'Yes, I understand. Well thank you, Ms. Fabrianni.' He looked wearily at me. 'That seems to clear this end up, eh Doc?'
I shrugged and nodded at the same time. Who knew?
Lucia rose from the table to say good-bye and return to her suite. Joe had his wallet out but she waved him off, saying she would have it put on her bill and charged as a business expense to her father's corporation. She said this as if she were used to doing it for many things.
'Uh, if anything further develops, we'll be in touch with you,' said Joe.
'Oh. Why would there be any need for that?' she asked.
'Well I don't know. just in case.'
'Mr. Brindelli, I have been most cooperative, I think. Have I not?'
'Oh yes. We thank you,'
'Well then, I see no reason to continue the matter any further, though I think it was unfortunate that the poor man was killed. Yes?'
She was lighting a Marlboro with a purple-and-gold lighter that had a tortoise-shell texture. It definitely wasn't a Bic. Probably cost a grand. Again l saw the watch on her elegant wrist and involuntarily shuddered.
As Joe stammered for an explanation we both saw the spoiled princess emerge from beneath the regal courtesy. Her irritation and impatience were less the product of a Latin temper or a nasty nature than the natural outgrowth of a centuries-old aristocratic view of life, in which the European wealthy were used to commanding obsequious armies of attendants, purveyors, merchants, chefs, valets, and chauffeurs at their beck and call. Sometimes America was a rude shock for them.
'I think his death had nothing to do with his errand for us,' suggested Lucia.
'Plausible,' said Joe, 'except that Johnny wasn't the only one-'
'Uh, Joe,' I said quickly, 'let's talk briefly with Mr. Fabrianni before we go, okay? And also, Ms. Fabrianni, we really appreciate your help… I was just wondering if you could provide us with a quick rundown of the members of your party? Do you have any pictures we could look at?'
She balked a bit at this, but relented, and we returned to the Fabrianni suite where we met Paolo, infirm with old age and diabetes, and looked at many photographs in big albums. The watch Lucia Fabrianni was wearing had me on edge. Like the one on the wrist of the elegant young corpse in the old chimney, it was a Bulgari. We looked all through the photo albums, which were full of pictures of the art objects as well as the tour personnel. In none of the pictures could we spot a man who looked like the dead man. But Lucia explained that not all of the tour people were in the photographs; several of the younger assistants had not been around when the pictures were taken.
'Is everybody here now?' Joe asked Lucia.
'No. Several are away sightseeing this weekend. Two of them, I think Enzo and Michael, went down to New York on the airplane to see relatives-'
'They left Friday?'
'Yes. Friday afternoon,' she answered after some thought. Joe was leaning over toward her, his attention held totally by what she was saying. Why was he so engrossed? Then I realized he was staring down at the lighter. He was studying it as one might study a moon rock or the remains of a meteorite.
'And you have no pictures of either of them we could take a look at?' he finally asked her.
'No, I don't think so. Why? Are they accused of anything?'
'No. Uh, would you call me, please, at this number if either one of them fails to turn up when you expect? Thanks.'
We rose to go and she opened the side door, revealing another parlor, and her aged father sitting in his wheelchair in front of a table with playing cards on it. Joe thanked her in Italian. She brightened up and answered him back.
'Mr. Brindelli, Dr. Adams, you must come for dinner soon. We will have a big banquet before we leave. Mr. Brindelli, you are the brother to Mrs. Adams?'
'Afraid so.'
'Ah, and what village did you come from?'
'Oh, a little place south of Naples, like most of us who came to America.'
'I see… interesting. And what is the name of the village?'
'San Mango d'Aquino, in Calabria.'
'Oh yes,' she said distantly, 'I've heard of it, I think. It's very poor down there, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Joe.
We left the suite and walked down the hall toward the elevators. 'Notice the watch, Joe? Another Bulgari. Don't you think that's more than coincidental?'
'Yep,' he said.
'What chance is there that the guy in the chimney was one of the Fabrianni party?'
'Some.'
'And if he is, er, was, then what in God's name does it all mean?'
He shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. Joe wasn't saying much. But I knew what was bothering him.
Joe looked down at the patterned carpet as we walked. He didn't say anything. He scowled.
'That norte bitch,' he said finally.
'Don't let it get to you,' I said. 'She doesn't know anything else. Like a lot of rich people she's both worldly and ignorant at the same time.'
' ' It's vevy poor dawn there, isn't it? ' ' said Joe, mocking her. 'Well goddamn right it's poor down there; why the hell you think we all came over here?'
We got into the elevator and rode down alone. We didn't say anything. In the lobby we paused near the old gilded clock as if unsure of what to do next. Then we drifted along the corridor to the library bar. We sat in two leather chairs and gazed absently at the bookshelves and paintings. A waitress came by and we waved her off. I sighed and Joe rested his cheeks in his palms.
'Did you see that Orsini lighter?' he asked.
'Uh-huh.'
'Jeez. Must've cost a mint. 'Course, she's probably got one of them for every day of the week and two for Sundays.'
'Uh-huh.'
Joe popped a Benson amp; Hedges into his mouth and lit it with a paper match. He dropped. the matchbook on the table between us. On its cover it said in bold letters EARN BIG $$$$$$!
'I hate those nortes,' he said. 'They really think their shit doesn't stink.'
'Uh-huh.'
I waited patiently (I have the patience of a saint sometimes) while he moaned and pouted, then we went outside and crossed Copley Square to where Joe's cruiser was parked on Boylston a Street.
'Want to walk down to the Boylston Street gym? Liatis Roantis is giving a savate demonstration today,' I said. I thought it would I take Joe's mind off Lucia Fabrianni, the stuck-up norte.
'What's savate?'
'French-Burmese foot-fighting. Roantis is really good at it.'
'I bet he is. Why doesn't he cut the fancy bullshit and just use a machine gun?'
'I hear he's good with those too.'
'I bet.'
'Want to go over to the North End?'
'Nah.'
'Want to go down to Dunfey's and get a couple of draft Harps?'
'Nah.'
'Want to quit feeling sorry for yourself because your forefathers weren't from Florence?'
