White Shotgun

“Things are as they are.” When we get up to the surgical floor, an old man is standing in the hallway outside Giovanni’s room. He wears discreetly checked trousers and a raincoat thrown over his shoulders. A young muscular fellow wearing a T-shirt and a jade disk on a leather thong around his neck helps the old man into his raincoat. He needs help because he has no hands. In place of his hands there are two black prostheses — medieval contraptions of polished stakes and wooden levers. Dressed, the old man nods politely at us and says “Arrivederci,” as they pass.

Cecilia’s eyes widen. She bursts into Giovanni’s room. Giovanni looks no different; a sixteen-year-old full of life who isn’t moving. Eyes closed, the machine breathing for him. She swiftly checks the monitors that show his vital signs.

“Cecilia — what’s wrong?” “Do you think that man was inside this room?” “Who? The old guy in the hall?” I scan the place. The only sign of another’s presence is the big chair where visitors sit. The shawls and pillows Cecilia brought for napping are in disarray on the floor, as if someone has thrown them off quickly.

“It looks like someone was here. Maybe Nicoli. Let’s call his cell—” “It doesn’t matter,” my sister interrupts quickly. “Giovanni’s okay. He’s okay,” she says again, to reassure herself.

“You seem afraid.”

“I’m fine.”

“He scared you. Why? Who is he?” She wets her lips. “Just a confused old man.” The door opens, startling Cecilia, but it is only the nurse, a squat, large-breasted woman speaking nonstop Italian. Cecilia listens, and stares her son, who is apparently in a deep, drugged sleep.

“She says Giovanni is responsive. He squeezed her finger, just a few minutes ago!” Cecilia says. “She called my cell, but we were in the basement with no service. This is wonderful news! We can take him off the ventilator!” The nurse smiles widely, showing gold teeth. Then she rams Cecilia with her bosom and crushes her in a euphoric hug.

TWELVE

“His name is Cosimo Umberto, but they call him Il Fantoccio, the Puppet,” Dennis Rizzio says on the phone from Rome later that night. “Worked his way up to capomandamento, head of a district of mafia families.”

“How did he lose his hands?”

“When he was a young picciotto, out to prove himself, he had the bright idea of blowing up Parliament. Unfortunately, all he’s got is some half-assed ordnance from World War Two, so needless to say, the thing goes off while the schmuck is holding it. But they like his courage, so they make him a bag man for ’Ndrangheta.”

“A bag man with no hands?”

“He scares the devil out of people. You own a falafel joint, and the Puppet shows up, wanting a protection bribe. You gonna argue? The guy is a success story; we should all be so blessed. What was he doing at the hospital? My guess? Putting the squeeze on Nicosa. They’re telling him, ‘We know where your son is at’—the implication being that anytime they want, they can pull the plug on his kid. Here’s the thing. Cosimo Umberto is out of his territory. He should be working extortion for ’Ndrangheta, on his usual beat down south in Calabria. But suddenly we find one of their top coglioni pressuring Nicoli Nicosa, a major industrialist in Siena. Whatever was said in that room could change the picture of mob penetration of the north. You’re in a unique position to know.”

“Meaning what?”

“Talk to your sister. She knows exactly what’s going down, or she wouldn’t have freaked when she saw that guy.”

“Now isn’t the time. Her kid is still critical. Palio starts tomorrow and she’s hyped about that—”

“Stop making excuses. You’re in, and we want you to stay in.”

I am talking to Rizzio from the far side of the pool, out of sight of the family. The underwater lights are on, heat still rises off the pine duff like a woodland sauna, while I pace the deck and consider betrayal. It’s one hell of a postcard.

“You know what, Dennis? I shouldn’t do this.”

“You’re the only one who can. You’re in with the family; that’s a tremendous plus.”

“Let’s do it right and bring the heat. Infiltrate with an undercover from the Bureau, someone fresh. I’ll help them establish a cover, and then I’m gone. It doesn’t feel right, and you know when that happens, it’s time to go home.”

There is a space of silence.

“ ‘Home’ is a relative concept,” Dennis finally replies. “From what I understand, the door is not exactly open.”

“Where? Los Angeles?”

“Like I told you, Bob Galloway and I are buddies from the old days. He filled me in on your situation, fingering Peter Abbott, deputy director of the FBI, for obstruction of justice.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Me? Not at all. Peter Abbott is a private-school prick like we used to beat up on the subway. But there’s no way he’s going to plead guilty and go away.”

“You never know.”

“You think Peter Abbott’s just gonna roll over?” Rizzio asks skeptically. “That’s what family money and connections are for—obstruction of justice!”

He laughs.

“The Bureau is in for a tough battle in the courts. God forbid the trial goes south, and after a huge investment of time and money, it turns out the evidence you provided isn’t all that solid. All I’m saying, Ana, is that it’s easy enough to stay in their good graces.”

I shake my head.

“I know how this investigation of Nicosa will proceed,” I insist. “You’ll want intel. Hard evidence. Pretty soon there are surveillance cameras planted inside the abbey, and I’m wearing a wire. Now we’re involving family members. It’s just too complicated for me.”

“Are they really your family?”

“Kind of.”

He hears my real hesitation. “Because I would never ask you to do something like that.”

“I know.”

“It seemed like since you never met these people, maybe it would fly,” he goes on. “But say the word, and I’ll send a new u.c. in tomorrow. If you have an emotional conflict, that’s a nonstarter.”

Dennis knows that admitting to an “emotional conflict” is a ticket to the community outreach squad, and that I’ve already gotten my teeth into this case. But part of his question is sincere. I can’t call Cecilia my sister in the real sense. It hasn’t been instant chemistry. Our lives are completely different. We’ve known each other for just a few tumultuous days. I entered her home with a role to play. She reached out precisely because I am an agent. I want to help, but we are more bound by circumstance than blood.

“There’s no conflict,” I say at last. “But I need you to take extra precautions.”

“Fine. How long is your nephew in the hospital?”

“He’s out of the coma, so hopefully not too much longer.”

“I hear what you’re saying. The safety of the family won’t be compromised. I will personally make sure Giovanni has protection 24/7. I’ll have Inspector Martini post a cop outside his room. No more creeps in the hall.”

There’s still something that feels out of joint. I slip off my shoes and swipe the water in the pool with a bare foot, kicking up a splash of frustration.