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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

W e stay camped out on the Lady Giusi and take advantage of the mobility. Every night, we moor on the water, in the middle of a deserted bay or a cove. that way we all feel like we’re at least going to be safe and secure.

I only wish there was a way we could bring Mikey out with us.

Still, I’m getting pretty pally with Sister Tharpe. I’m even on first name terms with her. She recognizes my voice and she says, “Well, hi there, Lucia,” then she tells me how Mikey is doing. There’s not much to report, but at least there are no signs of deterioration.

“This kind of a condition can go some weeks while the patient is healing themselves. There really is not too much to worry about at this point, Lucia. Trust me, if there’s anything you need to know, I’ll be sure to keep you informed.”

“Thank you, Rosetta.” And I tell her how much I appreciate her care and compassion, and her taking the time. After that she always gives me a much more detailed report about Diabolo’s activities and condition.

The next days, all four of us are on the hunt.

Carlo is working the screens and the phones, doing the same thing Bruno is doing with shoe leather and pressing flesh.

They’re both out looking for traces. All of our business is on ice, and we’ve got everybody looking out for what the next move against us is going to be. What direction the next shocks are going to take.

Alessio is stocking up supplies and keeping contractors as happy as it’s possible to keep them, given that we are involved in almost no billable trade right now.

Most of my time I spend recalling, sorting and collating everything that I can remember, from the recent past. My job is to reconstruct every tale, yarn, incident and sequence of events that I can, going back over the last six months or so.

Documentation, written records are naturally scarce and sparse in our lines of business. And, of course, often misleading. Working with a combination of memory and available evidence, every day I write up an account of an event or chain of events, or a day, or a month, or a particular week’s news.

Then, whatever I’ve been able to gather or recapture, I read the account to Carlo, Bruno, and Alessio and they guide me or correct me. Or, most often, they get into bickering about details and particularly their own part in each tale.

I’m putting together everything that I can recall, discover and unearth, to strengthen and heal my memory in part, but I’m also hunting for clues. Little signs of where our present troubles took root or first sprang up. And, of course, what we might be able to do to fix them.

After I read or tell the stories I’ve collected for the day, I burn the pages and delete the accounts from the machines I’ve been using.

In our world, memory is everything.

The hum of steady activity keeps us occupied, though it all feels too much like busy work for my taste. Time and energy spent with nothing to show but weary muscles. It all has a feeling like the calm before a storm.

Nights we spend out on the water, keeping watch and sleeping turns in the huge bed, are a comfort and a consolation. The lovely Lady Giusi is starting to feel just a little like our floating prison, though.

Then one misty day, the yacht is out between Dungeness and Victoria, and Alessio takes a call from Don Romano. Alessio is on the foredeck, but from all over the boat, we all hear him say don Romano’s name.

He takes the phone into the lounge and puts the call on speaker, on the table in the middle of the huge cabin. We assemble, all of us standing or sitting around the edges, listening.

Don Romano’s earthy tones are as dark as his obviously foul mood.

He says, “So this fuckwit doctor has been telling me you’re going to serve me my sons’ heads up to me on plates.”

We all look at each other and stay silent.

Alessio says, “Obviously, that’s ridiculous.”

“Obviously.” Don Romano growls.

After a red hot silence, Alessio offers, “Do you want us to help you look for your sons? Is that what this is about?”

“Do not fuck about with me.”

Alessio’s eyebrows stiffen. He says, “Look, Don Romano, while we’ve got you here, I have to tell you, we’re going to need you to call off your dogs.”

“Look,” the Don howls like he’s been burned. “Business is just business. You can’t buck the markets. Private businesses operate according to their readings of the market and the climate of opportunity. If you and your little clan are going to get pissy whenever things don’t go your way, then you’ve go no business to be fucking about in marketplace. If you’re going to cry and bleat every time the competition turns against you, then just fuck of out of the way. Go and take up knitting.” He pauses long enough to take a breath. “Like the man said, this is a man’s world.”

Alessio says, reasonably, “It seems like you’ve encouraged a lot of people to believe that there is what I believe you may have called a ‘power vacuum.’ Is that the phrase that you used? And this has led to ‘an enhanced landscape of opportunity’ due to ‘delinquent management’ on our parts? Am I hearing that right?”

“Perhaps there could have been some misunderstanding. But whatever has or has not happened,” his voice grows deeper and louder, “if you or anybody else even considered kidnapping my sons, there would be a very seriously fucking heavy price to be paid.”

“You mean,” Alessio says, “like if somebody had attempted to kidnap, say, Donna Lucia.”

There’s a pause before the Don says, “Of course, we all hope for the very best for Donna Lucia. Wherever she is and whatever state she finds herself in, we all wish her a safe and very speedy return and a full recovery.”

I wait for a moment, then chime in, “I’m appreciative of your good wishes, Don Romano. That’s very gratifying to hear.”

His voice rises a notch. “Donna Lucia?” and, after a pause, “Is that really you?”

“Yes, Don Romano.” With my head shaking I blink, looking around the room. “Have you missed me? It has been some time since we spoke. But thank you for your kind thoughts. And let me say that I hope for the same outcome for your sons. I hope they’re very safe and well and that they both find their way home really soon.”

“Donna Lucia?—”

“Dario and Ettore, isn’t it?” I add, “Such… charming lads. I remember them escorting me to your delightful… compound. High in the mountains. Charming place,” I tell him. “With all those lovely watchtowers that I remember so well.”

He starts to speak. I cut straight across him,

“But on another topic, Don Romano, quite unrelated, I’m sure that you can understand how consumed and preoccupied I am with all of the strange and destructive issues that have been plaguing our businesses of late. I’m sure they’re entirely coincidental, but you’ll understand how hard it is for me to give much proper, serious thought to anything else right now.”

“Donna Lucia?—”

“Oh, but there was one thing I wanted to ask you, though.”

“Donna Lucia?”

“Yes, I’m so glad you happened to call. I was wondering, did you have a favorite?”

“What?”

“Son. Did you have a favorite son, Don Romano? People always say they don’t but then they have to say that, don’t they. And if they do, maybe its always the firstborn. But I don’t know. Did you?”

“Why the hell would you ask me that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It just popped into my head. Something I had been wondering.”