Читать книгу Montesereno - Benjamin W. Farley - Страница 16

Darby watched as the black Nissan slowly crept down the pebbled driveway and came to a stop. It was still early morning, and the sunrise had yet to clear the oaks and Fraser firs opposite the Inn’s gateway. An elderly driver in a petite gray hat and white gloves peered through the windshield before cutting off the engine. Slowly she opened her door and crept out. She looked about and glanced up timorously at the Villa. Her hat sported a red band. In her hands she clutched a red purse. A long black woolen coat hung loosely about her frame. Darby estimated the cautious lady to be in her late seventies, if not older. Surely, this was Stephanie’s grandmother. Darby opened the front door to greet her.

“Mrs. Gay, I assume? I’m Darby Peterson, Mr. Nelson’s fill-in until he returns.”

“Yes! I heard you were coming. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” A thin smile formed before disappearing from her lips. “I suppose I’m early,” she added, as she climbed the steps, holding to the iron rail with both hands.

“Allow me to assist you,” Darby stated, as he stepped down to take her arm.

She looked up and smiled, but her expression was cheerless. “I trust the child is ready. I know I have to write the check first.”

“I can’t say about either, but please come in. I’ll inquire.”

Darby escorted her into the hallway and walked with her toward Garnett’s office. Linda, having heard the commotion, stepped from the dining room to greet her. “Please, Mrs. Gray, would you care for some tea or coffee while we tell Stephanie. She’s been expecting you since dawn. Couldn’t sleep, she said. Had breakfast with Dr. Peterson here at seven o’clock.”

“How nice!” the woman replied, as she held to Darby’s arm. “May I sit down in your office to write the check?”

“Of course, but if you wish to pay only half now, we can bill you for the remainder after November.”

“No!” the woman said with a stiffened lip. “I just hope Stephanie’s better and ready to come home.”

“I believe you’ll find her in good cheer,” Darby offered. “She’s a marvelous girl with a sound and inquisitive mind. It’s been a joy to know her.”

The woman let out a guarded breath. “We’ll see,” she answered indifferently. “That’s what they all say.”

Linda led the woman to the office while Darby took a seat in the living room and waited for Stephanie to come down. He could hear her footsteps in the stairwell, along with someone else’s. He rose and looked up. It was Donaldson. He was standing with Stephanie, with her suitcase and Tunstan’s painting in hand.

“Stephanie, I wish you all the luck in the world,” Donaldson reassured her, as he kissed her cheek.

The girl smiled as he walked her to the door. Just then her grandmother emerged from the office, somewhat started to see her “child” with the lean “cowboy.” She placed a hand over her mouth, as if to suppress her thoughts. Her arched eyebrows, however, conveyed her disapproval. She followed them to the door.

Suddenly, Stephanie turned and raced toward Darby. He was standing in the living room. She flung her arms about his neck and kissed his ear. “Thank you! Thank you a thousand times,” she muttered with tears in her eyes. “I will write you as soon as I can.” She stepped back and, looking admiringly into his face, turned and ran toward the door, down the steps, and out to the car. Joel was waiting with her items by the trunk.

The elderly woman released the trunk latch. Donaldson lifted the suitcase and painting and placed them inside; then closed the trunk and held the driver’s door, while Mrs. Gay seated herself; then he helped Stephanie. The grandmother started the car and stared back again at the Villa. Darby stepped out and walked down to stand beside the marshal. Both waved as Stephanie craned her neck to wave in return. The sun’s yellow morning bands had crept now into the trees and its bright aura blinded them as they watched the Nissan pass through the gates and out of view.

“Well, what to do with the car?” Donaldson enquired. “Is there a cliff along the Parkway that no one would notice?” he queried in jest. “What does Gunn expect me to do?”

“I still don’t understand why the car can’t be impounded for evidence? Why have to destroy it?”

“I wish I knew myself. It could lead to a lot of other leads, but that’s not my decision. Mainly, it’s to keep the local sheriff’s department out of the picture. They don’t need to know about our business, or how we go about it. Now, what to do with this car? Any suggestions?”

“Jon Paul likely knows plenty of places you could ditch it. It’s a shame someone can’t use it.”

“Again, that’s not our problem. I’ll remove the tags and see what I can do to the VIN. I can’t leave our witness unguarded. Any ideas?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a logging road behind the Villa that’s negotiable most of the way down. The bottom opens into a little valley of creeks and tall oaks. A mica mine flanks it to the left. Lots of abandoned debris and rusted drums molder there. Sometimes trickles of silver leach out of the mine. Lots of kudzu, grapevines, and honeysuckle everywhere. And tangles and tangles of briars! A car driven into all that would scarcely be noticeable. When you’re ready, give me the keys and I can do the rest.”

“I’d go with you if I could. Maybe the old man and I could walk down and meet you partway back. How long would it take you?”

“A half-hour to an hour down. Two to three hiking out. I’m a little out of shape. It’s a long way down and back but beautiful this time of year. It’s a great place to fish in the spring.”

“Let’s plan on early afternoon. OK?”

“Fine! Let’s say by one o’clock!”

* * *

Creeping down the logging trail was not as easy as Darby had fancied. Deep ruts, fallen branches, and washed out rainbars created a driver’s nightmare. Darby guided the mobsters’ vehicle cautiously over the rocks and roots, down the road’s gravelly descents, along its narrow ledges and clay curbs. Occasionally, he stopped to admire the forest’s red and yellow leaves, browns and stone-white grays. Many had fallen, affording a visibility of hundreds of yards along the mountain’s slope and ravines—dark green with thickets of rhododendron. With his heart still pounding, he finally made it to the bottom, eased the car toward a bank of dried honeysuckle and floor-boarded the petal. With a violent lurch, the big Chrysler plunged into the tangle. It was all Darby could do to force the door open and crawl out. Once in the clear, he leaned back and stared up at the gray cliffs, below the overlook. If it weren’t for the wall there, he and Donaldson could have pushed the car over, and that would have settled it. He released a sigh, looked up toward the sun, and began his hike up the trail. He paused to listen to the tinkling murmur of the stream, faintly audible over his right shoulder. He could see its banks and moss-covered rocks through the alder bushes and beech trees. He must come back. As he began his ascent he noticed the uprooted ground cover deep in the woods where wild hogs had despoiled the forest floor. Their menacing presence did not bode well. Hopefully, they’d remain in the wooded glades and not discover the orchard.

At least an hour and a half or more elapsed before he met up with Joel and his Star witness. The aging Italian had paused to rest on a smooth granite ledge to enjoy a cigar. Darby could smell the Havana’s aroma while still out of sight. The don scooted sideways for Darby to sit and catch his breath. “After dinner, save me some time to talk, a kind of confessione, you know,” Dominetti whispered quietly. “You can never be sure. Right now, I want to enjoy the view. We ain’t got as much in New York, ’less you go off to the lakes and Adirondacks. Me? I am a stranger here. My life’s in the city, in its noisy neighborhoods with trash in the streets and rats in the alleys. And not just rodents. I mean real rats! Wire singers, sapatos e fannuloes.” He shook his head in the negative. “What have we here but the fire of the sun and the smile of angels! No? Behold, we look

Nel giallo de la rosa sempiterna.3

That’s what my father used to call my mother: la rosa sempiterna, his ‘eternal rose.’ Come! Pull me up! La lucerna del mondo will soon go down,” he waved his cigar toward the sun.

As evening approached, Darby sought out Linda. “I know we’ll be having dinner soon, but I need an item, a piece of cloth hopefully you have on hand.”

“What kind?” she asked, somewhat amused. “Have you ripped something? Torn a hole in your pants?”

“No! Not that at all!” he blushed with embarrassment. “I need a purple stole, or something as close to that as possible. You know, a priest’s stole, a vestment he wears about his neck!”

“Are you serious?” she cocked her head with a smile. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No! It’s partly your fault. Signore Ruffini has asked me to hear his confessione. He wants to talk to me in private. He said you told him I was a priest.”

“I only hinted at it,” Linda blushed. “I like it when you get peeved,” she pursed her lips as if to kiss him. “There. Now calm down.”

“Well, he’s Catholic, you know,” Darby picked up the threads of his thoughts. “Priests don a purple stole when they hear confessions. I don’t have a choice,” Darby stared into Linda’s eyes. “I can’t let him down.”

Her thin face filled with reflection. He could tell her mind was sorting through closets, or searching through drawers for whatever might match his request. “Yes!” she stated. “There’s a bolt of lace border upstairs. It’s lavender, but it’s all I have. I could cut off a section.”

“Good, you’re a dream,” Darby kissed her right cheek. “That’ll work. Say, two yards. You don’t need to iron it.”

Following dinner, Darby remained in the living room for a while, determining what to do. Jon Paul had re-stoked the fire. Now its orange flames provoked a radiant wave of pleasant warmth. Should he return to his cottage or wait longer? He paced the room, stared at Garnett’s walls of books and paintings, moved toward the central couch, and flopped in front of the fireplace. He couldn’t imagine what being a mobster was like, least of all a don or godfather, however minor or common. He never thought of the Cosa Nostra as being American anyway. Or for that matter, New York Italians! They were so entrenched in their culture’s past! Provincial? Yes, he was provincial! A Provincial with a PhD! He smiled at himself. Still, he had his dreams. Poor Garnett. Probably still undergoing tests. Darby glanced at his watch. He listened as the hallway’s grandfather clock chimed eight-thirty. He drew in a deep breath and rose to leave.

“Hold up!” Donaldson called from the hallway. “Angelico wants to see you. He wants to walk in the Garden. I’ve told him to wear his overcoat.”

“I need one, too,” replied Darby. “I’ll meet you by the cottage. My jacket here is too thin,” he flopped it open. Outside, he walked thoughtfully toward the cottage and clad himself in a warmer coat. He adjusted the lacy lavender border about his neck. It wasn’t a stole, but it didn’t look bad. Would Angelico be offended or even notice? Darby closed the door behind him and waited.

Soon, the don stepped out into the night. A white scarf glowed visibly about his throat. He had wrapped himself in a handsome black topcoat. Darby recognized the garment as a Hart Schaffner Marx. A folded white handkerchief poked out of its lapel. A cool vapor encircled the man’s gray face. He saw Darby and walked immediately to his side. Donaldson appeared in the doorway. The lean marshal stepped out and stood by one of the urns.

“You know I have to talk,” Dominetti began. “Yesterday, it could have been my last. My uncle, the priest, would understand. So, you’ve not said if you’re a Catholic, but you’re a priest, or were one, right?” He looked up at Darby, just then noticing the stole. “You’re okay, you know that? Huh? You know what I’m tryin’ to say? Here, I will show you the kind of man I am. Take my arm, and I’ll take yours. See! Like this, and we can walk.”

Darby glanced down at his stole. “They say it’s the color of penance, in memory of the Christ’s robe, before they stripped and beat him. What do you think, Mr. Ruffini? Do I offend you?”

“Ah! You are a good one! No, no! I’m not Ruffini! I’m Angelico Dominetti. The last son of my mother’s six boys. Yes. She had six. Six boys and four girls! Ten! Ten in all. And all lived. At least for a while! Now, listen, I may not make it till next week, or long after that. The mob, they know everything. You can’t really hide from them. This program the boy there represents,” he nodded back over his shoulder, “it doesn’t work. They find you anyway. So I need to say something, to get this thing off my chest,” he coughed in a rasping voice. “I, I killed a lot of people, maybe as many as twenty. I don’t remember, nor want to. But,” his eyes grew moist and his voice broke, “I strangled a child once, yes, a little girl, ’cause we were afraid she’d talk. We didn’t mean to. You see, after we killed this guy, this little girl ran out from behind his counter. We’d gone to his clothing store to collect rents, you know, protection money. We beat the guy senseless. Then here’s this little child that runs out. A little girl! ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ she’s screaming. I grabbed her to shut her up. But she struggled. I was young, tough, I told myself. This was business. A guy doesn’t pay, so we teach him a lesson. We gave no quarter, nor wanted any. So, I’m Mr. Big, Mr. Tough Guy, you see! Sure! I placed my hands around the little girl’s mouth, as tiny as it was, and, yes,” tears welled in his eyes, “I crushed her vocal cords until her neck snapped. Mother of God, I did! I didn’t mean to, but I did! I don’t deserve purgatory. Hell and Death are too good!” He paused and inhaled a long breath. “You know, killings after that was like killing myself. I did it with gusto. I am so sorry to God and all his angels. Before Mary and all the saints, I am sorry, Father. Yes, Peterson, sorry for what I did. And it doesn’t matter if I’m forgiven or not. I just want God to know, for you to know, for a human being to know that I’m sorry for that little death. God Almighty! Holy Jesus and all his saints, I’m sorry. Listen, just one more thing. You know that Jew, the one who wrote about bad things happening to good people. He got it wrong. The Jew doesn’t know what he’s talking about. That’s not the problem. Not at all! You know what the problem is? You wanna know? The problem is this: why do good people do bad things? That’s the problem, Father. That’s the real problem, the real mystery, and there’s no answer to it, from what I know.” He stared into Darby’s face, clutched the makeshift stole, and buried his face in it. “Thank you for coming out here! Look! I am holding the hem of Christ’s robe!” he held up his hands as he gripped the cloth. “God forgive me! Holy Mother of God!”

Darby placed his arm about the Italian and let him sob.

When two days later Dominetti and the marshal left, something of Darby left with them. For several hours he wandered the grounds, up through the orchard, out to the overlook, and back behind the grand maison and its outside outbuildings. He stared down the old logging road. The imprint of the mobsters’ car’s tires was still visible. That wasn’t good. Hopefully after a rain, they’d fade away.

3. Dante, Paradiso, Canto 1.