Blood Money (6 page)

As she reached the glass door, Shirley Moore opened it and ran out in tears. They were all there, white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Eight of them ready for work—ready to pounce.
If worse comes to worst
, she thought,
I’ll take the fifth
.

Thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, Nick Ceratto stared out of his first-class cabin window. He was on his third Dewar’s on the rocks. Puffy clouds moved and stretched, changing shape beneath him. He thought about what it might be like to step out and walk on them—float on them like an angel.
Maybe when you’re dead, you can do just that
, he thought. He chuckled to himself as he took a long sip. He was momentarily distracted by the flight attendant’s shapely derriere as she leaned over to fix another passenger’s pillow.

“Miss, can I have some water?” he asked, thinking it was best to appear sober when the plane landed.

He thought about Joe, Christy, and the kids in the same 737. Only they weren’t traveling first-class. They were in the hold with the luggage. He wondered about death—if you knew and if you cared. One thing he was sure of, if Joe were alive he’d be happy now. He’d be happy that he was headed back to the place he loved, the village of San Lorenzo on the Amalfi coast, a walled, hillsidefortress town founded in the Middle Ages. It was named after St. Lawrence, the martyr who, as he was being roasted on a spit, told his executioners to turn him over since he was done on one side. Saint Lawrence had been loyal to his faith—unto the death. Loyalty was something the Lorenzanos, as the villagers called themselves, prided themselves on. They were fiercely devoted to family and friends. They had an unshakable code of honor—of ethics. These were people who knew how to live and how to love, as Joe would say. They were his people. San Lorenzo was the village of Joe’s ancestors—of farmers and fishermen who squeezed every drop of life from each day.

Joe loved this tiny patch of earth on which he and Christy and the kids had spent a month each summer. Nick remembered how Joe would joke about one day staying there and not returning to the States.
How prophetic
, Nick thought taking a long swig of Perrier to wash out some of the effects of the alcohol.

“Here’s to you, Joe, and to the people of San Lorenzo,” he said out loud as he held the fizzing glass up to the window.

“Sir, can I get you something?” the shapely blond attendant asked. “Did you call me? I wasn’t sure if you called.”

“No thanks. I don’t need anything right now. I was just toasting my friends out there.” He smiled boyishly, giving her a Maybe Your Phone Number? look.

She shook her head from side to side as if to say,
I’ll just ignore that
.

The plane touched down three hours later. Nick had dozed off and the pretty blond gently woke him with a touch on his shoulder.

“Sir, we’ve landed. We’re in Naples, sir.”

“Yeah—yeah,” Nick said, shaking his head to clear the fuzz. “What time is it?” He squinted, trying to focus on his watch.

“It’s eleven p.m.” She smiled and discretely handed him a note as she walked toward the cabin door to assist the deplaning passengers.

He unfolded the small sheet of paper. It read:
Sarah Jennings-212-875-0496, USA. Naples-Marriott, room 1020.

The bodies had already been loaded into the hearses. There were three cars: one for Joe, one for Christy, and one for the two children. They slowly processed through Naples onto the
autostrada
toward San Lorenzo.

It was one thirty a.m. when they arrived at the stone church—a mini version of Santa Trinita in Florence with saints peering out from the cornice and capitals of the columns. Frescoes adorned the flat surfaces of the interior walls. Father Bernardino, a sixtyfive-year-old Jesuit priest, waited patiently at the open chestnut doors. His cassock blew against his legs. The local undertaker, Ennio Correlli, an artist in his own right, stood next to the thin, aging priest. Correlli was a chubby, mustached man with a double chin and wild black eyebrows. He wore a black suit, and in his hand
was a black fedora, which he waved to signal the hearses closer. “
Veni. Veni piu vecino.
” Come. Come closer. “
Attenzione con la cassa
.” Careful with the caskets.

It was a scene straight out of the movie
Rome: Open City.
Nick now fully understood Rossellini’s genius. He was living it.

The hearses’ headlights shone on the drivers as they lifted each casket carefully onto its wooden gurney which they then reverently wheeled into the church. Nick followed them down the candlelit nave to the area just in front of the altar. The men crossed themselves and left, leaving Nick, the priest, and the undertaker alone in the silence.

Father Bernardino kissed his
stola
and placed it around his neck. He began a prayer for the dead. He bowed his head and seemed to lose himself in the music of the language of the litany and the scent of burning candle wax until the “Requiescat in pace” at the end.

The priest removed his
stola
, kissed it, and folded it over his arm. He gave Correlli a nod.

“
Si, padre
,” he responded. He moved to the first casket. It as one of the two larger wooden boxes. He crossed himself as he unlocked the seal and slowly opened the lid.

Christy was wrapped in a white shroud, her face lovely but cold and bluish— the bullet hole still crisp between her eyes. Correlli spoke as he put his hands together. “
Che peccata. Che bella
.” What a shame. How beautiful.

Nick was sick. He was glad that he hadn’t eaten anything. He would have lost it right there.

Father Bernardino pointed to the next box. Correlli obediently moved to it. It was Joe’s. His face was black now and his features twisted in a near sneer. It was ghoulish. It was horrific. The body was beginning to smell.

Nick turned his head. “Christ,” he whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Then Father Bernardino moved to the smaller boxes and opened each one himself to reveal the kids.

Nick could stay no longer. He walked quickly toward the open doors. His way was lit by the hundreds of votive candles casting their flickering light on the frescoed saints crowded on the sixteenthcentury walls. As he walked through the doorway toward the street, he could hear the priest reciting the last rites. He wept quietly, leaning against a bas relief of Saint John the Apostle carved on the door jamb.

“You should be happy.” The voice came from the damp blackness.

Then he saw her face as she flicked her lighter and lit a cigarette. He was speechless for a moment as he studied her classic Italian features.

She drew in smoke and blew it out slowly. Almond eyes, full lips, thin delicate nose, and a full head of long, golden brown hair which fell loosely over her shoulders. She tossed it back and took another drag on the cigarette.

“You’re crying. You shouldn’t.”

He quickly wiped his face, embarrassed by what he thought was an unmanly display of emotion.

Maria Elena Maglio didn’t think him unmanly at all. She was touched by his obvious sensitivity and his dark good looks as she studied him, moving the flame of her lighter slowly up and down. She wondered how his two-day beard might feel good against her skin. It had been a while since she had felt such a face against hers. “I’m Joseph Maglio’s cousin, Maria Elena.”

She held out her hand. “I know you’re Nick Ceratto. My cousin talked about you a lot. Come on. Come to my family’s house. It’s down the street. There—near the fountain.” She pointed in the darkness toward the sound of trickling water where a stucco wall was barely visible in the moonlight. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”

Nick shook his head affirmatively.
What the hell,
he thought.
Why not?
If he was living in a nightmare, this could be the best part. He took her hand. It was warm and firm.

They walked toward the dimly lit house. Now he could see more of her. She was wearing a black leather trench coat tied tightly
at the waist. Her collar was pulled up around her neck. She was almost as tall as he was. She drew on the cigarette then dropped it on the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of her black, kneehigh boot. Her coat opened to reveal a creamy thigh.

There was a tense moment of silence as Nick fought to say something. He was normally never lost for words, but this was truly weird—abnormal.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess. Such a baby. I should have been able to stay.”

“And look into the coffins?” She laughed. “The priest is crazy. You’ll see. But he’s the only one we have. You shouldn’t have had to see them. So terrible. Tomorrow night they’ll all be beautiful when Ennio is finished with them. He’s a master—the best.”

“What difference does it make? They’re dead. I brought them here for burial, not a party,” Nick snapped as they reached the twelve-foot, open, arched doors. He followed her into a dark courtyard.

“That’s right, they’re dead. You’re alive. You have to live and walk the earth and do what is right.” She shook her thick hair. “What is right is to make the best of the situation. Dress these people up—give the village a good look at them—let everybody cry—and put them to rest in the family tomb. Then go back and find their killers.” She took out another cigarette.

“Killers? You don’t believe Joe killed himself and his family?”

“No. And neither do you.”

“How do you know what I believe?” he answered.

“I know because you are here. You made the arrangements to send the bodies to the place he loved and the only place that would accept him. No one else would do this except someone who loved him and could not accept that Joseph Maglio is a murderer. You know my cousin was not a murderer. He loved everybody—especially his children. Look what he did for this village. He restored the church. Brought in irrigation for the farms. Bought new boats for the fishermen. No, my cousin did not do this.” Her voice trembled with emotion. Her eyes were wide.

Nick couldn’t help but be taken by her. She was a true Lorenzano, unshakable in her faith. He felt an instant kinship with her and a surge of relief that he was not the only one to believe in Joe’s innocence. And who was this beautiful creature? Certainly not a simple villager. Her clothes were too sophisticated and expensive. She was poised, her English almost unaccented. And she was obviously well educated and sharp as hell.

“Please help me find my cousin’s killer,” Maria said putting her hand on Nick’s chest. She turned her head away, trying to hide her face as silent sobs shook her.

Nick tenderly took hold of her shoulders, drawing her near. He lifted her chin and then looked deeply into her wet, golden eyes. “I want to help you,” he said. “But how?”

Maria wiped her cheeks, tossing her cigarette to the ground. The embers burned briefly on the damp cobblestones and then fizzled out.

“I’ll tell you inside,” she said. She took Nick’s hand and led him up a back staircase to a second floor entrance to the apartment. The room was large and high ceilinged—painted the lightest shade of blue. It was sparely furnished with only two silk brocade couches and an ancient monk’s table in the center. Over it hung a huge, wrought-iron chandelier. Maria lit the wick in a longhandled candle lighter and touched the wick of each candle in the chandelier, lighting them all until the room glowed.

She put her arms around his neck and rubbed her damp face against his stubbled chin. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you.”

Nick closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her smooth cheek. “Who are you, really? What do you want?”

She pressed her body close and then touched her full lips lightly to his. “I’ll tell you later,” she said.

What the hell,
he thought.
This nightmare is getting bette
r.

The next morning it was raining and gray—almost dark, even at nine a.m. Nick and Maria had arrived together at the church. Mixed in with the prayers and clattering of rosary beads were
whispers. Everyone knew where Nick had spent the night. There were stares and mutterings from the village women, and chuckles from the men. But Maria Elena didn’t care, and neither did Father Bernardino.

“I’m sorry,” Nick whispered. “I didn’t mean to cause you grief.”

“It’s OK. Italians are realists.” She smiled with her head down.

Although Nick was embarrassed, it was clear that she wasn’t.

Four caskets lined the front of the altar. As predicted, Joe and the others looked as if they were sleeping. The children were dressed in white linen. They held handmade toy lambs as was the tradition in the village for those who had died before their time. The adults looked elegant— Joe in a black silk and wool suit and Christy in a light blue satin gown. Joe now looked at peace. His features were transformed. He had a slight smile on his now pink lips. There was no hole in Christy’s forehead, and her long blond hair draped softly around her face and shoulders like an angel’s.

They were beautiful. Too bad they weren’t alive, Nick thought.

The small church was filled with mourners—figures in black packed the pews and aisles. Every Lorenzano was present to pay their last respects. The church bells Joe had donated mournfully tolled for this, his last visit. The women wept openly, clutching their hands together while the men hid their grief, shrugging their shoulders in acceptance.