A Few Drops of Blood (22 page)

Getting nowhere, Angelina and Natalia walked away toward their car. A gardener caught up to them halfway down the drive. He checked to make sure no one was watching. He was a friend of the African girl, he explained. She hadn’t told him where she was going, but he thought maybe to an uncle in Naples. He had the address. She’d given it to him and told him to contact her uncle if anything ever happened to her.

* **

Clouds sugared the sky above the dark cramped streets of the Mergellina district. Natalia and Angelina found a place to park then joined locals and dozens of tourists who drifted through the square named after poet Jacopo Sannazaro.

Africans and Bengladeshis clotted the narrow sidewalk and spilled onto the street as they waited for goods to be offloaded from hulking ships docked nearby. Shopkeepers scrolled their smartphones. A few talked on their mobiles while they sat on the sidewalk, enjoying fresh falafel oozing from pita bread.

Nigerians were eclipsed now by Senegalese and Ghanaians. The Nigerians had been the first to arrive and included the women recruited by the Camorra as prostitutes.

The Africans were loyal and came cheap, qualities the
camorristi
liked. They liked their subservience, too. It didn’t hurt that the men shared a deep-seated misogyny.

As a reward for good work, a few blacks were cut into the drug trade. When the Africans grew too ambitious, they were gunned down or otherwise executed. The lucky ones fled or lay low, waiting for the killing spree to spend itself.

Those who survived stood in the blistering sun outside the train station, hawking fake Rolex watches and Gucci shoes long into the night until the last commuter train pulled out.

As the two Carabinieri approached, the soft hum of voices ceased. The pair stepped into the street and made a wide circle around some men playing soccer. A girl texted on the sidewalk. Her toddler performed a drunken walk, then sprawled, shrieking beside her. The goalie jogged over and hoisted the baby onto his shoulders. He told his girlfriend to watch the baby, or he was going to find someone else to live with.

Two African men passed Natalia hauling enormous plastic bags. The stench of body odor gripped her. No wonder. They spent countless hours in the sweltering heat. And when they were not outside they were crammed into squalid living quarters, often five to a room, minimal bathing facilities.

They were hundreds of miles from their homes, away from all that they knew and loved. Each day was grueling. Often dangerous. But in spite of that, the men often seemed cheerful. They worked together, worshipped at church or in makeshift mosques. And somehow made the best of it.

The building Angelina and Natalia were looking for they found three blocks later. The entrance to the tenement was camouflaged by a giant dumpster.

Mohammed
,
A
. was inked onto a piece of tape stuck next to a black button. Natalia pressed it. The door clicked open just as a man passed by, resplendent in gold and purple native dress.

The halls were warm and smelled of cooking oil. She and Angelina climbed three flights and rapped on the door. The African girl opened it. She’d traded in the short shorts and gold heels for a long blue robe and printed headscarf.

Angelina proffered her ID. “May we come in?”

The three women sat down abreast on an orange plastic couch that faced an enormous plasma screen. The TV was on. The black woman picked up the remote and turned it off.

“Did he threaten you?” Angelina asked. “Miss …?”

“Keandra. No, not directly. He went away on business. Someone called in the middle of the night. Said I had better get out or I would be killed.”

“Did you recognize the voice?” Natalia asked.

“No.”

“Male or female?” Angelina had her pen poised over a notebook.

“I couldn’t tell. Most likely male.”

“What happened last night,” Natalia said, “before you got the phone call?”

“I had dinner in my room. Watched a movie. Then I went to sleep.”

“Didn’t Paolo usually accompany him when he went out of town?” Natalia asked.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go to Paolo after you got the call?” Angelina asked.

“Paolo doesn’t like me.”

“Excuse me for this,” Natalia said, “but you seem like a nice woman. Why were you with Ernesto at all?”

“He was a poodle, but—”

“A poodle?” Natalia interrupted.

“It’s what we call them back home. A rich man who pisses his semen. He likes it wild. You know?
Ammuchiata
. Orgies. With women and sometimes men. He’d fuck a dog to get off.”

“Maybe you’d had enough,” Natalia suggested.

“I’m going to have a baby.” She rubbed her belly the way pregnant women did. “He said we would get married. He would behave. He gave me this.”

The diamond was enormous, star-cut, surrounded by tiny sapphires. “He said they matched my eyes.”

At least that part was true: her pale eyes were sky blue, startling against her skin.

“You think he will?” Angelina said. “Marry you, I mean.”

“No. At first, maybe I thought so. He acted so nice, like
he was pleased. Then he beat me. How dare I try to trick him with a nigger child. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me then.”

“What stopped him?” Angelina asked.

“He got a call.”

“You know he’s going to find you here,” Natalia said. “When is he coming back?”

“He’s due tomorrow. Don’t worry. I’m leaving sooner. Ernesto wouldn’t dare to hurt me in a black church in the African neighborhood. He is afraid of us.” She then reassured Natalia she was leaving on the first ferry in the morning bound for Tunisia. She’d make her way south from there. Back to her mother. She’d have her baby and a new life. “Ernesto would never step foot in Africa. He thinks it’s uncivilized, filled with germs!”

Natalia hoped she was right. She put in a call to Casanova and arranged for an officer to meet them at the church. He was to guard Keandra overnight. Someone would relieve him to escort her safely to the piers.

Natalia and Angelina waited while she put a few things into a bag.

“Hurry up,” Angelina said as Keandra pulled a few euros out of her purse and counted them up.

“I need to leave something for my uncle.”

“Okay, but you can’t write a note,” Angelina said, taking the paper out of her hands and crumpling it.

They walked her down to the street, keeping her firmly between them. Minutes later Ernesto’s gorgeous castoff was delivered to the storefront church. The officers scanned the area for anyone too interested in them.

A wizened nun answered the door. She was expecting Keandra and pulled her inside. Natalia explained she must keep the door locked at all times—admit no one unless she knew them well. A guard would be posted on the street
overnight, and another would take Keandra to the ferry in the morning.

Natalia described them. If anyone else were to come around, she was to call them immediately.

“Thank you for helping me,” Keandra touched Natalia’s arm as the nun closed the door. “Bless you.”

“What I can’t figure,” Angelina said as they returned to their car, “is why she would associate with someone like Scavullo to begin with? A beautiful woman, smart—what’s her problem?”

“Her problem is that she didn’t want a shitty life back in her country.”

“So she’d rather have a shitty life here?”

“Probably thought she had it made, seeing the house and servants and cars.”

“So foolish,” Angelina said.

“Let she who lives in a glass house cast the first stone,” Natalia said.

“Amen.”

Natalia drove to the Piazza Gesu Nuovo and parked on a side street not far from Pietro Fabretti’s shop. Natalia realized she had visited the instrument maker just next door to Fabretti’s frequently with her cellist boyfriend, who swore by him, claiming he was the best in all of Europe. He returned twice a year to have the man lay his hands upon his precious cello.

It was that man who one afternoon told her the story of the composer Gesualdo slaughtered in a room on San Severo a few blocks away. Gesualdo, wearing a dress, killed by his male lover. Gino had played one of Gesualdo’s cello compositions for Natalia when they’d first dated.

Usually she and her ex-fiancé met for lunch or a drink
when he was in town. The last time … could it have been a year ago? He announced he was getting married. She’d been surprised how much the news unsettled her.

“You didn’t want him, remember?” Mariel said, after Natalia had burst into her friend’s bookshop, weeping. They’d settled on a flowery couch with two large glasses of wine.

“You’re devoted to your job,” Mariel said. “He travels all the time and wanted you to go with him. Devote yourself to him and his career. Captain Natalia Monte, groupie. Recall all that?
Cara mia
, are you suffering from amnesia?”

“Probably,” she’d said. “But he seems like such a grown-up compared to Pino.”

“Trust me. ‘Seems like’ is the operative phrase here. They’re
bambini
, Natalia. Granted, some are cute—sophisticated, even. But
bambini
, nonetheless. The exception being your father.”

“And I thought Lola was the cynic.”

“She is. Me, I’m just realistic. Remember that Catalan poet I was crazy about when we were seventeen? When he broke it off, I thought I’d perish. Passion. It leaves a scar. Look what happened to Suzanna, to Lola.”

In front of the cathedral, a forlorn guitarist played a familiar Scarlatti piece for a few tourists gathered around to listen. His tattered cap was on the ground half filled with paper euros and coins.

Fabretti’s shop, Sempre Musici, was on the far side of the
piazza
. Natalia walked across. Two elderly gentlemen sat on folding chairs just inside the open door. She could hear them arguing the topic perennial with the elderly of Naples: Which native son was the better tenor—Caruso or Lucia?

In spite of the heat, they were in suits and dingy ties. No
doubt they’d grown up privileged and had led lives of comfort, idling and arguing. Idleness remained, the wealth had vanished during the war. In some way their lives had stopped then. Inside the shop time stopped as well.

Peering through the window of the shop Gino once swore by, she noted the instrument maker working at his bench. She hadn’t seen him in several years. A halo of the sun played about the shadowed room. His hair whiter than ever … he looked like a monk bent over the stringed instrument that was taking form in his hands. Natalia sighed and continued on her mission.

She climbed two steps into Fabretti’s shop. Records and crumbling sheet music were arranged on tables throughout. A
catari
played on the sound system. Its singer had a lovely, eerie voice. Natalia remembered her
nonna
had sung such a song while mending.

Fabretti was perched on a stepladder pitched against the back wall, wielding an old-fashioned feather duster.

“
Giorno
,” Natalia said.

“
Giorno
,” he answered without turning around. “It’s Captain Monte.”

“Oh.” He laid the duster on a shelf. “I’ll be right down.”

“Careful,” she said.

“Welcome to my humble shop,” he said, coming down and extending his hand. “Are you looking for something special today?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Of course.”

Natalia followed him into a small side room. CDs and records were stacked in neat piles on a desk along one wall, boxes lined up along the other. He pulled up two chairs.

“Sorry these aren’t more comfortable. I need the space for stock.” He gestured toward the boxes.

“Vinyl records?”

“Vinyl, yes. You’d be amazed how many people still want the old long-playing discs and even 78s and 45s. How can I be of service?”

“I’m after some information that might help determine your Carlo’s murderers.”

“Is there some new development?”

“That’s just it. I’m not sure, and I’ve come for your help in finding out.”

“How can I help?”

“I have a suspicion something is true, and I’m not even sure what it would mean if it is.”

“A suspicion?”

“About Ernesto Scavullo’s love life.”

“Love life?”

“Yes. That’s a polite term for it.”

“About what goes on in his mansion?”

Natalia nodded.

“I’ve heard the stories, too. They make it sound like a Roman brothel.”

“At the very least. Sexual orgies on a regular basis. According to what I’ve heard, he likes it the kinkier, the better. Males, females, animals. If he’s not participating directly, he gets off on watching. He directs the scenes, makes videos, posts them on porno sites. Were you aware of this?”

“No.”

“The need to advertise, almost as if he’s making a point. Hiding something. Have you heard anything?”

“There haven’t been rumors to that effect. None that I’ve heard.”

“No?”

“I’ll make inquiries, discreetly. Give me a little time—a
week? Come back and buy some music. I’ll treat you to a Tebaldi recording. Quite rare.”

“I shall. Thank you.” She turned to go.

“I should perhaps tell you something about Carlo.”

“Yes?”

“He, too, enjoyed the … how shall I put it—the sleazy, for want of a better word. One evening a few months ago, he turned up here in a blue velvet dress and high heels.”

“ ‘Bagnatti,’ I said. ‘Have you lost your mind?’ He just laughed. Said he was mixing business with pleasure. Carlo was on his way to Forcella to cruise with the transsexuals there.”

“What did he mean, mixing business with pleasure?”

“I don’t know. I thought perhaps he was looking for someone in particular, trawling for material for his column. That was my impression.”

“Thank you,” Natalia said.

“Such a foolish boy. I miss him. Miss him terribly.”

“We love who we love, sir.”

Fabretti dabbed at his eyes as he saw her out. “Yes,” he said, softly.

They wished one another a pleasant evening on the doorstep, and she departed. The patrol car was where she had left it, but someone had taken the opportunity to break an egg on its hood.