White Shotgun

She was twenty, from Calabria — the child of an upholsterer and a seamstress — with a pug nose, light freckles, and dynamic black eyebrows. She’d come to Siena to get as far away as possible from the crime-ridden slums, but there was a weak place inside her that couldn’t support the weight of freedom. She was a part-time student and waited tables at the Tuscan wine bar inside the fifteenth-century Medici fortress on the edge of town. She had chopped two-inch bangs across her forehead and put red streaks in her hair because, she said, her alter ego was the devil.

The girl lay on her stomach on the mattress and found her face in the tiny mirror, angling it to look at the good parts: the full lips and great eyebrows. With a little makeup, she could pass. The symptoms didn’t show. Her skin wasn’t even yellow. A couple of Valium would take care of the headache and the fiery abdominal pain until they got there.

Her cousin, Fat Pasquale, who ran things back home in Calabria, didn’t like unhealthy porci—pigs. Human guinea pigs, that’s what they called the addicts who showed up for free hits when raw powder came in and they were testing the cut. Not everybody was desperate enough to spring for the Russian roulette of trying out a new mix. Only the most extreme cases showed up, often from far distances. By the time they got there, they’d be so strung out all they could do was lie on the floor. Then the guy with the hands would make Fat Pasquale find a vein in their feet and do it, which could be dangerous. Even the big shot mafiosi were afraid of AIDS. You could accidently prick your finger and be dead. Also, porci didn’t make great subjects if they were sick to begin with. The cut had to be good enough to beat the competition, but not so strong that it killed the buyer.

Yuri came into the bedroom — dark-skinned, emaciated, with dreadlocks caught up in a rubber band. He slipped on jeans and sat on the mattress beside Zabrina and lit a cigarette. They spoke in Italian although Yuri was half African, half Albanian, and had only been in Italy a year.

“I received a text from Fat Pasquale,” Zabrina said. “He’ll hook us up if we can get to Calabria tonight.”

“Sto da favola!” said Yuri. “How? We don’t have money.”

Zabrina, lying prone, took a hit off the cigarette and demurely crossed her ankles in the air.

“Simon will lend us some for gas.”

“He will want to go, too.”

“Is he here?”

“No.”

“Then too bad for him.”

“If we take his money, he should get some.”

“He’s not here!” Zabrina yelled. “I’m not waiting for that bitch.”

Yuri nodded, said, “Yeah, okay,” and left the room.

Now that she had convinced him to go, Zabrina felt dragged-down and tired. She always came up with ideas — like the sponge mop in the bathroom — but as soon as she thought of something good, it seemed to disappear and ceased to matter. She felt scooped out and empty. That feeling that nobody cared. Calabria was far away. She blinked at her cell phone. It was eight minutes later than when she had checked the kitchen clock. Yuri came back with the keys and all the cash he could find in Simon’s stash in the back of a drawer.

Zabrina hauled herself up and by sheer force of will against an unfathomable weight of sadness, buckled on the sandals with the silver death heads. You could only think six hours ahead.

TWENTY-NINE

Later that afternoon, after the Commissario has left the abbey, Chris’s black Fiat pulls up outside the gates, covered with dust from the surveillance of Marcello Falassi, aka Il Capocuoco, the Chef. Sterling, looking even thinner and scruffier with a day’s growth of beard, gets out and crosses the courtyard, boot heels chipping at the gravel. I am still wearing my sister’s linen skirt. The sensuous feel of it against my bare legs as I walk toward him makes me hope this unexpected shot of femininity will strike up the old spark in his eyes. He gives me an appreciative hug.

“How’d it go? What happened to Falassi?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean, you can’t tell me?”

“The Italian police got ahold of him. We were in position in the hide site, back up in the woods off the turnoff. At first light an unmarked car shows up, two plainclothes detectives get out. They busted through the iron fence and went on down the road that leads to the campsite. We figured our job was done. They were onto our man.”

“They got there fast. I’m impressed. It was one in the morning by the time I spoke to the FBI legat in Rome. He must have gotten right to the Commissario. How did they get through the fence?”

“Bolt cutters.”

I nod approvingly. “They came prepared. Did they take Falassi into custody?”

“Must have, because there’s only one way in and one way out.”

“You didn’t stay to make sure? You didn’t wait until you saw them bring him out in handcuffs and put him in the car?”

“Why risk getting made? By then it was full daylight.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. No, ma’am.” He takes my hand and kneads my knuckles, an overly bright expression in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You were supposed to stake out the witness.”

“Babe, we did. We were there all night. You said we’d have to turn the evidence over to the Italian cops eventually. They were on it, so we took the opportunity to jack it out of there.”

I relent. “Okay.” My fingers yield in his. “Well, we had a hell of a morning.” I detail the confrontation between Nicosa and the Commissario. “He was about to arrest Nicosa for murder right there.”

“On what evidence?”

“Blood rivalry?”

“That ain’t gonna fly.”

“I guess the police are counting on what they find,” I say. “In the vat.”

My voice falters at the memory, and then it is as if I am right back on the platform, staring down at the unbearable pink human stew. Sterling feels it and his grip tightens. He pulls me toward his chest, a disquieting tremble in his arms. We cling together, my silent tears staining his shirt, but somehow it isn’t me he’s holding on to; his face is turned away, as if he’s listening to something I can’t hear.

“God have mercy,” he whispers.

We step apart. I brush at my eyes. “Until proven otherwise, we have to keep going. We need to talk to that girl, Zabrina. See what she knows about Giovanni’s drug contacts.”

“Screw that,” Sterling says. “It’s not about Zabrina, it’s the fact that nobody in your family knows what the other one’s up to. Time to clue them in.”

“Meaning what?”

“Where is Giovanni?”

“In church with his dad.” I indicate the chapel on the property.

“Perfect.”

I hurry after him. “Shouldn’t we wait until he’s stronger?”

“If he can go to school with his friends, he can answer a goddamn question.”

The doors to the small abbey church are open. Peering inside is like looking at the world through a candle flame. The interior is suffused with a sensuous orange glow, warming the walls of pockmarked stone, laying a gloss over a floor of centuries-old aqua tile. Above the altar there is nothing but a simple wooden crucifix. Cecilia’s touch is evident: the pews have been replaced by chairs slipcovered in peach damask and tied in back with bows, like