical voice on the telephone for a moment. When he did, he had to sit down. Dario Biaze had lost Luka in the pandemonium, but the police had arrested a woman, an old woman.
She
had shot Carolla.

Dante asked if Carolla was dead and was assured that the man's head had been blown off.

"Go back to Luka's hotel and check if he's there. Then get back to me. I'll be at the club."

Luka made his way back to the public rest room and changed his clothes. By the time he returned to his rented room his whole body was shaking with exhilaration. Sweat dripped from his hair and glistened on his body as he stripped. He ran water into the small washbowl and stuck his head beneath the tap. When he swung his head back, the water was dark red. His pupils were two black dots in his face. Slowly he dried his face, checking the growth of his hair. He had to use a more permanent dye. And he had to make contact with Dante. He stood for a moment like a statue, wrapped in his own reflection, as if unable to move. His brain would not function; Dante would have to wait. He was too tired; he had to sleep. Luka took out the little gold heart and swung it by its chain above his head until his eyelids drooped and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sophia had waited an hour outside the orphanage in Catania before it opened, then a further half hour before the father who ran it was able to see her. When she explained her reason for being there, he excused himself, explaining that he could not help her personally as he had been at the orphanage for only ten years. He returned with an elderly sister, who carried a file with dates and lists of names.

Sophia watched tensely as the file was opened; page after page was turned, the nun showing the open pages to the priest. He leaned over the desk, reading, his face furrowed. He did not look at Sophia but asked the sister if there was any further information. She shook her head and gave Sophia a forlorn look.

"Was my son brought here? Please tell me, please . . ."

The nun looked at the priest, who drew his chair over to Sophia and sat next to her. His voice was caring, soft, and made Sophia tremble. Something was terribly wrong.

"We have a record of your son for the first five years of his life, the years he was with us."

Sophia leaned forward. "Was he adopted? Can you give me names? I beg you."

The priest nodded to the sister, and she pressed both hands flat on the desk, as if needing the contact to enable her to speak.

"I recall your child, even though it wasn’a very long time ago. He was perhaps four, almost five, when I came here. We used to take the children on picnics after Sunday school. There was a fair, run by Gypsies. The children did not have money to go on many of the attractions, but some of the fair people were very kind and gave them free rides. . . . Your child, he was very wayward, irrepressible, and he was angry when we had to leave and ran back to the fairground. We brought him back, and he was reprimanded; but at some point on the return walk to the orphanage we believe he ran back again. His absence was not noted at first; there were fifteen children. . . . We returned to try to find him, and when it became dark, the police were contacted. We did everything possible; the fair was forced to remain for an extra week as the police continued their investigation. ..."

Sophia was unable to speak. The father turned the file around so Sophia could read for herself the many letters, the press clippings. She stared blankly at the pages.

When she finally spoke, her voice was almost inaudible. "Is he dead?"

"We don't know. No body was ever found; he just disappeared. As you can see, we tried everything humanly possible to find him. The police searched for months."

"Did they suspect that the Gypsies took him?"

"Obviously, but the child was blond and blue-eyed, very easily recognized among the dark-skinned Gypsies. The police kept in touch with them when they moved on, but they never found him."

Sophia made as if to rise; but her legs gave way, and she pitched forward in a faint. They carried her to a small leather sofa and gave her sweet tea when she revived.

She was shivering with cold, but she could not cry. She could not assimilate what they had told her; it was too unreal. The sister sat with her and held her hand. Sophia's long red nails cut into the elderly woman's hand. The nun made no effort to release herself.

"You have been very kind. I thank you," Sophia said eventually. She had very little money on her and did not dare write a check, so she slipped her diamond ring from her finger. "When

I left my baby—I shall always bear the guilt of my sins—when I left him, he wore a small gold heart on a chain. Did— When he was brought here, did he still wear it?"

The sister thought for a moment, touching the crucifix at her own neck. "Yes, yes, I remember. . . . He used to move it like so before he slept." She lifted the cross and dangled it, letting it swing back and forth.

Sophia broke into heartrending sobs. The sister knelt and prayed, her hands clasped, but Sophia could not bring herself to join her; prayers could not help her. Instead, she whispered that she must leave and waited for the sister to rise.