A Few Drops of Blood (28 page)

Natalia pushed the bell. Nothing. She knocked hard. Someone looked through the peephole. She waited as several locks were disengaged.

A tall, well-built woman opened the door. Her concession to mourning: black toreador pants, stilettos, and a grey and white silk blouse. The blouse, off the shoulder, a black brassiere strap taut on her plump, bronzed skin. Signora Gracci appeared.

“Oh, it’s you.” She sounded tired. She looked exhausted, eyes bloodshot from crying.

Natalia stepped into the foyer. “Can I speak to you alone?”

“Go into the kitchen a minute,” she urged the glamorous visitor. Natalia wondered who she was.

The TV was off. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the apartment.

“What do you want?” she said. “We’re in mourning here. People will be coming over to pay their respects. I was just going to lie down.”

“I know you’ve had some hard days, and I’m sorry to bother you at this time.”

“What is it now?”

“It’s about the gun, Signora Gracci. You wanted your daughter properly buried in Church ground. But I’m afraid, even when a death is ruled a suicide, we need—”

“My Tina didn’t kill herself.”

“Then all the more reason we need the gun.”

“We prefer to handle it ourselves.” Her chin wriggled. “It would be better if you left. For your own sake.”

“Tampering with evidence is a felony,
signora
. Haven’t you suffered enough already?”

“Like I said, the gun isn’t here.”

“We had an understanding.”

“We had nothing. Get away.”

Natalia punched in Lola’s number. She could meet Nat at the Communale in fifteen minutes. Natalia slipped on her helmet and turned the ignition key. The bike erupted as she revved the engine and took off, zipping through the streets.

Natalia got there first and sat waiting on the bench
nearest the fountain. The air was pungent with jasmine. Lola appeared in a baseball cap with rhinestones and black velvet hoodie. They hugged and sat down.

“What’s going on with you?” Lola said. “You got me worried.”

Natalia told all—the parts Lola was not already privy to, which was most of it: the gun going missing from Pino’s flat, turning up in Tina’s, Tina’s committing suicide no doubt using his issued weapon, her own tampering with the slug and obstructing the course of justice by pushing it into the bowels of the ancient walls. Emilinia refusing to relinquish the gun.

“So she killed herself with Pino’s Glock?”

“I think so.”

“But he wasn’t present.”

“No. God, I hope not.”

“And you don’t think he killed her?”

“No, I don’t. But if the bullet comes out of the wall, if it comes out that I knew all along it was his gun that killed her, I’m done. Unless I get the piece back, process it into the system, and carry on like it never left Pino’s hands, we are both done being Carabinieri.”

“You’ve tampered with evidence, withheld evidence. You could be looking at the end of your career. Fuck, you could be facing jail.”

“I know.”

“And what if it wasn’t suicide and somebody murdered her? The Graccis have been doing and being done to for years.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Pick a grown-up for a boyfriend next time around.”

“I don’t need a lecture here, Lola.”

“Look, you’re my best friend and I love you, okay? But he wasn’t thinking about you when he fucked Tina. True?”

“True.”

“He’s dragging you down, Nat. Your little Buddha boyfriend.”

“So what do I do?”

“Who else knows besides us?”

“No one.”

“Excellent. Second, if you get the gun back and turned into the armorer, Pino will be off the hook.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You don’t. I’m going to—try to, at least. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

Back at the station an hour later, Natalia’s mobile went off. She excused herself to take the call in the fire stairs corridor.

“I located it,” Lola said.

“What a relief.”

“Not really, hon. Gracci doesn’t have it anymore.”

“Who does?”

“Ernesto Scavullo.”

The phone chimed again as she drove back home. She had to pull over to answer it.

“Oooh,” said a male voice. “I get hard just hearing your voice.”

“Who is this?”

“You don’t recognize me? You’re breaking my heart here.”

“Scavullo.”

“We haven’t had a proper conversation since the wedding. Weren’t you a bride’s maid?”

“Yes, Ernesto. I’m surprised you remembered.”

“The bad witches is what I remember: you, Lola Nuovoletta and the lovely bride herself, my sweet Suzanna Ruttollo.”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s about keeping your nose out of my business. It’s about your boyfriend’s government-issued pistol. The one he used to kill the Gracci girl he knocked up.”

“What do you want?”

“You in my pocket, warm and safe, baby.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Oh, no, sweetie. I have a great need to see you. Calabritto Palace. Half an hour.”

“Why should I come?”

“Because I have it, and you want it—bad.”

He broke the connection.

When she got to the palace, the guard warned, “We close in forty-five minutes.”

A straggly line of tourists lined up loading onto a last bus departing the lot. Two female statues flanked the entrance. Natalia entered and paid her admission. Paolo stood just inside, holding a Nortel transceiver. He approached, still talking into it. “I’ll call you back,” he said and tried to take her by the elbow. She pulled her arm back from his touch.

“We’re not friends anymore?”

“We haven’t been friends for a long time, Paolo.”

“You’re breaking my heart,
lattaia
.” Milkmaid. His pet name for her when they were kids. It had started when she turned thirteen and celebrated the arrival of breasts.

“Don’t call me that,” she said.

“No? What should I call you? Captain? We knew each other long before all this. Once upon a time, remember?”

How could she forget? They’d driven to Sorrento in a low-slung, yellow convertible that a cousin had shipped over from New Jersey. Something named after a horse. Top down, wind wild in her hair. Natalia closed her eyes on the hairpin curves and felt her stomach lurch from the excitement. In another hour, they reached the glittery blue ocean.

Of course she remembered.

When she got home, she was sunburned in embarrassing places. Her father broke open several tea bags, soaked
them and made a poultice for her face and back. A day later her flaming skin was nearly normal again.

“Paolo,” she said, “where’s Scavullo? I don’t have all day.”

“Okay,” is all he said, “okay,” and ushered her into the Lion Room, then stood a respectful distance away. The guard had been paid off or felt intimidated by the Camorra men—or both—and left them to conduct their business.

Ernesto’s back was to her. He appeared to be studying the massive black marble lion that was centermost in the hall.

“What do you think?” he said. “Nice, huh?” He turned around. “I’d like to do my bedroom like this.” He indicated the refurbished hall. “You promise not to open your big mouth, and I’ll tell you a secret. I paid for restoring this fucking gallery—you believe that?”

“Does it matter if I do?”

“The director is a pussy. Like all of them. The director’s assistant works out with me sometimes. Tells me how much it would do for me if I financed a civic good deed. Talks me into it. Okay, so it’s chump change, but I figure the least the fucker could do is put up a plaque with my name. Maybe with those lights over it, you know?”

“I’m happy for you,” she said. “You’ll be immortal.”

“Not happening is what the head guy tells me. The prick gets the money, then says it would be bad public relations for my name to be associated with my donation—the money
I
put up.”

“How awful for you.”

“Isn’t it? I thought about having the little shit topped. Might still. Maybe after he gets me this dynamite painting he’s promised me. They lend them out to major donors like library books. If he comes through before Mama’s birthday, maybe I’ll reconsider.”

“No place on the board for Ernesto?” she said. “Life has been so unfair to you.”

“Ain’t that the truth. They don’t think I’m good enough to sit on their effing board is what it is, but when they’re short of cash to meet the payroll, my dirty money suddenly smells sweet.”

The lights blinked on and off a couple of times. She glanced back at the entryway.

“Don’t worry. It won’t close until I say.” Ernesto patted the lion’s flank.

“Who exactly approached you for a donation?”

“Fancy boy. Their friggin’ director.”

“Garducci. Really?”

“Surprised?” Scavullo touched his crotch, like he’d adopted the mannerism from his elders: something they did to ward off evil intent.

“Garducci contacted you himself?” Natalia said.

“We had some people in common.”

The lights flickered again.

“What is it you want, Ernesto?”

“To have you as my A number one bitch, of course.”

“You have a foul mind.”

“That’s what my nigger girlfriend said. But my new one, the Brazilian hottie? She loves it. The dirtier, the better. In fact, I’m thinking it might be fun to fuck her with Pino’s rod. Stick a condom over the barrel. What do you think?”

“I think you give animals a bad name.”

He played with a diamond on his pinkie. “Here I am, trying to be nice on our first date.”

Her phone beeped: Lola.

“Monte,” Natalia said.

“Scavullo bring the item?”

“We’re discussing it now,” she said and hung up. She turned to Scavullo. “So where is it?”

“Don’t be that way, Natalia. What are we, vendors transacting?”

“What do you want for it?”

“Ooh, let me think. I think I want … you.”

“You can’t have me.”

“Think I don’t own you already?”

“Say what it is you want.”

“Natalia, Natalia. What’s your rush? You’re gonna develop symptoms from all the stress if you keep this up.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” she said. “What’ve you got to tell me?”

“You been to Paolo’s place?”

“Not since we were kids, why?”

“No, not that sad-ass hovel. I bought him this duplex with a real nice view of the harbor. Just had his master bathroom redone in malachite. You know what that is?”

“Yeah, I know what that is,” she said.

“That’s green jade is what that is. I gifted him a BMW last December, too.”

“Such a Father Christmas you are.”

“If he does an extra-nice job for me, he gets a reward.”

“Like a trained seal?”

“A weekend in Paris, five days in New York …”

“Out of the goodness of your heart, eh? What is he carting for you? Are you sending out money for laundering?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes he’s got just an errand or two. Maybe a message to our American cousins that needs to be delivered personally. Or just a well-earned break for Paolo and his family.”

“How nice for him.”

“You still into art? You like modern stuff? Do this right and you could be looking at a Picasso on your own wall.”

“No, thank you.”

“Hard or easy, your choice. No matter which, I am going to have my way with you, Captain Monte.”

“The gun. What’s the price?”

“Your virginity.”

“Meaning?”

“Information when I need it. Advance warning of what’s coming my way from the forces of law and public order. Names of snitches who might rat me out.”

Threats to snuff out, he meant. Natalia said nothing.

“How it’s going to work is, I keep the gun, and for now you don’t have to worry about Pino’s uncle contracting anything lethal or Mariel’s shop burning down, what with all that combustible paper and book glue she’s got.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

“Oh, it can absolutely happen and will unless you get me taken off the suspects list for the double murder of those fags.”

“My bosses aren’t about to do that.”

“Now, now. You’ll figure out how to pull it off, I’m sure. You were always the smart one. If you don’t … hell, your dear Mariel’s life gets barbecued. Pino’s uncle, too, most likely. Obviously Pino himself. That understood?”

Natalia stood silent.

“Good,” he said. “Anytime I snap my fingers, you will produce for me. You deliver: the names of any witnesses against me that they’re developing. Any suspicions that crop up about my corrupting Carabiniere and police who work in my districts.” He smiled. “What do you think?”

“A work of genius, Ernesto. Really.”

* **

As soon as she was out of the building, she rang Pino.

“Sweetheart,” he said.

“I just had a lovely visit with Scavullo.”

“Ernesto Scavullo?”

“Yeah. Bad news. He has it.”

“Shit. How?”

“From Mama, obviously.”

“I’m sorry I got you into this.”

“Yeah, well. It’s done. Are you at home?”

“Almost.”

“Good, I caught you. Stop right where you are. Don’t go there—not to your flat either. Pick up nothing. Turn off your cellphone the minute we’re done and keep it off. Any future calls, use a pay phone. Right now you have to go to the rail station. I mean, immediately. Don’t buy a ticket with your credit card. Make the purchase with cash—on the train, if you can—but for some stop beyond where you’re getting off. Get on the next one. Go to your Uncle Ricci.”

“Why?”

“Scavullo says he’s keeping the thing for insurance, but I don’t trust him. He made a threat about torching Mariel’s shop.”

“And me? Christ. A threat to off me.”

“It didn’t go well. He offered me a trade—the Glock—for my loyalty to him.”

“Maybe he’s just bluffing. About the gun.”

“He’s not.”

“He wouldn’t dare target Carabinieri.”

“Listen to me. He needs to show the other bosses and his father who the real man is. He’ll target anyone he needs just to demonstrate. You need to get away tonight.”

“If he has ordered a hit, being at Uncle Ricci’s won’t do
me any good,” Pino said. “I can’t put my uncle in danger like that. I’ll go to my place.”