There is in some men a natural ability to kill. My grandfather, my father’s father, had told tales of the gangs in Rome, of the intimidation before the first war and the killing of Nazi sympathizers during and after the second war. He had already left the old country, but most of his family had stayed. They wrote. There were tales of cousins, uncles, distant bandits with the name Fonesca or DeFabrio or Tronzini who carried guns and knives in their belts and needed no reason beyond honor to use them.
I was not born with the ability to kill. I had never developed it. Even standing in front of the Fair Maiden I didn’t want a gun. I realized when I heard the voice that I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but that I would know when I found it.
“Can I help you?” came the voice.
I opened my eyes. A man stood on the deck, legs apart. He had stepped out of an ad in one of the Vanity Fair magazines in my allergist’s office. He was wearing white slacks, white deck shoes and a black shirt with a little white anchor over his heart. His hair was white and blowing with the breeze. His legs were apart, his hands folded in front of him. I knew who he was.
“Permission to come aboard,” I said, remembering The Caine Mutiny and trying to inject a hint of sarcasm into my request.
Pirannes looked at me as if I were some kind of lunatic.
“Manny,” Pirannes called calmly toward the door through which he had no doubt come.
A man in a white sweat suit came on deck. He was a big man, sun-brown and unsmiling. He was dark haired, well shaven and definitely Hispanic. Manny stood in front of the door, hands behind his back. I wondered if he had something in those hidden hands.
“I know you,” said Pirannes, running his tongue over his lower lip, trying to remember.
“The Y,” I said. “I work out there most mornings. You show up with Manny. We’ve said hello a few times.”
Pirannes smiled, a problem solved. He looked at Manny, who looked at me and said nothing.
“I remember,” said Pirannes.
His voice was mellow, his grammar nearly perfect. If he had a lisp, I didn’t hear it.
“Can I come on board?” I asked again.
“Why?”
“To talk,” I said.
“Talk about what? Who are you?”
He was smiling amiably.
“Adele Tree,” I said.
The smile was gone.
“Dwight Handford,” I went on.
Manny took a step toward me.
“Tony Spiltz.”
Manny took another step toward me.
“Tilly the Pimp.”
Manny leaped onto the dock. There was nothing behind his back but thick, dark callused hands. He patted me down, even into my crotch and with a finger in my shoes. Then he turned and shook his head no to let Pirannes know I wasn’t armed.
“What’s your name?”
“Lew Fonesca,” I said.
“What’s your business?”
“I was hired by Beryl Tree to find her daughter.”
“She’s dead,” said Pirannes.
“I’m still working for her,” I said.
“You know who I am. You know about Tony Spiltz and you come here like this? Are you a lunatic, Fonesca? Are you suicidal?”
“Maybe both,” I said. “If Manny will move out of the way, I’ll come on board the Guida Merchant. ”
“Okay. We’ll play games for a few minutes. Come on. You have lunch?”
“No,” I said as Manny stepped to the side, let me pass and step down on the deck in front of Pirannes.
“You want something? I’m having shrimp in the shell, a fresh French baguette.”
“Water,” I said.
Pirannes motioned to table and I sat while Manny, on the dock, looked down at me and folded his hands in front of him. Then Pirannes pulled a small, flat cellular phone from his pocket, hit some buttons and looked at me as he said,
“We’re going to have a late lunch. Come in an hour. No, make that an hour and a half. I’ll have Manny put a deck chair on the dock in case we have to take the Maiden out for a while. Wear your floppy hat. Bring your sunglasses. Sunscreen, and bring a book… Shrimp, tarragon chicken salad, sorbet… raspberry or lemon.”
He pushed a button and put the phone back in his pocket. Then he sat across from me and poured us both a glass of mineral water.
“Now,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got Adele,” I said.
He didn’t blink. He whipped out the phone again and hit a single button. He said nothing, and then hung up and looked at me.
“Who answered my phone?” he asked, picking up his water.
“Probably the police,” I said.
“What’s going on, Lewis?”
“John, I don’t want to play games,” I said.
He leaned toward me and whispered, “Lewis, you don’t look like the kind of man who can threaten me.”
“I’m a little crazy,” I said. “Remember the question you asked me? My therapist thinks I’m suicidal. A suicidal lunatic on a mission can be a dangerous thing no matter what he looks like.”
“True,” he said, holding his glass of water up so the sun hit it.
We watched the light hit the bubbles for a few seconds and I said,
“You leave Adele alone. And you keep her name out of what went on in your apartment.”
“What went on,” he repeated. “What are you talking about, Fonesca? What are the fucking police doing in my apartment? No, wait. She tried to kill herself.”
“No,” I said.
“Then…?”
“Spiltz,” I said.
“Spiltz what?”
“He’s dead. Big surprise, huh?”
Pirannes sat back.
“No,” he said. “Tony Spiltz had enemies but-”
“And you don’t know he was killed in your apartment?”
“No,” said Pirannes. “Give me a second here.”
He sat thinking, looked at Manny, whose head moved ever so slightly, indicating, I think, that he hadn’t shot Spiltz.
“Okay, Fonesca, here’s the way it is,” Pirannes said. “I know you’re not carrying a wire and I know who lives in every condo facing this dock. No one’s listening to us. I’m still taking a little chance, but you are definitely beginning to irk me.”
“I’m sorry about that, John.”
He shrugged.
“It happens in my business. I gave Dwight Handford, who is, by the way, a piece of diuretic mongrel shit, good money to get the girl. And don’t bother telling me you can’t buy and sell people. I do it. Lots of others do it. Now think about it. What’s her life like if she stays with Dwight or Tilly?”
“What’s it like with you?”
He laughed.
