The Medici Dagger

didn’t.Where is he? What’s he thinking? Is he hunting Tecci himself?

Pulling back the heavy Fortuny curtain, I looked out my window at the dots and dashes of cars and people, then over at the spires atop the Sforza castle, where Leonardo had lived at one time during the Renaissance—the rebirth—before floss and phones and mini machine pistols. Images of Greer and Tecci, Antonia and my father lay before me. Feelings poured on top of them, mixing too quickly for me to identify. The amalgam became a quicksand of thought and emotion into which I began to sink.

I jump out of windows this high. Pinocchio, diving into the whale’s belly for adrenaline wages and a chance to become a real boy. Well, today this puppet killed. No blanks, no director shouting “Cut! Great, Reb, let’s do it again.” In this moment, I feel . . . everything. Fear, hatred, lust. Who am I? I’m still your son, Dad. I’m more than wood and vengeance.

My phone rang, startling me like a fire alarm. It was Antonia telling me I was late. I splashed water on my face, tried to collect myself, sighing into a thick towel. Stepping into the hall, I knocked on her door.

“Antonia, it’s Reb.”

The door opened a crack, still on the sliding double lock. A vertical strip of Antonia was revealed.

“It’s me,” I repeated, “your boating buddy.” She closed the door, unlatched it, and let me in.

She was barefoot, wearing a man-sized, plush white terry-cloth bathrobe, courtesy of the hotel. Hair pulled back, with a couple of tendrils dangling. She looked like an angel.

Slipping my jacket off, I slung it around the writing-desk chair and plunked down on an overstuffed sofa.

“You, uh, translated?” I asked.

“The first half,” she answered. “It’s backward, you know. It takes time. We’ll get to it. Hey, anyone ever tell you Reb sounds like it’s short for rebel?”

“Nobody,” I lied. “Could we get to it now?”

As Antonia sat on the edge of the bed, the collar of her bathrobe fell open at the top, exposing the slope of a breast. She let me look for a second before bunching the lapels together. She was working me, and I suddenly felt trapped.

“I ordered up something to eat,” she told me. “Be here any minute.”

“Please tell me it’s a potato knish and a corned-beef sandwich from the Carnegie Deli. Light rye, heavy mustard.”

“Fifty-fifth and Seventh Avenue,” she laughed. “Bowl of matzo-ball soup . . .”

“Are you kidding me?” I said with mock derision. “You’re at the Carnegie Deli and you order broth?”

“With those big matzo balls,” she said defensively, showing me the size with her hands. “They’re the best!”

“You’re saying you’d actually go to the Carnegie Deli andnotorder corned beef?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

I got to my feet, threw my hands up.“Well . . . then I think I’ll leave.”

“What? Sit down, buster!”

I made for the door. “Later.”

“I saidsit,you son of a bitch!” she screamed.

I turned. Antonia’s lips were tight, her face lobster-red now. Then her composure crumbled and she started to cry. “Goddamn you,” she sobbed.

Shocked, confused, and embarrassed, I took a step toward her. She gestured with her hand for me to stop. “Don’t you come near me! Don’t you threaten to leave me.”

“Really, I was just—”

“All your guns and money—a magic fucking dagger!” she shouted. “I just want my life back!” She sobbed into her hands, her small shoulders shaking inside that big robe.

I stepped over to her. She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and grabbed my hand. I felt a spark, suddenly needing to kiss her to put out the fire or fuel it. Letting go, I backed away.

“I don’t like this either,” I said.

“Bullshit! You should have seen your face when you were talking to that Nolo Tecci on the walkie-talkie. Something was turned loose in you. And when you put on Archie’s guns? This is your world, and you . . . dig it!”

I pointed at myself, incredulous.“Idig it?”

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a trail that glistened in the lamplight. “Yes,” she stated emphatically. “There’s something about this you like, Reb—don’t deny it. I’m intuitive. I look at a painting and see every color, every nuance. As if I was standing there when the painter painted it, one stroke at a time, one color at a time. And you, you’re—”

“Here it comes . . .”

“Complex, multi-textured, totally abstruse. But the one thing that’s clear is youlikethis.”

I started to speak but all I could do was just stand there, pointing at myself, with my chin hanging down as if it were too loose a fit for my mouth. Antonia wiped her tears off on her other sleeve, glaring at me with an accusatory smile that said, “See, I’m right.”

I shut my mouth and made for the bathroom, more than a little confused. She asked where I was going. I didn’t