BELLA MAFIA (41 page)

Sophia was sitting slightly to one side, looking over one of the handwritten posters.

"They go up on every wall, in the docks, the warehouses, in the streets," Teresa said. "I want every man who ever worked for Don Roberto to read them. I'll pull every string I know to get these men back working for us. We do it together, all of us, and we use any tactic we can, even make them feel so guilty they will at least give us—"

She was interrupted by Graziella, who walked slowly and sedately into the room, carrying a vase of fresh flowers. As she put it down on the desk, she picked up one of the posters, read it very slowly, then pursed her lips.

"These men all work with other families; it will cause trouble. Not just for them but for you, all of you. Hasn't there been enough death in this family without asking for more?"

Teresa was growing impatient. "They owe us, Mama. For years Don Roberto gave them employment."

Graziella surprised them then with the cold, hard edge in her voice. "But he is dead, Teresa. You are not head of this family. I am, and I refuse to let this theatrical gesture continue."

"We need you with us, Mama, would like you with us. If you refuse, that is your prerogative, but we are going ahead whether you like it or not."

The stench of warehouses full of rotten oranges left in their cargo boxes was like an open sewer. Rats scurried across dank floors. The cargo boats rusted in their dry docks. Rows of trucks, their tires slashed and canvas tops ripped, stood abandoned, their paintwork blistered by the sun. Engines had been stolen; almost every removable part was gone. The wanton neglect was heartbreaking.

The once-flourishing tile factory was shuttered, thick dust from the tiles covering even the offices. Windows were shattered, and the place had been broken into so many times there was hardly a room left intact.

The women were silent, but their sight-seeing tour was not over. They drove out to the massive canning factory, towering above the desolate yards, then to the groves themselves. Now they were witness to mile upon mile of dying trees, orange, lemon, and olive, their fruit rotting, fly-infested and stinking. The sprinklers had rusted, the irrigation canals were filled with dead fruit, and the flies hummed in thick clouds above the trees. Graffiti could be seen, written in the dust and painted across the walls:
"Mafioso finito. Bastardo Luciano . . ."

Teresa's face was set, rigid with determination, while she strode from one nightmarish scene to another, making notes and murmuring to herself as Graziella trailed after her.

When they returned to the villa, Rosa slipped upstairs to unlock Luka's room and check his bandages. The others remained in subdued silence in the study. Teresa flicked open her notebook.

"First we will need men to clean, remove the garbage, check the trucks to determine what we can use, what we have left."

Sophia brushed the dust from her skirt. "It's not a house, Teresa. You can't just get a crew of people in with mops and buckets."

Ignoring her, Teresa continued. "The trees need to be pruned, cut back almost to their roots, and the sprinklers started. They'll not harvest for at least a couple of seasons."

Sophia flung her hands up. "A couple of seasons? And in the meantime, what do we do? After we clean up the docks, the warehouses, the ships, what happens then? We have no product. It's madness, as Mama said; we'll never be able to start again."

Teresa snapped, "We're not! We are simply preparing to sell. I have a list of all the export companies in Palermo; we will approach them. Then we decide either to sell, depending on the price offered, or to lease space. We have export licenses, we have the space for goods in New York, the warehouses Filippo ran, we have a delivery and trucking company, we have the Luciano name—and that is worth a lot more than we have been offered to date. Now does it make sense? I am trying to put together the best possible package for a deal, and to make those who have already made offers up their price. In other words, I am doing exactly what I would do if I were trying to sell an apartment for the highest price possible."

No one argued; no one said another word. Teresa sat smugly behind the desk. "All you have to do is exactly what I have planned. I have someone waiting to distribute the posters."

You came in your hundreds to bury the man you deservedly called
II Papa;
to weep with his women, cry for his sons, and pray for his grandchildren. Signora Luciano asks you who knew Don Roberto Luciano to show your respects one last time, for the men he employed, for the women he provided for, for the children who grew to manhood safe under his protection; to show his women the love he gave freely to you.

Signed: Graziella Luciano Sophia Luciano Teresa Luciano Rosa Luciano

On the designated day Teresa drove the white Rolls-Royce. The meeting was called for two o'clock in the afternoon. As instructed, they all wore mourning, but only Graziella wore a thin black veil over her iron gray hair. The gleaming white car and the black-clad women made a touching spectacle for the press.

They stood on the small raised platform in a line, facing the crowd. No one could remain unaffected by them; they had the same air of calm they had borne at the funeral.

When Teresa stepped forward, she was greeted by a respectful silence. She thanked everyone for coming and offered a short prayer. Then she lifted her voice.

"You are standing in the Luciano warehouse. I have no need to point out to you the neglect, just as I am sure I have no need to tell you of the sad condition of my father's companies, now empty and unproductive. At some time all of you here benefited from Don Roberto's generosity, from his kindness, his love and understanding. He gave you work; he gave you protection; he gave of himself freely and unstintingly for many years. He never turned people away if they needed his help."

Cameras flashed as she paused to let the message sink in. The press had turned out in force.

Teresa continued. "We now need your help to get started. We do not ask for your charity or for your hard-earned lire; we ask of you your time, for each of you here to give us a few hours of your time. . . ."

She explained how workers were needed to clean up and sweep the floors, mechanics to repair the trucks, glaziers to repair the windows. She explained that for the widows to get the price that the buildings were worth, they would need to be put into working condition. She told them of the loss of Roberto Luciano's fortune, that they were destitute.

Teresa explained that the tile factory would be their headquarters, and those willing to give their time and expertise should put their names and trades into a big voting box as they left the warehouse.

The newspapers published Teresa's speech and in a few instances gave reporters an opportunity to deny the rumors about Don Roberto Luciano during the trial. But they also spawned more spurious, defamatory stories of Luciano's past and his Mafia connections.

Pirelli was the only passenger in the small train compartment, heading once again for Erice. He opened his briefcase and sifted through Ancora's reports.

The gunsmith suspected of reworking the antique gun had been found dead, suffocated beneath bales of straw in his workshop, the type used for firing practice. They had found numerous drills for customizing bullets, and there had been furthei developments in tracing the gun itself. When inquiries had beer made at the Villa Palagonia, the tour guide had identified the deceased Dario Biaze and Enrico Dante as the men he had spoken to the day the gun had been stolen, but he could not identify the third man, who had remained practically hidden in the backseat of the car.

Pirelli reached into his briefcase and brought out his notebook, flicked through it until he came to his scrawled notes or the interview with the guard from the courthouse. He de scribed the priest, the suspected killer of Paul Carolla, a: having thick, reddish dark hair. He had been unable to make a positive identification from the police composite picture.

The last part of the report was a copy of the forensic find ings on the fingerprints taken from the bullet and the orange juice glass at the Armadillo Club. There was a thumbprint, but so far they had been unable to match it with any on record.

Pirelli closed the folder, picked up an old newspaper from the floor, tossed it onto the seat opposite, and rested his feet on it. His right heel covered the black-and-white photograph on the front page, but the article on the Luciano women that accompanied it caught his eye. He picked it up and was surprised to see that the widows had virtually asked for charity. The train pulled into Erice before he could finish reading.

The sheets from Luka's room were still in the dryer, and Sophia busied herself unloading it. As she folded one of the pillowcases, she noticed stains on it. She threw it into the wastebasket, presuming the dark brown marks to be blood. It was not until she went in to check on the sleeping Luka later that evening that she noticed his hair was very much lighter than it had been. She leaned over him for a closer look and was startled when Rosa walked in.

Rosa looked at her suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

Sophia put her finger to her lips. Luka was still asleep. "Come and see, here. . . . Look at his hair. It's dyed. He's blond, see?"

Rosa leaned over to look, then agreed. She whispered, "Why has he dyed his hair?"

Sophia did not reply. After they left the room quietly and locked the door behind them, Luka opened his eyes. He was able to get out of the bed with ease now, and he began to walk up and down the room. He had heard them talking and stared at himself in the mirror; the roots were beginning to show blond, and he swore softly to himself. His time was running out; he had to leave. He began to stretch the fingers of his left hand. The pain still lingered, but he slowly took off the bandages and began to exercise. . . .

Pirelli was sweating from the long walk up to the monastery, even though there was a cold wind blowing. Brother Guido welcomed him and showed him to the little room near the gates. Father Angelo would be with him shortly, he said, and Brother Thomas was also coming to speak to him.

The small bookcase beneath the crucifix caught his eye. For something to do, he took out one of the worn leather-bound prayer books and traced the embossed gold cross with his finger. He was about to replace it when one of the other books fell to the floor. It opened at the first page, and he saw the inscription inside: "Giorgio Carolla, 1973 . . ."

Brother Thomas shuffled into the room, carrying a brown manila envelope that looked dog-eared and well used. "I wondered when you would return, Commissario. I did not get the chance to speak with you last time you were here. Please, shall we be seated? I am Brother Thomas. You wish to discuss Luka? Luka Carolla?"

Pirelli sat down. The old man's robes had a heavy, musty smell, and the brother himself looked as though he could do with a bath. His fingernails were black, and his feet, encased in thonged sandals, were filthy. But he was eager to talk. He busied himself taking papers from the envelope and stacking them in front of him, then put his hands over them and gave a sly smile, rocking backward and forward.

The old man's eyes were like peas, small and muddy green; they were sly eyes. His whole manner was furtive; he looked constantly at the closed door, lowering his voice secretively and sucking breath noisily between his gums. "I knew he was bad, a liar. He stole a chicken leg once, you know. . . ."

Pirelli listened to the old man's rambling tale about a theft committed by Luka in the orphanage. He was very patient, and when they heard the slow footsteps approaching, Thomas pressed the worn envelope into Pirelli's hand, saying he was not to mention it.

Father Angelo moved painfully slowly, and Guido helped him to the chair. Pirelli was getting more depressed by the minute. Brother Thomas had proved incoherent, and he was sure this elderly man would be even worse.

"You may leave us, Guido."

Pirelli sat back. The voice, though wavery, was direct; the old man's eyes were clear and bright. As the heavy oak door closed behind Guido, Father Angelo folded his hands.

"So, you wish to know about our son Luka. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Father, it is of the utmost importance."

Father Angelo nodded, lifting his hand slightly. "Perhaps I should begin at the very beginning, yes? When he first arrived here?"

"If you wouldn't mind, I think the more I know of him, the better."

Father Angelo smiled, shaking his head. "I don't think anyone ever really knew Luka. Not all of him at least. There was always a hidden side, a terrible, terrible dark side, that all the years he was with us I was never able to release. I collected him from the Holy Nazareth Hospital, where the juvenile courts had sent him for treatment. It was 1968 . . . July."

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Father, but didn't Paul Carolla bring him to you?"

"No, no, it was much later, many years later that I received the letter from Signor Carolla. His son, Giorgio, was dying, and Signor Carolla begged that we give him sanctuary. He was a highly intelligent child but was unable to walk because of a terrible birth malformation. He also suffered from a heart condition and had been confined to a bed all his life."

Again Pirelli interrupted to clarify. "So Luka was not Carolla's blood son?"

Father Angelo shook his head. "No, no, they were very different boys, Commissario, but both had suffered. Luka was not brought here until he was five, perhaps six years old. He was arrested along with a group of street boys who were attempting to rob a warehouse. Luka was an orphan, and because he was too young to be sent to an institution, I was requested by the authorities to bring him here. He had spent considerable time in the hospital. He had appalling injuries for a child so young, injuries, I was told, that had to have been inflicted over a number of years. His back was a mass of deep lacerations; his arm was broken; his pelvis at one time had been cracked; he even had a fractured skull. He was, Commissario"—Father Angelo chose his next words carefully—"a tragedy. What misery the child had lived through I was never able to ascertain, but such anguish touched my soul. I insisted that we try our utmost to give him peace. We didn't find it easy; he was a thief, a liar, and he turned most of the other children against him. He was always fighting, yet he had the face of an angel. . . . At one point we were doubtful that we could restrain him, but God moves in unexpected ways. In Luka's case his salvation came in the tragic guise of a boy so sickly, so heartbreakingly malformed that the other children called him a gargoyle, a devil