White Shotgun

dresses on rows of obedient churchwomen.

When we step inside, Nicosa and Giovanni are receiving communion from the Oca priest with the wire- rimmed glasses and dark hair. Otherwise the small space is empty. Afterward, the priest gathers father and son together and speaks earnestly. I wait uncomfortably, listening to the murmur of their voices, looking around and trying to spot the hand of the dead saint, but they must have it under lock and key. Growing up in Long Beach, California, I lived not far from a Catholic school, and once my friend Arlene and I dared to rap the golden knocker on the looming black-painted convent door. A nun opened it, with a stale white face and swirling batlike robes. Floating in the darkness high above was a round stained-glass window like the eye of God. Now, as then, I have the urge to flee. I tug at Sterling’s belt, and we remove ourselves to a bench outside.

They emerge all together, Giovanni still leaning on a crutch, texting on his cell phone even before they are through the door. When everyone’s hands have been solemnly shaken and the priest has gone, we come forward.

Nicosa eyes us warily. By now he knows we are not usually the bearers of good news.

I try to soften it. “Was it good to talk to the priest?”

“Where else can we turn? People are whispering about the awful thing in the woods. Giovanni keeps getting text messages and calls. Is that your mom in there? Disgusting.”

Giovanni jerks his head away as Nicosa touches the boy on the chin.

“There is evil, but I want him to know there is also grace. There is hope. What did you think of what Padre Filippo said?”

Giovanni shrugs, and goes back to the screen.

“What did the Padre talk about?” Sterling asks.

Nicosa swipes at the cell phone. “Giovanni! Are you listening? Forget those people; they’re only trying to make you feel bad.”

“No, they’re not. They’re trying to help, and yes, I am listening.”

“Answer him. What did Padre Filippo say?”

Giovanni recites in mocking singsong: “He talks about the Gospel of Luke. He tells us the parable of the shepherd who lost his sheep — as if I haven’t heard it a million times — that the shepherd will go looking for ‘the one’ even if he has to leave ‘the ninety-nine.’ ”

“What was his point?” Nicosa prods impatiently.

“That God will look for us if we’re lost. Like right now, Mama is lost, but God will find her. And we are supposed to pray the rosary. It makes no sense.”

Nicosa rolls his eyes.

The phone in the house is ringing. Giovanni volunteers to answer, but Nicosa tells him to let it go. He is sick of gossipy contrada members and newspaper reporters begging for news of the kidnapping.

Sterling says, “Giovanni, we have to talk.”

“I can’t,” says the boy. “I am meeting my friends.”

The ringing inside the house stops.

“It’s important.”

“Your friends can wait. What is it?” asks Nicosa.

“There’s a grocery bag in Cecilia’s trunk,” I say. “Would you mind getting it?”

Nicosa looks at Sterling and me, and there is acceptance in his eyes. We have peered into the simmering, pink pit of hell and now have reached the Day of Reckoning, the end of lies. He walks back toward her car as we three sit on a bench beneath the pines in an eddy of coolness and shade, watching Nicosa go to the green Alfa Romeo, disable the alarm, and open the trunk.

“What’s he doing with my mother’s car?” Giovanni asks.

I don’t answer. Let him worry. Nicosa returns with the half-wrapped painting and the small bag of cocaine inside the grocery sack. He squeezes onto the bench and asks his son what he knows about this.

“What is it?”

“A painting by your English friend, Muriel Barrett. She left it for you at the Walkabout Pub.”

Giovanni’s eyes shift toward the canvas and away. “She did? Why?”

Nicosa looks at me. “You tell him.”

“She had to make an emergency trip to London,” I say flatly.

“This was inside the painting.” Nicosa shows him the bag of cocaine.

The boy does not respond.

“What about it, kid?” Sterling asks.

“Non lo so.”

“She left it for you.”

“It has nothing to do with me. I don’t know where that came from.”

“I was there when Muriel Barrett gave it to the bartender,” I say evenly. “She was all dressed up on her way to London. She gets out of the taxi and comes into the pub carrying this package. She makes a point of it, of delivering this before she leaves the country. Do you know what I’m saying? She says to Chris, ‘It’s a painting for Giovanni.’ I say I’ll give it to you. She’s not happy, but the cab is waiting.”

“She left you holding a bag of shit,” Sterling tells the boy. “Any guesses why?”

Giovanni shrugs — an unconscious, on-the-spot admission of guilt.

“Here’s what I think,” Sterling says. “You, your mom, your dad — you don’t know it, but you’re all fighting the same enemy. Everything goes back to the mafias. That’s why Ana and I think this”—he shakes the bag—“connects to why your mom disappeared.”

Giovanni is jolted awake, cheeks red as a four-year-old’s. “Where is Mama? What happened to her?”

“We can find your mom, if you tell us the truth.”

“I thought you didn’t know where she is.”

“We have an idea. We need your help. Do you want to find your mom?”

“Okay. It’s mine,” the boy admits. “The shit is mine.”

Nicosa runs his fingers over his eyes, picks up the tears that have gathered there, and seems to rub them into his face.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely. “Now you kill me. You put the nail right here.”

Giovanni ignores the display. “You should talk. You are the biggest hypocrite,” he murmurs. “Why should I tell the truth when all you do is lie?”

“I am the liar?” Nicosa cries. “You are the one we paid for to go to a psychiatrist and a drug counselor, who said you were clean.”

“I don’t use drugs, but nobody believes me,” Giovanni says. “So I stopped trying to explain.”

“We’re listening,” I say patiently. “This is your chance. Why did Muriel hide cocaine meant for you in a painting?”

“She was holding it for me.”

“So you are selling?” Nicosa says.

“No, Papa. I do not sell; I do not use. I am a bank. I am a businessman, like you.”

Nicosa growls, “Is that right?”

Sterling puts his hand out. “Let him speak.”

“Everybody uses. It’s not even about getting high anymore, it’s just to do your stupid boring job and get through the day. The whole world is making money selling drugs, so why not Muriel, and other old people living on a pension?”

“Mama mia, you take their pension?”

“I make a smart investment for them. If you give me five hundred euros, I will invest it in the next drug lot and double your money in a month. The bank of cocaine,” he adds with authority, “is a much better deal than a regular bank.”

“You are the middleman,” I say.

“Certo.”

“Who are your contacts?”