“Often it is,” Alex said.
“Anyone know who fired the shot?” he asked.
“There are some credible leads,” she said, “but nothing I can discuss.”
“I understand,” he said.
The room was dominated by a large-screen television on one side, some New York Yankees memorabilia on the other. Two large leather chairs and a matching sofa over plush wall-to-wall carpeting. A man’s lair. In one corner was a bag of golf clubs thrown up against some fencing equipment, including an assortment of epees and sabers.
“Can Florence get you coffee?” he asked. “An after-dinner drink maybe?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Then Paul was on his feet. “I’d like you to see something,” he said. He went to a drawer and found a passport. He opened it, then walked to Alex and handed it to her.
“My ID while I’m traveling to Cuba,” he said. “I hope this isn’t a deal breaker.”
The document was Canadian, or appeared to be. She opened it. It bore the name of Richard Valenteri of Toronto, an identity as fictitious as the passport itself.
She glanced up at him, partly in dismay, partly in admiration as she turned the pages. “This is rather good,” she said. “It has a nice well-used feel, neither too full nor too empty. Ever used it before?”
“No.”
“Of course,” she said. “I suppose officially I don’t know about this,” she said. She closed it and examined the binding. “I can’t find a flaw in it,” she said. “Very professional. I won’t even ask where you bought it. Expensive?”
“These things are,” he said, taking it back. “It won’t stand scrutiny at a port of entry to the U.S.,” he said, “but it’ll protect me in Cuba.” He put it away in the same drawer and remained on his feet. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said. “I want to see if the kids are doing their homework.” Then he was out the door.
She surveyed the room. The bookshelves on the wall were bulging, mostly with histories and biographies. A few empty spaces were marked by bookends and small statuettes, frequently those of New York Yankees players: Mantle, Reggie, Guidry, Mat-tingly, Jeter, Posada, A-Rod. One set of bookends was marked with the coat of arms of Cornell University, while another set was a reproduction of the New York City Library Lions, and there was an impressive statuette of Rodin’s
After a minute Guarneri reappeared, looking cross, carrying a bottle of water. “My girls are my students and my son is my terrorist,” he said. “Lauren’s studying. Her sister’s at prep school, so now she wants to go away to school too. Joey’s into
“Sounds like a typical American family,” she offered.
His expression changed. He smiled. “Maybe,” he said. He closed the door. “Can’t say I blame Joey for wanting to have his fun,” he said under his breath. “Kids should be able to enjoy childhood. I never had many games when I was a kid. We lived a Spartan existence: a two-bedroom in Hempstead. My mother got money from my dad but was always afraid it would end, which it did one day in 1973.”
“The day he was murdered.”
“Correct,” he said.
“Joey’s named after your father then?” Alex said.
“No, Joe DiMaggio,” he said. Then he grinned. “Yeah. He’s named after my dad,” he said. He sipped the bottled water. “Sure I can’t get you a drink?”
She declined again and he sat.
“How did you land at Cornell?” she asked.
“My father had a funny attitude toward formal education,” Guarneri said. “He didn’t have one himself. He was an illegal immigrant from Naples in the 1930s. Jumped ship in Miami, eventually got mobbed up. His education was the waterfronts, the bars, the brothels, and eventually the casinos and racetracks. So he figured I should have a real education – the best he could find. He was street smart and wanted culture; I got culture and wanted street smarts. But the old man named the tune. So I got sent to tough parochial schools on Long Island. My dad always said, ‘You get an education; no one can ever take that away from you.’ So he was on my case all the time about studies. Bless him. I was his only son, at least that I know of. He steered me away from his sordid world. He did a lot of things wrong, but he did some things right as well.”
“And yet, in a way, you’re steering back,” she suggested.
“What do you mean?”
Alex wondered if she had touched a nerve. “Well, Cuba. That’s a trip into your father’s past. On one hand you say you’re glad you moved away from that, and yet you want to reach out and touch it again.”
“You have a point.”
“Unless it’s just the money,” she said.
He laughed. “It’s never just the money, Alex,” he said. “Not for any reasonable man or woman.”
“Then what is it? In your case?”
He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head. “Family. Destiny. Promises once made. Timing.” She thought he was ready to say more, but didn’t. “May I let it go at that for tonight?” he asked.
“You may.”
A thoughtful pause, and he added, “No one’s completely bad, are they?”
“I’m not following the question.”
“My father,” he said. “Giuseppe Cristoforo Guarneri, though he was Joe to those who knew him. Nineteen twenty-eight to 1973, somehow by the grace of God. Joe from Napoli. Joe the gangster, who was on the payroll of Lucky Luciano of Murder Incorporated. Was Joe a bad man?” he asked. “That’s my question.”
“It might be your question, but I can’t answer it,” Alex said.
“If he was, am I a bad man for honoring a bad man’s wishes?”
“Depends on the purpose.”
“Evil fascinates me. Maybe more than good does. Name an evil man,” he said. “Completely evil.”
“Hitler? Stalin?” she tried.
“Point taken,” he said. “Want to add Castro and Fulgencio Batista to your list?”
“I’ll let you do that,” she said.
“I just did. Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, musing. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? That was part of it. It took many years for my father’s execution to wear off. I was in denial for a decade and a half. Then I wanted to know more. About him. About the events of the time. Hell, it’s where I came from. If dad hadn’t had an eye for the chorus girls, I wouldn’t have been born.”
Alex laughed out loud. “That’s an odd way of looking at it.”
“It’s a realistic way of looking at it,” Guarneri countered.
“So you want to sneak into Cuba, and yet you’re an expert on Cuba?” she said.
“An amateur expert,” he corrected. “A lay expert.”
“What can you tell me about the Bay of Pigs?” Alex asked.
He laughed slightly. “Quite a lot. I can tell you two things,” he said: “the invasion was a disaster, and my old man was there.”
“Your father was part of the force that invaded Cuba?” she asked.
“Yup. He went to Miami and trained with the invading force. Then he went in. He was captured on the beach. Lucky he wasn’t killed. Spent time in a Cuban prison camp before the U.S. made a deal to get the men back. It was the only time my father ever spent time in jail.”
“So he had CIA contacts?” she said.
“Sure,” Guarneri said, “but don’t make too much of that. The CIA was going crazy back then trying to get rid of Castro. They’d play ball with anyone. My dad’s contacts probably were not any better than five thousand other people’s.”
She looked at him to ferret out the truth. “Or at least that’s what you’re telling me,” she said.
He snorted slightly. “Why would I lie to you?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Why would you?”
“I have no reason to,” he said. “None. The CIA, they’ll lie to anyone. Me, you. The press. The president. Santa Claus. Anyone.” He paused. “I hate them,” he said.
