Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (3 page)

the upper rooms and balcony. Better times indeed!

On the balcony - whose tables were reserved for ‘persons of quality’ - Julio Sclafani himself leaned out as far as his belly would allow to observe the arrival of these latest, most elevated of all his customers: Anthony and Francesco Francezci, come down from the high Madonie especially to eat at Julio’s.

It was
wonderful
that they came here, these men of power, ignoring the so-called ‘class’ restaurants to dine on Julio’s simple but worthy fare. And they’d been doing it for six weeks now, ever since the first signs of improvement in the weather. Or … perhaps it was that one of them, or even both of them, had noticed Julio’s Julietta? For Sclafani’s youngest, still unmarried daughter was a stunner after all. And the Brothers Francezci were eminently eligible men …

But what a
shame
that she wasn’t at her best! It must be the pollution of Palermo’s air. The fumes of all the cars and mopeds, the stagnation of all the derelict places, the breathing of dead air and the winter damp that came drifting in off the Tyrrhenian Sea. But spring was here and summer on its way; Julietta would bloom again, just as the island was blooming.

Except… it was worrying, the way she’d come down with - well, with whatever it was - just four or five weeks ago; since when all of the colour had seemed to go out of her, all the joy and vitality, everything that had made her the light of Julio’s life. To be back there on her couch, all exhausted, with an old biddy of a sick-nurse sitting beside her - ‘in attendance,’

as it were - as at someone’s deathbed! What, Julietta? Perish the thought! As fof the old crow: Julio supposed he should consider himself lucky to have obtained her services so reasonably. All thanks to the Francezcis, for she was one of theirs.

But here they came even now, smiling up at him - at him! - as they mounted the marble staircase. Such elegant …

such
eligible
men! Julio hastened to greet them at the head of the stairs, and usher them to their table on the balcony .

. .

Almost exactly one hour earlier, Tony and Francesco Francezci had departed Le Manse Madonie in the mountain heights over Cefalu en-route for Julio’s and the supposed gourmet pleasures of the cafe’s ‘cuisine.’ The quality of Julio Sclafani’s food was, ostensibly, the sole reason for the Francezcis’ weekly visit to the crumbling, by no means decadent but decidedly decayed city. Ostensibly, yes.

But in fact the brothers didn’t much care for the food at Sclafani’s, nor for the eating of common fare anywhere else for that matter. They could just as easily dine at Le Manse Madonie, and do far better than at Julio’s, without the bother of having to get there. For at the Manse the brothers had their own servants, their own cooks, their own …

people.

And so as Mario, their chauffeur, had driven the brothers down the often precipitous, dusty hairpin track from the Manse to the potholed ‘road’ that joins Petralia in the south to the spa town of Termini Imerese on the coast - where according to legend the buried Cyclops ‘pisses in the baths of men, to warm them’ - so Francesco had turned his mind and memory to the real reason for their interest in Sclafani’s piddling cafe: the fat man’s daughter, Julietta. Francesco’s interest, anyway …

It had been six weeks ago to the day. The brothers had been in Palermo to attend a meeting of the Dons: the heads of the most powerful Families in the world, with the possible exception of certain branches of European Royalty and nobility, and other so called ‘leaders of men’ or business, politicians and industrialists mainly, in the United States of America and elsewhere. Except there’s power, and there’s power. That of the Francezcis was landed and gilt-edged …

and ancient, and evil.

It lay in the earth (in territory, or real estate); in the wealth they’d been heir to for oh-so-many,
many
years, plus the additional wealth which the principal and their unique talents had accumulated and augmented; and not least in those peculiar talents themselves.

For in fact the Francezcis were advisers. Advisers to the Mafia,
still
the main force and power-base in Italy and Sicily; and through the Mafia advisers to the CIA, the KGB, and others of the same ilk; and through
them
advisers to those governments which allegedly ‘controlled’ them. And because their advice was invariably good, invariably valuable, they were revered as Dons of Dons, as every Francezci before them. But to actually
speak
of them in such a connection … that would be quite unpardonable. It was understandable; their social standing …

As to that last: they had the reputations of the gentlest of gentlemen! Their presence had been requested - even fought over - for every major social event on the island for the last fifteen years, ever since they came into their inheritance and possession of Le Manse Madonie. And their bloodline: there had been Francezci Brothers for as long as men could remember. The family was noted for its male twins, also for a line that went back into the dimmest mists of history - and into some of the darkest. But that last was for the brothers alone to know.

Thus the immemorial and ongoing connection of the Francezcis with certain of the island’s (and indeed the world’s) less savoury elements was unsuspected; or if it was it wasn’t mentioned in polite circles. Yet in their role of freelance intelligence agents for the Mob or mobs - as advisers in the field of international crime, various kinds of espionage, and terrorism - the Francezcis were an unparalleled success story. Where or how they gained their intelligence in these diverse yet connected fields: that, too, was for the brothers alone to know, and for others to guess at. But to the Dons it seemed obvious that they had

Brian Lumley

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corrupted the incorruptible on a world-wide scale …

… Francesco’s thoughts had strayed from their course. As the limo glided, or occasionally bumped, for the junction with the A-19 motorway into Palermo, he redirected his mind to that evening six short weeks ago:

After their meeting with the Dons (whom they had advised on such problems as what or what not to do about Aldo Moro and his kidnappers the Red Brigade, in Italy, and President Leone, who had become an embarrassment) the hour had been late. Driving back through Palermo and turned aside by a diversion where road works were in progress, Tony had noticed Julio’s Cafe and suggested they pause a while for refreshments.

Indoors in the room of the marble staircase, the brothers had ordered Julio’s ‘Greek Island Specialities.’ They’d picked at spicy sausages, stuffed vine-leaves, and various dips prepared in olive oil -
but no garlic -
all washed down with tiny measures of Mavrodaphne and a chaser, the brackish Vecchia Romagna, sipped from huge brandy-bowl glasses. By nine-thirty the kitchens had closed; the brothers dined alone. Julio had excused himself - a toothache! He’d called a dentist who, even at this late hour, had agreed to see him. His daughter, Julietta, would see the brothers off the premises when they were done.

Perhaps Francesco had drunk a little too much Mavrodaphne, too large a measure of brandy. Or it could be that in the gloom and draughty emptiness of the place, with the picked-at food gone cold on their plates, and the knowledge of lowering skies just beyond the arches, the woman had looked more radiant, more luminous … more pure? Whatever, Francesco had looked at her in a certain way, and she had looked back. And Anthony Francezci had gone down to the limo on his own, while his brother …

At which point the silver grey hearse of a car had swerved to avoid a dead animal in the road - a goat, Mario thought! - and again Francesco had been shaken from his reflections where he lolled in a corner of the back seat. Perhaps it was as well. They had been passing close to Bagheria; in a moment they’d be making a sharp right turn. Oh, yes, for Tony would surely want to park a while at a place he was fond of: the Vila Palagonia.

‘What, drawn to your monsters yet again?’ Francesco’s comment had been petulant, almost angry; he was irritated that his mood and memories had been broken into.

‘Our
monsters!’ Tony had answered immediately and sharply. For it was true enough: both of the brothers knew the inspiration behind the lunatic array of stone beasts that adorned the walls of the villa. The carved dwarves and gargoyles, the
creatures
with human hands and feet, and other Things that defied description. Some two hundred years ago the owner of the villa, Prince Ferdinando Gravina, had insisted upon

visiting Le Manse Madonie, home to the Ferenczinis, as their name was then. Rich as Croesus, he had been interested to discover why the equally wealthy Ferenczinis were satisfied to dwell in such an ‘out-of-the-way, austere, almost inhospitable sort of place.’

And Ferdinando’s mania for grotesques - or his mania in general - had later emerged as a direct result of that visit.

But in any case Francesco had shrugged, saying, ‘According to Swinburne, these sculptures have their origin in Diodorus’s tale of the freakish creatures that came out of the Nile’s sunbaked mud.’ And before his brother could answer: ‘Perhaps it’s better if that legend prevails? It was a long time ago, after all.
Too
long ago, for such as you and I to remember!’

At which Tony had scowled and answered, ‘Ferdinando looked into the pit, brother - the pit at Le Manse Madonie - and we both know it!’ And then, sneeringly: ‘Let’s be discreet by all means, but in the privacy of our own car in a place like this, who is there to eavesdrop?’

Then, as at a signal, Mario had driven on for Palermo …

And now they were there, at the Cafe Julio, and the fat little sod seating them at a table on his precious balcony and detailing his odious ‘cuisine,’ from which list they ordered this and that: a few items to pick at, a carafe of red wine. All a sham, a show; the brothers moved the food about their plates, waiting for Sclafani to mention Julietta. And eventually, returning upstairs from some small duty in the kitchens:

‘Gentlemen, I’m eternally in your debt!’ Julio bowed and scraped, plucked nervously at the towel over his arm as he sidled up to their table. ‘Er, I mean with regard to your kindness in providing a … a
companion
for my daughter. I cannot bring myself to call the old lady a nurse - can’t admit to any real sickness in my girl - but the woman
is
a godsend nevertheless. She fetches and carries, sees to my daughter’s needs, and I am left free to attend my business.’

‘Julietta?’ Francesco contrived to look concerned. ‘Your daughter? Is she no better, then? We’d wondered why she wasn’t around …’ He looked down over the balcony into the courtyard, casting here and there with his dark eyes as if searching.

Julio turned his own eyes to the night sky and flapped his hands in an attitude of despair or supplication. ‘Oh, my lovely girl! Weak as water and pale as a cloud! Julietta
will
get better, I am sure. But for now … she reclines upon her bed, with shadows under her eyes, and complains about the sunlight creeping in her room so that she must keep the curtains drawn! Some strange lethargy, a malaise, a weird photophobia.’

The brothers looked at each other - perhaps quizzically - and Francesco finally nodded. And to Julio: ‘Sclafani, we have business tonight. A man of ours returns from an important trip out of the country.

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Meanwhile we’re out for a drive, passing a little time. It’s a very pleasant evening, after all. Alas, we may be called away at any moment, which is why we didn’t order more extensively from your menu. But this thing with Julietta: we

-find ourselves … concerned for you.’

‘Indeed,’ Tony nodded. ‘We Francezcis are delicate that way ourselves - with regard to strong sunlight, I mean.

Which is why we’re not often out and about when the sun is up.’

‘And,’ Francesco went on, thoughtfully, ‘—who can say - perhaps we find ourselves in a position to be of further service?’ Qulio could have fainted! What, the Francezci Brothers, of service to him and his? Of
further
service?)

‘You see,’ said Tony, ‘in three days a man will fly from Rome. A doctor, a specialist. You are right: there is a certain malaise or anaemia abroad. Servants of ours in Le Manse Madonie are laid low by it; we ourselves feel a definite lethargy. Our blood seems … weak? But at least in the heights we have the benefit of clean air! While here in the city .

. .’ He shrugged.

Open-mouthed, Julio looked from one brother to the other. ‘But what do you propose? I mean, I scarcely dare presume—’

‘—That our doctor friend should take a look at Julietta, and perhaps keep her under observation a while?’ Francesco cut him short. ‘But why not? He’s our own private doctor and comes with the very highest recommendation!

Moreover, he’s been paid in advance. In such an arrangement, surely there are no losers! So, it’s settled.’ He nodded his head as in final confirmation.

‘Settled?’

‘We shall send our car for Julietta three evenings from now -Saturday, yes. And the old woman shall stay with her at all times, of course. But that is to look on the gloomy side, for in the event that she should recover between now and then, which naturally we hope she will…’

‘I… am stunned!’Julio choked out the words.

‘No need to be,’ said Tony, delicately dabbing at his mouth. Take our card. If your Julietta shows signs of recovery, call us. Otherwise look for our car Saturday night. After that, you may inquire after her at your convenience. But remember: we’re private men. Our telephone number is restricted. And rest assured, Julietta will be attended to in every circumstance.’

It was done. Hardly believing his stroke of good fortune, the fat man went about the night’s business in a daze; the brothers, apparently unmoved, continued to pick at their food … until Julio was observed busying himself at the tables in the courtyard below. Then: ‘Watch the stairs,’ Francesco said. ‘If he comes up, issue a warning or distract him.’ But as he stood up and moved back a pace from the balcony: