Authors: Lynda La Plante
"Okay, let's hear what you have to say, and make it quick."
"You won't back down?" Sidona demanded.
"We've agreed to have your case reviewed. You know what that means: You'll get an early parole. So let's go."
"And nothin' I say will be used against me?"
"No," Pirelli growled, getting really angry. Ancora saw the eyebrows meet and wondered what had put him into such a foul mood. Then he remembered that Lisa had arrived.
Sidona received a brief nod from his lawyer. He began, "Okay, Carolla came to Palermo with me an' another guy. We both had worked for him in New York. His kid, this Luka you're looking for, nobody liked. He was a pain in the ass, real weird. He used to hang around the apartment, get in everyone's way; he was always hanging around."
Pirelli offered Sidona a cigarette, which he accepted but stuck behind his ear. "Did you ever see Carolla mistreat his son?"
"You must be kidding. He shelled out dough to the kid like peanuts, never asked what he was spendin' it on. Gave him a Porsche just before we came out here, two-hundred-and-fifty- thousand-dollar Porsche."
"You know the registration number?"
Sidona shook his head. "Carolla used to try everything to off-load his kid, get him some kinda work. He wasn't heavy in the brains department, got kicked out of every school."
Sidona spent ten minutes trying to remember the names of the schools, until at last Pirelli got one that he could check. He still needed a recent photograph of Luka Carolla.
Sidona continued. "Put him in a pizza parlor, kid was a fiasco. Tried him in a few gambling joints, you know, runnin' the bets. Fucked up." He rubbed his head. "There was one time I saw him lay into Luka. He found a cupboardful of weapons, a fuckin' arsenal in there. Carolla went apeshit; they were traceable. Stupid bastard had bought them over the counter, Jesus only knows where. We hadda chuck 'em."
Pirelli stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Did he have any drills, dentist's drills?"
"I dunno, but Carolla beat the shit out of him over that arsenal. Then the kid gets this knife, a martial arts knife, you know, a butterfly thing? Every time you looked at him the kid was flicking it open, made some kind of sling in his sleeve. I didn't think he could use it, looked more like it was some kinda circus act, opening and shutting it, sliding it down his arm into the palm of his hand, and the blade was like a fucking razor. He had Band-Aids all over his fingers where he cut himself. "Sidona asked for a glass of water and took another cigarette from Pirelli, which he put behind his other ear. "Carolla has to get out of New York, right? He's got the FBI houndin' him; they're buggin' his car, his apartment. He's got a few families hasslin' over some booty that was supposed to be divided up and funneled into some business; that was fucked up. So between them and the FBI pushing to have him cited for racketeering and narcotics trafficking, plus there's this other bunch callin' themselves the Organized Crime Strike Force breathin' down his neck over his business in Brooklyn, any way he looked at it he was in shit up to his armpits. So he hadda get out, you know, go under cover. So there's me an' this other guy all set to go with him, but he's dragging this kid along, too. We couldn say nothin', but Luka starts acting up like he's gettin' one he of a kick runnin' from one country to the next, playin' it like game like one of the TV programs he's always watchin'. Tal about aggravation, I mean, he's coming on like gangbuster But Paulie takes it, kinda liked the way the kid was alwaj looking out for him."
Pirelli interrupted to ask, "Do you think Luka cared for his father?"
"Oh, yeah, I guess so. Maybe more like he was always wanting to prove himself. See, nobody ever got a thank-you or a kiss-my-ass from Paulie. He was a real bastard. We go i London and Amsterdam, then to Sicily, an' all hell breaks loose and we'd walked right into it. Lenny Cavataio was talking his head off, pointin' the finger at Carolla about some stiff he knocked out more than a decade ago. I never seen Carolla scare but he sure as hell didn't like this Lenny talking. He was like madman, frothing at the mouth about what he was gonna do him, but he couldn't move. He was wanted, warrants flying around like confetti. He was holed up in this barn of a place the mountains."
Sidona leaned forward and tapped Pirelli's arm. "I later found out that the stiff was something to do with Don Rober Luciano. You know the guy? You know who I'm talking about:
Pirelli nodded. "I know him."
Sidona sat back, waving his hands around. "You don't fuck around with the old guys, know what I mean? They keep vendetta going for fucking centuries over an insult, you know? So, it wasn't really Lenny getting at Carolla, but Luciano, mean, it was the don's son, right? An' I know if Carolla hadi had his head shot off in the court, he'd have had it done by Luciano, right?"
Sidona gulped his water and wiped his mouth on the ba of his hand. "We got a lot of assistance from the families, righ I mean, he was paying out millions to get out of the countr he was heading for Brazil."
Pirelli put in, "Did he have tickets for Brazil? Passports: "No, we were waiting for them to arrive. Meanwhile, w nesses were coming out of the woodwork, and Carolla was bei hunted by Christ knows how many cops. So Carolla decide that before he goes to Brazil, Lenny has to be shut up, you follow me? That way he reckons he'll get Luciano off his back. So me an' this other guy go back down the mountain, on foot, gonna get to Palermo by train. We couldn't believe it; he sends his kid with us, says he might be useful because he looks like an American, talks like one. I lived in New York for twenty years, but I still sound like a Sicilian, know what I mean? But this kid don't have no accent, and he's got the freaky blond hair. Christ only knows who his mother was because he certainly didn't take after Paulie Carolla."
Pirelli looked at his watch and gestured for Sidona to continue.
"So, now we got Luka around our necks, and he's a fuckin' nightmare. Questions, questions . . . Jesus Christ, he never stopped talking. We discover that Lenny's holed up in this supposed safe house, hotel, or whatever, and he's got two guards day and night. I mean, no fuckin' way could we blast our way in. They got one guy inside the room, one outside."
Sidona looked at his lawyer. "You sure I'm okay sayin' all this?"
Pirelli said, "We made a deal, go on."
"Well, I can't get in the hotel, right? One look at me an' I'm gonna cause suspicion. Same goes for my partner."
"This partner, he got a name?"
Sidona considered for a moment. "I don't know his name, understand me?"
Pirelli sat back. "Okay, go on. Can't blame me for trying."
"Well, the kid walks straight in, all American innocence. He's a student, gets a room. Second floor, balcony. So we climb in that way. Now all we gotta do is make it to the next floor and to Cavataio. Fucking kid does it again, he walks out of the elevator, we're in it behind him, and we put it on hold. Luka walks up, asks if he's on the fifth floor, dangles his key. My partner takes the guard out, kicks open the door, one guard, three of us, right? Fuckin' guy backed off so fast he didn't even try to protect Lenny. Dropped his shooter as soon as he saw we meant business, yelped that he had two kids and a fuckin' white rabbit—you know the score. My partner saw to the guard, then hit Lenny Cavataio. One bullet, here . . ." He indicated his right ear, and his voice dropped. "He was dead, we could have walked out, no? But the next minute Luka's pulled Cavataio's trousers down. I said what the fuck? He said, 'Gettin' a small present for my father.' He cut his testicles off, I'm not kidding, just swiped them off with his fucking knife." He shook his head from side to side.
Pirelli stubbed out his cigarette. "Then what?"
"Well, he still wasn't satisfied with just that; he had to show whoever found the body that no one talked against his father. . . . He slashed out Cavataio's tongue. There was all this blood, me an' my partner standin' there wantin' to get the fuck out of it, but he wouldn't leave, he was like crazy. . . . He's got these eyes, eyes that go really pale, you know, freak's eyes. We both turned and walked out, left him in there. We got as far as the elevator, and the two relief guys walked straight into us. I made it to the next street before they picked me up, and I was in the fuckin' patrol car, sittin' in the car when I saw him. He must have got some clean clothes, maybe Lenny's, I dunno. He was standin' with the crowd outside the hotel, lookin' on like he was just a spectator."
"And after, did you ever hear from him again?"
"No. I heard they picked Carolla up three days later, but his son wasn't with him. You think I'm sorry? If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be in this shithole."
Pirelli said, "So you were in jail when they brought Carolla in?"
"Yeah, that's right. And if he was mad about Cavataio givin' evidence, you should have seen the guy go stark, ravin' mad when he was told about Luciano taking his fuckin' place."
"You know if Carolla ordered the deaths of the Luciano family?"
Sidona pulled a face. "Come on, Carolla was a made guy, lotta contacts, but he wasn't that important. That was a God almighty hit."
"Who would you say organized it?"
Sidona became shifty and tucked his hands beneath his chair. "I dunno . . ."
"Two little boys shot, an entire family wiped out."
"Look, I made a deal to tell you about Luka Carolla, that's
a
'I, no more."
Pirelli remained silent, staring at the tip of his scuffed shoe.
Sidona wriggled uncomfortably, looked at his lawyer, back to Pirelli.
"I don't know any names, but if Don Roberto had been allowed to take the stand, it was like breakin' up the system, understand? He was old, respected, a lot of power. ... I figure maybe the U.S. had a hand in it; nobody could afford to let him talk, he knew too much. Could have hurt too many people, so they used him as an example to warn off anyone else."
"Which U.S. family do you think could have played a part in it?"
"Oh, shit, I dunno. I swear on my mother's life, I dunno."
"Would Luka Carolla know these American people? I mean, could he have been involved in any part of it?"
Sidona ran his hands through his hair. "He met a lot of family over here, must have had the contacts in the States; he was Carolla's son."
Pirelli leaned forward and gripped Sidona's knee tightly. His voice was a low whisper, hardly audible to Ancora or the lawyer.
"One name, give me one name you think might know something about the Luciano murders."
Sidona was scared, they could smell it. He leaned forward as if to speak, then sat back. Pirelli held his knee tighter, leaned closer. Sidona licked his lips and finally leaned forward, close to Pirelli's face, whispered, "Michele Barzini, maybe."
Pirelli smiled, patted Sidona's knee, gave him a small wink. He had no idea who Barzini was, but he would find out.
He smiled and lighting another cigarette, suggested Sidona go back to the beginning.
Ancora sighed, checked his watch. It looked as if Pirelli was going to be a long, long time.
Pirelli did not get through until three o'clock in the morning. Even then he returned to headquarters. He faxed the United States to check the schools Sidona had remembered. He repeated over and over that they needed a recent photograph, urgently. He also asked for any information on Michele Barzini.
Ancora yawned for the tenth time. "Can we call it a night,
Commissario? I don't know about you, but I am dead on my feet."
Pirelli put an arm around Ancora's shoulder as they headed for the parking lot. "You know, we've got enough evidence to put him away for the rest of his life."
Ancora nodded, opened his car door. "What's sick about it is, we find him, any lawyer's going to plead insanity. In the end, how can you say that's justice for what he's done? They had it right in the old days, hanged, drawn, and quartered. For this creature I'd do it personally."
Pirelli slammed the car door. "Yep, but first you have to find him."
Ancora started the engine and wound the window down. "You'd better get home. See you in the morning, okay?"
Pirelli moved over to his own car. He was tired. Perhaps that was why he felt so depressed.
As he drove out of the lot and into the square, the workmen were already hauling the twenty-foot Christmas tree into position. Christmas? He heard her soft, pleading voice: "My babies . . . my babies ..."
Luka and Teresa were awaiting the arrival of the Corleone men. Luka was carrying a pair of binoculars, hoping to recognize the men from a distance.
The Luciano widows were about to deal with the advisers to Don Luciano Leggio, the infamous
capo di tutti capi
and the most feared man in Sicily. Leggio had slaughtered his way to the top of the Corleone family in a bloodbath that Sicily would never forget. Before he was even twenty-three, he had filled his private cemetery in the wilds of Rocca Busambra with countless skeletons.
Under Leggio's supervision, the city of Palermo had issued more than four thousand building permits in the space of four years. Four out of every five went to four front men: a bricklayer, a charcoal vendor, a manual laborer, and a work site guard. These men, all of them illiterate, were authorized to build almost anything anywhere on behalf of "unnamed parties," the Corleones.
And now, with Don Roberto Luciano dead, they believed nothing could stand in their way.