BELLA MAFIA (64 page)

Commissario Pirelli spent Christmas in Milan, and it was the worst Christmas he had ever had. The investigation into the murder of the Paluso child had, to all intents and purposes, been forced to end. It had to be admitted that Luka Carolla had probably left Italy. There had been no fresh evidence for six weeks, no further sightings. The judge in overall charge of the case decreed that Carolla would remain on the wanted list, with the right of extradition if he was found in the United States. The case, as with hundreds of other Mafia-linked cases, would remain open on file.

Pirelli, with his wife, Lisa, and son, Gino, had returned to Milan on Christmas Eve. They had shopped for a tree and gifts. When they finally arrived home, Lisa sent Pirelli out to fill a bucket with earth for the tree, while she unpacked.

One of the cases was full of dirty laundry that she hadn't ad a chance to wash in Palermo. As she tipped it into the laundry basket in the bathroom, she noticed the pair of sheets she had put on the bed before she left.

Although it was against the rules, Pirelli dug the earth from a flower bed. When he carried it back to the apartment, Lisa was waiting.

She threw the dirty sheets across the room. "Since when have you bothered to change a bed? I'll tell you when: The day you brought a whore back here, you bastard!"

Pirelli said nothing, and Lisa's voice rose to a screech. "You call yourself a detective? No wonder that guy got away. You can't even bring a woman here and clear away the evidence! Well, you spend Christmas here, get your whore to keep you company, because that's all the company you'll have! I am leaving. . . .

Pirelli slumped into a chair and lit a cigarette, still saying nothing. Lisa faced him, hands on hips, eyes blazing. "Well, aren't you going to say something? Even try to make an excuse?"

He shrugged, refusing to look at her. Frustrated by his silence, she stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. He could hear her crying. Slowly he stubbed his cigarette out and followed her.

She was curled up on the unmade bed, sobbing. He sat beside her.

"Lisa, Lisa, listen to me. . . ."

"How could you bring someone into our bed? How could you do that to me?"

"I have no excuse, it was unforgivable, and I'm sorry."

Lisa sat up. "Who is she? Do I know her?"

He lit a cigarette. "You don't know her."

"How long has it been going on?"

"It happened only once. I'm sorry."

"Who is it?"

"You don't know her. I couldn't understand it myself; all I can say is that I'm sorry. I am ashamed, if that makes you feel better."

"Are you still seeing her?"

To Lisa's astonishment, he appeared close to tears. He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes.

"Do you love her, this woman? Joe?" She pushed his shoulder. "Are you in love with this woman, whoever the bitch is?"

He caught her hand, and she tried to pull away; but he held on tightly. "Listen to me. It's over, but I can't talk about it."

"Oh, fine! You bring a woman back here to our apartment, sleep with her in
my
bed, then tell me you don't want to talk about it! Well, fuck you."

She broke free and slapped his face. He turned his head away, then gestured toward the door. Their son was peeking into the room, his face scared.

Lisa snapped, "Go to your room, Gino. I'll come and see you in a minute. . . . Gino, do as I tell you."

The boy slunk away, and Pirelli got up and closed the door. He stood with his back to his wife and sighed. He asked. "What do you want me to do, Lisa? You want me to leave?"

She took a tissue from the box on the dressing table and blew her nose. "I don't know. ... I just don't know how you could have done this to me."

She seemed so helpless. He went to her and rubbed her shoulders.

"Don't you love me anymore?"

He stroked her cheek. "I do love you, Lisa, I love you. . . ." He flushed guiltily and gave her a sheepish smile. "Look, we'll go on that vacation, the three of us. Now that I'm through in Palermo, we can go right after Christmas. What do you say?"

"I don't know, Joe. Right now I don't know what I want, I'm so mixed up, so ... I still can't believe you lied to me."

His face tightened. "I haven't lied, Lisa. Believe me, I haven't lied to you. It is over. I won't see her again."

He held her in his arms, kissing her hair, her neck, as she clung to him, crying. He hugged her tightly.

"Don't, Lisa, please don't."

Christmas was strained, with Lisa referring to his "one-mght stand" at every possible opportunity. Pirelli was torn by guilt and a sense of failure. Luka Carolla was out there somewhere; thinking about him brought Pirelli back to Sophia as if the two were somehow linked.

He had decided not to return to work after the Christmas break but to take the two weeks' vacation due him. Then he received a call from an old friend.

Detective Inspector Carlo Gennaro was in charge of the Nino Fabio homicide, and he asked Pirelli's help in tracing Sophia Luciano because he needed to question her. Pirelli agreed. He had no way of knowing that Sophia was in New York.

Michele Barzini was a worried man. He knew that the men who had supplied him with the cash to pay off the widows were now waiting for the documents giving them full rights to all the Luciano holdings.

He left his suite at the Plaza and walked two blocks to his underground parking space. Engrossed in his own thoughts, he walked down the ramp and headed toward his car, fumbling in his pocket for the keys.

As he opened the car door, the parking attendant called out something to him. He looked around, but the attendant had bent down out of sight. Barzini slammed the door and started the engine, then turned and slung his arm along the back of the seat as he reversed. He heard something fall off the rear seat, and after pushing the gear lever to the park position, he leaned over to see what it was.

In the dim light of the garage he could not see clearly, so he opened the glove compartment, took out a flashlight, and shone it on the floor behind his seat. Still unable to see, he put his hand down to feel what had fallen. He grasped some kind of fiber and pulled.

The material was human hair, attached to the severed head of Harry Barzini, his cousin.

Panic-stricken, a scream strangled in his throat, Barzini struggled out of his jacket and threw it over the dismembered head. Then he fumbled to open the trunk of the car.

The stench made him retch. He became hysterical, gibbering and shaking, and the head slipped from his shaking hands, rolling like a ball beneath the car.

Barzini had to get down on his hands and knees on the oil-streaked concrete floor to retrieve it. His fingers inched toward the ghastly, glaring face. He drew it close by some strands of hair. Panting with the horror, he threw it into the trunk and slammed the lid down, but it sprang open again. He forced it down until the lock caught, then ran back to the elevator.

The parking attendant looked at Barzini, then back to the Lincoln, parked halfway across the exit lane.

"Mr. Barzini? Sir, you want me to move your car? Everything okay, Mr. Barzini?"

The elevator door closed, and the attendant made his way slowly to the Lincoln. Barzini's keys were still in the ignition.

He opened the door and drove the car the few feet back into the bay. He climbed out, locked the door, and was about to return to his duties when he looked at his hands. They were sticky, stinking. . . . Slowly he walked around the car to the back and bent down to see dark fingermarks all along the bodywork where Barzini had tried desperately to shut the trunk. He looked at the elevator, then back at the car, the keys dangling in his hand. . . .

The hysterical Barzini got back to his apartment just as Salerno was about to let himself in. He dragged Salerno inside. "Get some guys, have my car towed away, dumped, set alight. Where nobody can find it, understand me?"

"What happened, you had an accident?"

"Just fuckin' listen . . . The Luciano women are crazy motherfuckers. I've gotta pay them."

"What? I thought they were paid off by now."

"Just do what I tell you."

"The deal was a straight cut. What's gone wrong? You try something?" Salerno knew by Barzini's face that he had and shook his head. "When are you gonna learn, Mike? They already got stuff bein' shipped from Colombia into Palermo, but they got noplace to store it and ship it, so you're in shit if they don't get the Luciano property. What the fuck did you try?"

"Just get out of here and do what I tell you. Get my car towed out."

As Michele Barzini climbed into a taxi at the front of the Plaza Hotel, police cars were arriving at the entrance to the underground garage. His car was cordoned off, and a sheet covered the open trunk, concealing the remains of his relative.

Salerno turned tail as soon as he saw the cops. He tried to call Barzini from the hotel lobby, but just missed him.

The police were already at Barzini's apartment by the time Salerno returned to it. He overheard Elsa Barzini telling them that her husband was lunching at the Four Seasons. . . .

*

Barzini was ten minutes late arriving at the Four Seasons. He seemed composed as he walked up the wide staircase, carrying a black leather attache case, but when he sat down at his table, the sweat showed on his forehead.

Teresa smiled and said everything had gone smoothly. She passed him the thick folder of documents.

Barzini gestured to the wine waiter and asked Teresa, "You want wine? Mineral water?"

"White wine."

Barzini looked over the wine list, snapped the leather-bound pages shut. "Gimme a large bourbon on the rocks and number seventeen." He turned to Teresa again. "What'll you have?"

"The fresh salmon, please."

He examined the menu and looked at the still-hovering waiter.

"Dish of the day, no appetizer, thanks."

Then he moved his cutlery aside and opened the folder. He perused each paper, checking it thoroughly, not giving her a hint of what he felt. But the sweat formed a shining film across his upper lip.

His bourbon was placed on the table. His eyes glued to the documents, Barzini picked up the drink and all but downed it in one gulp. The wine waiter brought the bottle, and Barzini gestured to him to open it, not even looking to check the order.

He paused over one paper, flicked back to see if it connected with another, then continued, satisfied. He looked up as the waiter filled his wineglass, and then he stiffened.

Two uniformed police officers had entered the restaurant and were walking up the wide staircase. One called to the maitre d' to join them. Barzini's eyes, behind the glasses, blinked furiously. The maitre d' turned toward his table and pointed; the officers headed toward Barzini.

He turned, with a look of loathing, to Teresa. "You bitch, you set me up, you fucking whore!"

Barzini erupted into motion, hurling the big table up, sending the glasses and crockery cascading to the floor, and made an insane dash for the stairs.

He ran into the street, into the traffic, zigzagging among the cars as they swerved to avoid him. As the police officers gave chase, he ran directly into the path of a yellow cab. . . . His body was thrown into the air, over the front of the cab, and into the path of a delivery truck coming the opposite way. He bounced like a rag doll.

Luka, sitting in his parked car waiting for Teresa, watched the accident in stunned amazement.

Teresa saw it all through the vast windows overlooking the street. She slipped the documents into Barzini's case and clasped it under her arm, putting her handbag on top. In the commotion, with people running in and out of the restaurant, no one noticed her leave.

She walked straight to the waiting car and slipped into the backseat. The engine was already running.

As they pulled away, Luka said, "You see that guy get it from the truck. Looked like a dummy being chucked about."

"It was Barzini. Cops walked in, and he ran for it."

Luka grinned. "How come? Is the food that bad?"

She smiled and clutched the briefcase.

"Convenient, eh?" Luka said as he drove out into the mainstream of traffic.

"You could say that. Our money's in here, and I've still got the documents. I think we'd better get home."

Pirelli was in the middle of a coughing fit, his face gradually turning puce. His office door opened, and Inspector Carlo Gesu Gennaro smiled at him.

Pirelli gesticulated wildly. "Oh, man, I'm giving up smoking before it kills me."

"You said that four years ago when we worked together. Any hope of some coffee?"

Thick black coffee was brought in, and the two men lit up, filling the air-conditioned office with fine blue smoke that drifted out through the air vents.

Gennaro offered his condolences on the Palermo situation, and Pirelli shrugged. "I'll get him one day. How're things with you?"