Burbank. Maybe that meant he was gaining some trust and respect. By verbally jabbing Valentine, Shane was hoping to set up the feeling that they were equals. Of course, the downside to that was he could go too far and truly piss Dennis off. Then, instead of equal ground, he'd be getting hallowed ground.
Shane watched as a slow smile broke on Dennis Valentine's face. 'I like you,' the handsome mobster said.
Don Carlo DeCesare lived on a ten-acre estate at the foot of the Saddleback Mountains. As they pulled up, Dennis told Shane that the houses located at all the strategic spots surrounding the property had been bought by the DeCesare family, and that only confirmed or made soldiers lived in these homes. These DeCesare wiseguys got beautiful bargain housing, but in return, they had a responsibility to protect the estate. Dennis explained that nobody could get close to the Don or his family without the soldiers getting plenty of advance warning.
Standing at the large security gates, stamping their feet to ward off the cold, were two unmade DeCesare wannabes-cugini. The limo's windows were lowered so the two young guards could see that it was Dennis, then the caravan was waved through. They drove up a long, manicured drive, where several men in coveralls were busy planting spring flowers. Even though the afternoon April temperature was still in the mid-forties, the gardeners were kneeling, digging holes in freezing ground, putting hundreds of multicolored impatiens in the sculptured flower beds that adjoined the driveway.
The house was architecturally magnificent; a castlelike structure of gray stone. Turret towers guarded all four corners. A massive arched door with carved panels dominated the front porch. The only thing missing was a drawbridge, but the array of auto-mags in the hands of four young Mafia hitters on the porch had eliminated the need for a moat.
There were two older men standing with the others, both in their fifties, both wearing boxy suits. One of these capos walked down the gray stone steps and opened the door of the limo.
'Uncle Pietro…' Dennis grinned as the man stuck his fleshy, cologne-drenched face into the car.
'You look like you got a suntan out on da Coast,' Uncle Pietro said, smiling.
'Nobody should lay in the sun-ages the skin and causes cancer. I use an indoor tanning product.' After delivering this health warning, Dennis piled out of the limo with his briefcase, followed by Shane. Once they were standing beside the car, Dennis turned to his uncle and introduced Shane. 'Uncle Pietro, this is the man I told you about, Shane Scully.' Dennis turned to Shane: 'Uncle Pietro was my baby-sitter growing up. His job was to follow me around, make sure I stayed healthy and out of trouble, right, Pete?'
'You took some serious looking. after, bambino.' Pietro grinned. 'Chased his ass all up and down the state fixing messes.'
'God knows how many illegitimate babies he buried.' Dennis was enjoying the memory.
'Hey, all I did was ditch the evidence.'
They were both grinning and laughing. Shane pasted a smile on his face, but he really wanted to slug both of them.
Suddenly, Dennis switched the subject. 'How's Uncle Carlo?'
'Y' know, I guess he's doing good as can be expected. He's through with his chemo, but with all the other stuff he takes he's sick a lotta the time. He's having lotsa trouble with his legs now, clots and shit. Doctor's got him on blood thinners.' Shane wondered if the Don was getting enough flavonoids.
They moved into the house and stood in the large entry hall. There were half a dozen fifteenth-century suits of armor lining the parquet floor. An arched window at the end of the hall looked out on the rolling hills and the Saddleback Mountains beyond.
'Sorry, but we gotta check for bugs,' Pietro said to Shane. He motioned to another cugino standing nearby, wearing slacks and a polo shirt. He had short, dark hair and huge biceps. In his right hand was another 2300 Frequency Finder. The feds must have been having a sale on the damned things. Shane spread his arms and let the machine run over him.
'Nothing,' the 'cugino said. 'He's clean.'
'I think we should take a closer look, Frankie,' Pietro cautioned.
'Guy's okay, Uncle Pete,' Dennis said, but the capo shook his head.
'He's still a cop, Denny. Is it okay, Mr. Scully? You don't mind, do you?'
Shane shrugged. 'Fine with me.' But it wasn't; it pissed him off.
Frankie led the way to a bathroom off the entry hall. Once they were inside, the wanna-be wiseguy closed the door. 'Mind stripping down?'
'Yeah, I mind. But I'll do it.' Shane took the StarTAC phone off his belt and handed it to Frankie, then removed his coat, shirt, and pants. Finally, he was standing in his shoes, socks, and underwear, feeling ridiculous.
'Turn around please,' Frankie said, holding the StarTAC, which contained the very thing he was searching for. Frankie inspected him for a wire and finally nodded. 'Okay, thanks. You can get dressed.'
Shane put on his clothes, then held out his hand for the phone.
Frankie returned it, and as Shane clipped it on his belt, he turned it back on.
'You don't pack?' Frankie asked, referring to the fact that Shane had no weapon.
'Not outta state. Besides, I figured you wouldn't let me bring one in here anyway.'
'Good thinking…'
Shane followed Frankie into the entry hall, where they rejoined Dennis and Pietro.
'My uncle is waiting to see you. Come on,' Dennis said.
They walked down a beautiful flag-draped hail, passing under an ornate stone archway. Dennis stopped at a pair of carved oak doors and hesitated for a second before knocking. The doors opened immediately, and they were facing another steroid-fed side of beef in a painted-on suit.
'How ya doin', Kerry?' Dennis said.
'Hangin' in. You look good. L. A. must agree with ya.' 'Yeah, but Lynette is breakin' my chops out there. She shops all day.'
'Broads.' Kerry smiled, motioning them inside a large dark den.
It took Shane's eyes a minute to adjust to the low light. The room was lined with bookshelves and was underfurnished. A huge antique desk and chair sat against one wall. An oxblood-colored sofa and two club chairs were positioned across the room. In several spaces on each book-lined wall, magnificent oil paintings hung in dimly lit alcoves. All were of elderly men in various kinds of period-dress. Two of the more recent paintings depicted stern-faced characters in expensive suits from the twenties and forties. Shane didn't have to ask; he knew he was looking at the criminal bloodline of the DeCesare family. Seated by the window in a wheelchair, with his back to them, was a small, frail old man: Don Carlo DeCesare-Little Caesar.
'Uncle Carlo, it's Dennis.'
The old man slowly pivoted the chair to face them. Shane tried not to gasp, but half the Don's face had been surgically altered. Welts and scar tissue dominated everything below his nose.
Dennis moved across the room to his uncle's wheelchair and whispered something to him; the old man nodded. Then Dennis turned and motioned for Shane to approach.
'He wants to meet you.'
As Shane walked toward them he became aware that someone else was in the room; a slender, dark-haired young woman with glasses, who looked to be about twenty.
'This is Don Carlo's daughter, Celia,' Dennis said. 'She talks for my uncle. He signs.'
'She does what?'
'My uncle lost most of his tongue and vocal cords to cancer.'
Shane looked at the scarred face of the Don and tried to deal with this new fact. It appeared he would be forced to converse with this girl, instead of the Don, himself. Would recordings containing only Celia's voice hold up in court?
Shane crossed the room and stood in front of the wheelchair. Up close, Don DeCesare's destroyed lower jaw and the deep scars on his neck were ghastly and disfiguring. Shane was trying to collect his thoughts. This changed everything.
Arnac's wisdom rang in his ear. As(es, asi sera. Just keep going, he told himself. He nodded to the old man, who returned the gesture.
'Uncle Carlo, this is L. A. detective Shane Scully, who I told you about.'
