From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) (15 page)

“Yes, they’re bags of cocaine.” Ali cocks a brow.  “That occurred on the factory floor; I’m sure that’s the image you would love to portray to the world.  As an aider and abetter to the mafia!  Purveyors of drugs alongside panties!”

“You stopped them, right?” I ask, ignoring his mockery and feeling a little sick at the sight of so much coke.  “How much is there?  ”

“No.  We didn’t stop them.  Colleagues did.  We followed them to Milan and stopped them there.  Far away enough from us that we wouldn’t bring suspicion on ourselves.  That shipment there had a street value of just under a million Euros.  Maybe now you realize how heavily the factory features in the mafia’s plans.”

Faced with such an image, what can I do but nod my head?  

Feeling frustrated, I say little as the remainder of the interview passes quickly.  Within five minutes, I’m outside after saying goodbye to Vito, one of the desk sergeants and wishing that I smoked. 

I’ve never really smoked; went through a phase as a social smoker but I stopped as I dislike the idea of
anything
being a crutch.  At this moment, I feel in need of just that. 

With the prospect of a long stay over here, as I try to implement Bernard’s preferences and get the factory functioning fully as a high end lingerie manufacturing concern, it could take far longer than the three to four months Bernard’s directors originally planned. 

Changing the layout of the factory floor, while maintaining the on-going orders has been difficult.  Monica has been working on releasing us from those contracts and by the end of the month, in little over a fortnight; we’ll be able to dedicate a few days to introducing the new equipment and renovating the different sections and dedicating each department to a certain level of manufacturing skill. 

However, if the police plan to stick around for much longer, I might be here next year.  In the six weeks they’ve been stalking the factory, they’ve managed to impound a pretty hefty haul of narcotics.  But what about the lieutenants? 

Ali didn’t say so, but I reckon they’ve known all along who the major players in the factory are.  They didn’t need to be on a 24/7 stake out to ascertain that information.  As far as I can tell, their presence on the floor has been of no use whatsoever and as pleasant as I find the Italian sun, that isn’t enough to induce me to staying here for however long it takes the police to bust the mafia. 

Because Bernard will want me here until the situation is resolved. 

There’s no way he’ll leave the factory in anyone else’s hands.

Not only is this our first international, commercial property investment.  It’s also the largest factory in our ownership.  With nearly fifteen hundred members of staff, this is a big operation and it has to pay.  Otherwise it doesn’t look good for the quart
erly profits and it sure doesn’t look good for me. 

These kinds of operations can take years; especially the sort that Ali is undertaking.  Neither the company nor I can afford to waste any time or funds on such a large scale flop. 

I’ll need to take control of this situation, somehow.  And Ali doesn’t have the feather in the cap that I do.  Monica. 

Monica, who is both a pleasure and a pain to work with, who is one of the major reasons I don’t want to be in Italy for God knows how long! 

Outside the police station, there’s a small fountain and a bench.  I sink down wearily on to the wooden planks, grimacing at the dampness from last night’s slight rainfall, but otherwise, I ignore the damage to a pair of five hundred pound trousers

The water tinkles merrily; birds coo as they dive-bomb each other around the fountain and people pass on by, looking at me; the expensively dressed vagrant.  I wouldn’t know 'til later that only the town’s beggar population sits upon this particular bench. 

Cue the sending of my expensive pants to the dry cleaners.  Post haste. 

Leaning forward, resting elbows on knees as I tunnel my hands through my hair, I attempt to discover a solution.  Monica eventually retreats from the station, looking flushed.  She’s either been kissing Ali or shouting with him. 

Her lips don’t look sore enough for the former, so I’d say that she and Ali have been involved in a rather large bust up.  She looks pissed off and dammit, doesn’t she look all the sexier for that?  

She’s as Italian as they come.  All sultry, doe eyes with an exotic almond-shape to them that make her look as though she were made for sex.  Lips as red as a berry, skin as olive as they come.  She looks as though she has a perpetual tan.  Her figure would make a burlesque dancer weep and I’ve seen her breasts with the pale coffee puckered tips. 

I’m only a man. 

Not particularly renowned for my control outside of the office. 

It’s both a pleasure and a pain to look at her and she’s seated directly opposite me, on the rim of the fountain. 

“Is he
always an arse?” I ask, running my hands through my hair again.  The slight massaging action soothes the ache that’s gathering behind my temples.  A migraine is the last thing I need, but it looks as though I’m in for one regardless of personal preference. 

“For the most part, yes.  He is a good policeman; I can assure you that, Joe.  But for our situation, he is slow.  Methodical.  He will not act in a way that will danger his men and while that is commendable, it merely prolongs the investigation.  His superiors do not mind so long as he brings them results along the way.  That drug haul was a coup for him.”

“Is it just me?   But I think he’d drag his heels anyway, because he doesn’t like me?”

“You might be correct.  He does not appreciate the proximity stemming from our work together.  Although in fairness, Gianni is as against the mafia as could be.  He lost an uncle in a similar situation as the one that is cursing the factory.  That is why he feels for the innocents who are forced to work for the group out of a desire to simply survive. ”

Nodding at her answer, I study the small ripples as the water tinkles down disturbing the smooth patina of water that gleams like glass in the early morning sunlight. 

“You’ve met Brigida, haven’t you?” The words pop out of my mouth formed by a half-developed thought.  Before I ask the question, I didn’t even realize that my mind had centred on the peculiar woman who tends to the house for us. 

Her behaviour of late has been impeccable, for an anal retentive housekeeper. 

But I doubt I’m being paranoid by stating that she’s under strain.  I’m not the most attentive of people; especially to those who rarely take centre stage in my life.  I don’t mean that in a snobby way.  Not an inch of me is a snob.  I mean it in the sense that I’m too busy to notice people who go out of their way to hide from me. 

That being said, I’ve noticed she’s paler.  Thinner.  Frailer.  On the knife edge, maybe? 

And why would that be? 

She’s obviously the boss in her marriage; if that slap to Marco’s face was anything to go by and Cass and I are no bother.  We’re hardly ever there.  As ineffectual as Cass is at the moment; she’s trying.  She puts in the same hours as I do, but her iron and ice-cold efficiency isn’t as efficacious as before.  As such, neither of us causes Brigida much work. 

So why is she under such strain? 

“Yes.  I met her that one time you invited me back to dinner.  Why?”

“I don’t trust her.”

“You don’t?” Monica asks, obviously unsure as to where I’m heading with this particular line of thought. 

“No.” My eyes seek hers, amused at her confusion.  “Sorry.  I don’t mean that I distrust her as a petty thief, someone pinching the petty cash.  I mean that I don’t trust her.  When I mentioned this to Cass, she shrugged it off.  Stood up for her, but I still think it was weird.”

“You’re not making much sense, Joe.  Explain what you mean.  When was she acting oddly?   Or in a way that caused you to distrust her?”

“When that hand arrived, she didn’t react.  Cass said that was a reaction in itself.  But I don’t think so.  Who wouldn’t be repulsed or horrified at the sight of a butchered hand on the dining table?  But she didn’t react at all.  Not
one bit!   What that about?  Unless she was desensitized, that is.”

“Desensitized?”

“Yeah.  Unless she’d seen something similar to that before.  And let’s face it, Monica; she was with the old head of the firm.  How many dinner parties will he have held over the years?   How many times will she have served them?  Seen stuff, heard even more.  Who knows what she knows.  She’s the key.”

“She’s staff,
household
staff, Joe.  Why would she know anything?”

“People are arrogant.  Cass’ parents worked for our boss; she said to me once that people don’t see or hear the staff.  And we’re talking about the mafia.  They think they’re gods on earth.  That they can do whatever they want and damn the consequences.”

“I doubt she’ll have overheard enough to help us.”

“You don’t know until you look.  I want you to start a full scale background check on her and Marco.  There’s something distinctly odd about the pair of them and these last couple of weeks, she’s been looking peaky.  Almost as though she’s ill.  Maybe things are hotting up in the background. 

“If I’m on the factory floor and I come across one of the undercover cops posing as a factory worker, I immediately know them and that isn’t because they were introduced to me.  They stick out like a sore thumb!   Why shouldn’t they to the mafia too?” The more I talk, the more sense it makes.  Where once they’d had free reign to do whatever they wanted to where the factory floor was concerned, now, it’s the opposite!  

They’re having to work in the shadows.  Having to hide their operations. 

That would cause a lot of stress.  A lot of strain. 

‘Who
knows she could be the boss behind it all.” I chuckle to myself but shake my head as Monica stares at me as though I’ve lost my mind.  “I’m teasing, Monica.  I’m teasing.  But still, I think she has something to do with this; in some way.  Because if she didn’t, if she wasn’t utterly trustworthy, then why would anyone keep her on as a housekeeper when she comes with her stinkball of a husband?” Sitting up and leaning back against the bench, I grip the edge with my fingers and squeeze slightly.  “No, she’ll have answers.  Whether they’re to the questions we want answering, I don’t know.  But it’s worth a shot.  I want a report on her within forty-eight hours.  Can you get on to that?”

“Of course.”

As she digs out her mobile phone, her breasts dancing slightly as she leans over her bag, my own begins to peal.  Spotting the caller ID, I wonder if Fate is being kind to me.  Reminding me of why I’m resisting temptation and why I shouldn’t be looking at Monica’s ripe curves. 

“Juliet.” Even I can hear the relief in my tone. It’s no wonder her confusion diffuses the line and she asks:

“Joe?  Are you okay?”

“I am now.  You’ve no idea how good it is to hear your voice.”

“Really?  You mean that?”

“I wouldn’t say it, honey, if I didn’t mean it.”

“That’s good to know,” she murmurs and I can hear the smile in her voice.  “I thought you’d been pulling away from me of late.  You’ve not been very forthcoming on the phone.”

“No.  I know.  I’m sorry about that; I shouldn’t take the shit that’s happening on this end out on you.”

“You sound tired?”

“I am.  I really am.” With a sigh, I stand and move away from Monica.  While she’s on the phone to whoever is going to look into Brigida’s background, her eyes are on me.  She’s never heard me talk this way to anyone; my tone is usually either business-like or brisk.  I’m fully aware of the warmth in my voice.  It must be unusual for her; must raise flags, but I don’t care.  It feels too damned good to talk to Juliet. 

“What’s going on over there?  Dad says things have become complicated.”

“That’s an understatement of the year.  I’m thinking about coming back to the UK next weekend.  Fancy spending those few days with me?”

“I’d love it!”

“Good.  You’re the only reason I’d be going back anyway, so the weekend would be pretty much a waste of time if you had plans.”

She laughs; the sound is like music over the airwaves. 

As that thought dissolves in my mind, I wonder when the sap took the place of Joe Steel.  Christ Almighty.  Since when was a single sound able to sound like music? 

I’m well gone and I can’t really find it in me to be upset about that.

“Well, what are you up to?  It’s early back home.  I thought students slept in a lot.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve finished my finals, haven’t I?  So I’m just awaiting the results and I’ll no longer be a student.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“No.  I know.  I’m just nervous.”

Her admission has me frowning.  “Nervous?   You’re nervous talking to me?”

She sighs.  “No.  But I’m nervous about telling you something.”

“What is it?  To do with uni?”

“No!   Of course not.  It’s just well, I was nervous that you were pulling away from me.  You’ve been gone a long time and I figured, I’d come and see you.”

It’s my turn to sigh.  “Let me guess, you’re here already?  What do you want?   A lift from the airport.” A part of me is annoyed and that part is reflected in my tone.  Every other part of me is dancing to a jig only I can hear.