cheerful place, with pleasant surprises around each corner. By the time I climb a bit unsteadily out of the mailbox car in the abbey courtyard, faithfully clutching the painting, I’m not at all concerned that it is meant for Giovanni. Like a greedy child, I can’t wait to see what’s inside.
Veering into the kitchen, I turn on the lights and locate a knife. In a wink I have popped the twine and ripped through the brown paper and protective layers of newsprint.
FIFTEEN
And here I come, with my plastic grocery bag of cocaine.
Having settled Giovanni and given instructions to the nurses, my sister is in the garden, cutting flowers.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “We are leaving for church.” She looks me up and down — surprised that I have agreed to wear one of the Ungaro dresses she offered, gray silk chiffon gathered at the waist, with transparent sleeves that button at the cuff.
She laughs. “That’s what you pay for. A lot of money to walk around naked.” Cecilia is wearing another shimmery million-dollar Oca-green suit, low-cut, with multiple strands of solid gold necklaces. She has positioned her feet carefully on a paving stone so as not to ruin her hot-pink heels. Picking up a basket of roses, she pivots carefully on the stone.
“These are for Giovanni, because he must miss the blessing of the Palio. What do you have there?” she asks of the canvas in my hand.
“It’s a painting by the English lady, Muriel Barrett. She left it for Giovanni on her way out of town.” “She is going for good?” Cecilia asks, in a tone that suggests she wouldn’t mind.
“Unclear. Her partner in London is sick.” Cecilia examines the work.
“It was hidden inside the painting. This woman is passing drugs to your son.” Cecilia twists her lips together. “What do you mean? Passing drugs?” “They’re both dealing, or she’s selling and Giovanni is using. Either way, the load was meant for him.” “I find that hard to believe.” “She left it for Giovanni at the Walkabout Pub. I was there.” Cecilia stares off, trying to get her bearings. The morning sun has grown exponentially hotter; if we stay out here a moment longer, the two of us in our phantasmagorical dresses will air-dry like beef jerky.
“I’d like to talk to him,” I say.
“He’s just had a sedative.”
“When we get back?”
Cecilia nods, striding ahead. “Without a doubt.” “And you’ll tell me about your husband’s business?” I follow her into the cool of the kitchen, where she angrily fills a bucket and throws the roses in. Her rage is about to explode — at me, at everything.
“Don’t worry, Ana; I am not going through this again.” “Going through what?”
Nicosa comes into the kitchen. He’s wearing a finely sculpted dark suit, his hair still wet and tousled from the shower.
“Ready, ladies?”
Cecilia thrusts the plastic bag at her husband. “Cocaine.” He peers inside with the revulsion of a man looking at a dead animal.
“Giovanni is selling drugs. That Englishwoman hooked him back into it.”
Cecilia explains, half-shouting in high-pitched Italian that the drugs were found in a painting given to their son by Muriel Barrett.
“Where is Muriel Barrett now?” Nicosa demands. “I will break her neck.” “Where is she, Ana?”
“Somewhere in the U.K.”
“But the FBI can find her and have her arrested, right?” Cecilia says.
I’m stammering. “I don’t know—”
Cecilia cries, “I want her to pay!” “We can call the authorities in London,” I say mollifyingly.
Cecilia’s gold-laden chest is heaving with emotion. I am watching the epitome of the Italian ruling class becoming undone.
“I insist that you arrest her!” she says.
“Arrest her?” Nicosa says.
“Yes, Ana can arrest her! Ana works for the FBI.” Nicosa regards me with astonishment. “You are with the FBI?” There it goes. My cover. The case. One thing I learned in undercover school: it’s a game that changes by the minute.
I affect neutrality, as if there is nothing to hide. “It’s true.” Nicosa rubs his temples. “I think I am still sleeping. I have not woken up to the new world order. Explain this to me.” “When we hired the investigator to find my sister, he found her in the Los Angeles FBI,” Cecilia says.
“It doesn’t mean anything over here. I can’t arrest Muriel Barrett,” I interject quickly. “But I can call Scotland Yard.” “Why did I never know this?” Cecilia says, “I didn’t think you would like my sister if you knew.” We exchange looks. She knows that she has blown it, and she doesn’t care.
Nicosa shakes his head and laughs. “I am spinning!” “Never mind about Muriel Barrett,” I say. “The point is that whatever your son is into has to be stopped. Now.” He turns on me. “You have no place in this.” “I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t see how that is possible,” he says dismissively.
“You didn’t object when I showed up at the pool and saved you from a possible beating.” “What are you talking about?” Cecilia wants to know.
“When I first got here. Now I understand why the contrada members who confronted you at the pool were upset. They did not want Giovanni to be alfiere because he was selling drugs to their kids. Does that make sense to you?” Nicosa coolly lights a cigarette.
“You didn’t understand the Italian.” “Translate for me.”
Nicosa shrugs and smoothes his wet hair. “They’re jealous. Who is alfiere is an important thing.” “Can we stop playing games?” Cecilia breaks allegiance with her husband by making a confession: “Giovanni did at one time have a problem with marijuana.” “Welcome to the world,” I say. “But now he’s involved with hard drugs.” “Not at all,” scoffs Nicosa. “He was smoking a little weed, but not anymore.” “Kids lie, I am sorry to say.” “Tests don’t lie,” Cecilia says. “We test his urine randomly, here at home. He made a contract with his drug counselor, and he’s kept it. He’s been through a program, Ana. He’s clean.” I hold up the bag. “What about this?” Cecilia slips on her sunglasses. “I don’t know about that. We will ask Giovanni when we get back from church.” “I mean, this is evidence. Do you have a safe?” Nicosa opens the bottom cabinet where the prosciutto is stored. “Put it here,” he
