job was to find out just where their grasp
reached so that the arteries could be
hacked and the vast spider-like apparatus
would bleed to death. He had done pretty
well in a year, getting further and further
inside the circle. He had held his breath
when brother agents were murdered; he
had won the confidence of the big boys;
he was in.
Then Tina Antony appeared, the
American-born daughter of one of the
czars; and with her arrived Pete Jenner –
ex-roommate of Ricci before he became
Ricci – who was curious about why his
old friend didn't recognize him and who
was much interested in Tina.
So was Ricci.
And Belle was interested in him –
blonde Belle who had left America with
Lucca to console his exile and who, in her
own way, was trying to play this straight.
Lucca, the racket boss who was meant
to be a racket boss, and Antony, who
might have been something better; Gino,
the willing, amoral ox; Leclerc, the finger
man who lost his nerve; all these and the
above are vividly etched characters in a
story that winds as swiftly and dramatically
as the coast road where most of it is played.
And the sun that brightens that road only
heightens the shadowy fear.





THE BRIGHT ROAD TO FEAR





Richard Martin Stern
THE
BRIGHT
ROAD
TO
FEAR
BALLANTINE BOOKS, NEW YORK


©, 1958, by Richard Martin Stern
Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 57-14683
Printed in the United States of America
American Book-Stratford Press, Inc., New York


P535,397
st 43767
To Dot, of course.
And to Pink,
who urged.
155





THE BRIGHT ROAD TO FEAR


LLL THE WAY along the ancient road from Lucca's
house, with the blue of the bay on the one hand and the brown of
the countryside on the other, driving slowly in the bright day from
American habit unlike the Italian, he had tried to think back as
carefully as he could, and had been able to find nothing, no clue,
no smallest indication; and yet the feeling remained strong that
somewhere, somehow, he had made a mistake. And no mistakes
were allowed.
Gino, sitting broad and solid and comfortable in the seat beside
him, said, “You are quiet, Ricci.” He spoke in Italian, always in
Italian, with a slurred peasant accent.
"I'm thinking,” Ricci said. His name was now, and for the past
year had been, both back in the States and here in the old, sunny
land, Ricciardi Morelli-Ricci, for short; a young man with close
black hair and quiet eyes and an outward attitude of calm-assidu-
ously cultivated, rigidly enforced.
“Too much thinking is not good.”
“You may be right.” In a way the feeling he had was that of
vague sickness; and the name of the disease was carelessness, and
sometimes it killed quickly and sometimes by slow inches, but it
left a man just as dead in either event. He thought of stopping to
telephone, but he had no excuse, not with Gino here beside him,
not with their orders plain and clear and delivered to them together
so that there could be no separate understandings.


“It is nothing,” Gino said. “This Joe Antony is a friend, an old
friend of Angelo Lucca. It is as simple as that. He is an important
man, and so he needs protection, as all important men need pro-
tection. And so Lucca has sent us." He nodded. “Together, we
will see that nothing happens to Joe Antony, eh, Ricci?”
It was hard not to smile at the simplicity of a mind that saw only
what was on the surface, that behaved like a well-trained dog, lis-
tening to orders and accepting them and obeying. “Maybe Antony
won't want us,” Ricci said. And there would be a pause, he knew,
while this new idea, like a coin in a slot, set mental gears to
working
After a little time Gino said, “But Lucca sent us. And Lucca and
Antony are friends, old friends from America. Aren't they, Ricci?”
“They were, as far as I know.” About Lucca he knew much,
names, dates, facts, suppositions dating from Lucca's childhood to
his deportation, and since. About Antony he knew little, actually,
only hearsay and vague newspaper accounts. He would have to
find out more when he could. If there was time.
"Then,” Gino said, “I don't understand. Why would Antony not
want us to protect him?”.
“Maybe they aren't friends any more, big one. Maybe Lucca
doesn't want them to be friends as they were in New York-part-
ners. Maybe Lucca sent us to make sure that Antony doesn't get
any ideas about partnership.” This was one interpretation, only
just beneath the obvious surface.
There was another pause. “You are too deep for me, Ricci."
Gino shook his big head slowly, dismissing responsibility. “You
tell me what to do and I will do it. If we are to teach this Antony
a lesson-” He shrugged. “We will see that he doesn't forget it.”
And he nodded. “I see now why you were thinking. I understand.
It is not simple, eh, Ricci?”
Maybe it was simple, maybe not. He couldn't know. It was pos-
sible that he was looking too deep, finding shadows that were not
there. Maybe after a year now he was getting jumpy. Again he tried
to go back in his mind. The telephone call, he thought, was the
key, and he had not been able to hear even Lucca's side of the tele-
phone call.


They had been at breakfast on the sunny terrace overlooking
the swimming pool—Lucca in linen trousers and sandals and a
short-sleeved shirt; Belle, who was young and overly blonde and
addicted to shorts and halters that were not really halters at all;
and Ricci. Until then, little more than an hour ago, he had thought
that he was going north to Genoa, which was the primary goal, the
aim of a year of patience.
When the call had come, Lucca had gone into the house to an-
swer, and there had been no excuse to follow him. And Lucca had
returned, smiling, but, then, he was almost always smiling, and it
had been impossible to tell if anything was changed. Lucca had
said merely, “I've got a little job for you here in town."
Ricci had been drinking his coffee. He remembered that now.
He had raised the cup to his lips, and he had held it there, motion-
less, long enough to adjust himself, to make sure that the attitude
of outward calm was secure. Had he overdone it? He couldn't
know. And he had lowered the cup slowly. “You're the boss. I
thought I was going to take a little trip, is all.” He had spoken
in English, always in English in front of Belle—although it was
better, safer, not to speak with Belle any more than he could help.
“That can wait,” Lucca had said. “This is more important, now.”
And, to the girl, “Beat it for a while. And tell Gino I want him."
"I can't even talk his language.”
"You've got sign language,” Lucca had said. “That's all you ever
need.” And he had patted her haunch as she walked away from
the table.
Gino had arrived, and sat down, and put on his frown of con-
centration. Lucca had switched to Italian. “Joe Antony," he had
said. “Friend of mine. He's here now, from New York—" For only
a moment anger, resentment, ugly and unashamed, had showed in
his face, in his brown eyes. “_same way I'm here. Same reason.”
And in that moment Ricci had thought Lucca was going to spit.
Then the expression was swiftly gone. “He doesn't know his way
around ... yet.” He was genial again, genial Lucca.
Gino had nodded, frowning still. Ricci had said nothing.
Lucca had said, “Go on over. Have a talk with him. Tell him


you're going to take care of him. I—wouldn't want anything to
happen to Joe.”
“Take care of him,” Ricci had said, without expression.
“You're a smart boy,” Lucca had said, and he had smiled, nod-
ding. "That's what I like about you. One of the things.” Then ...
“Take good care of Joe. He's a nice fellow. A smart fellow." He
had paused, and had the smile altered? “Almost as smart as you
are, Ricci."
“And my little trip?” Ricci had said.
“It can wait. Joe's more important. Maybe you won't even have
to go to Genoa, ever. It's a long drive."
“You're the boss,” Ricci had said, and that had been that.
Why, he asked himself now? Why the change of plan? Because
he had, somewhere, somehow during the past year'made, not a
single big mistake—he would, he told himself, have realized that
—but perhaps a series of small, subtle mistakes. And had the phone
call concerned them? And was Antony, then, a test?
He drew on all that he had read and heard about Antony: Lucca's
silent partner, disbarred lawyer, accountant, fixer; it was even said
that Antony had been Lucca's brain. Was that it? Was he, Ricci,
on his way to Antony now to be looked at, listened to, sized up in
the light of suspicion? And why had Gino been sent along? There
were too many questions, and too few answers, only the uneasiness
which was not yet fear-not yet.
“You are still thinking, Ricci?” Gino said.
He made himself relax. There was only one way to go—straight
ahead. Otherwise, dodging shadows, he spoiled everything, threw
away a year's work, threw away even more—the hope of success.
“No,” he said. “I've finished. My thinking is done, big one.”
“Good,” Gino said. “Too much thinking is bad. Then ... “You
will tell me what to do, Ricci. And I will do it.”
The house was old and large, with thick stone walls and twisted
columns supporting the roof of the loggia. Over the front door
there was a coat of arms carved in stone, and what family, or con-
junction of families it represented, Ricci did not know. But it was
not Antony; of this much he was sure.
Antony had not been born on a hilltop in an old, honored house.


"I was born here,” Antony said.
“But you're going to live here now. There's a difference.”
Antony looked at Gino. He looked back again to Ricci. “Go on.”
“Why,” Ricci said, “there's nothing to it. You're here. You're an
old friend of Lucca's. He wants to be helpful.”
“Nice of him.”
“Angelo Lucca,” Gino said, “is a good man.” He said it with
conviction, as he might have said that God was good, or Il Papa.
“I've known him longer than both of you put together," Antony
said. And then, to Ricci again, “The pitch. Get to it.”
He was Ricciardi Morelli, and he told himself not to forget that,
never to forget that. The questions were still questions and, for the
moment, unanswerable. “Lucca," he said, "wants to be sure that
nothing happens to you.”
“Like what?"
“You're a name. You're rich. There's competition here, too, just
like in America. Lucca thinks you'd be better off with us around
... safer."
“Tell him to forget it,” Antony said. “Nothing's going to happen
to me.”
Ricci said nothing. Gino watched, and waited, standing broad
and solid, no longer awed as he had been on the marble floor of
the hall. There was silence, a long silence.
“They threw Lucca out of America,” Antony said. “Now they've
thrown me out.” He seemed to study Ricci, the crew haircut, the
American clothes. “They threw you out, too?”
“They couldn't. I was born there.” There was more silence.
“I don't need you,” Antony said.
“Lucca thinks you do.”
“He's wrong.”
Gino made a small sound, almost animal. Ricci looked at him,
and Gino was silent again.
Antony said, “I don't know what Lucca's doing. I don't want
to know. I'm retired, through, finished. I'm not competing with any-
body. I don't need protection.”
"Maybe some people won't believe it,” Ricci said.
"I don't care what some people believe."


"Maybe Lucca doesn't believe it.” In a way, Ricci thought, there.
was a formality to the scene, a set pattern, as in a play, each state-
ment and each response prescribed. He concentrated on this, forced
himself to feel it, as an actor should feel his lines and his part, and
his mind reached out to anticipate the dialogue.
"If he's got a good thing,” Antony said, “and wants to keep it
to himself, I couldn't care less. Tell him that.”
“We don't tell him. He tells us.” It was then that the change
came in Antony's face—unmistakable signs of capitulation.
Antony turned to the window, his back to the room. He stood
silent for a little time, looking down at the lemon groves and the
bay, the white ship lying at quarantine. Over his shoulder he said
in English, “He wants you to keep an eye on me, see that I'm be-
having myself. For how long?”
"He didn't say,” Ricci said, also in English.
Antony's voice came slow, distinct, meaningful. "You'll be talk-
ing to him. Tell him I won't forget this."
"I'll tell him.”
“Tell him—” Antony stopped there. He turned back into the
room. “All right,” he said, in English still. And then, “You re here.
You'll do what I say."
“Sure,” Ricci said, and the pattern was now complete. "You're
being smart.”
“When I want you to say something,” Antony said, “I'll let you
know."
Gino looked from one to the other. To Ricci he said, “Please?"
“We're staying here,” Ricci said, in Italian.
Gino smiled, showing his large yellow teeth. “Lucca will be
pleased.”
Ricci said nothing. He had an uncomfortable feeling that it had
been too easy, almost as if there had been prearrangement between
Lucca and Antony. He told himself that it was still too early to
know.
The library door was closed again, and Antony was alone. He
walked around the big desk and let himself down into the leather
chair. He sat for a few minutes, motionless, staring unseeing at the


far wall. Idly he picked up a letter opener, bronze, polished, and
turned it over and over in his hands.
The young, bright, tough one he thought of Ricci this way, as
opposed to Gino, who was merely stupid muscle had been right.
He, Antony, had been smart. It was always smart, he told himself,
as he had told himself for so many years, to go along with the tide,
drift, merely keeping your head above water, until the force of the
tide was spent. Otherwise, struggling futilely, you used up your
own strength and accomplished nothing.
There were many other ways to say the same thing, and he
knew most of them, had, at one time or another, like a teacher
trying to break through into a child's mind by restating facts over
and over again in different terms, used most of the aphorisms on
himself: Don't beat your head against a brick wall; if you can't
whip them, join them; he who fights and runs away, lives to fight
another day; if it's inevitable, relax and enjoy it; a dead hero does
nobody any good—the list was long. Through overuse, the clichés
had lost some, but not all, of their meaning.
He didn't want Ricci and Gino in the house; he admitted that.
So? He didn't want them here because they were a part of Lucca
and he wanted nothing to do with Lucca, not now, particularly
not now; not ever again. He turned in the chair to look out over
the lemon groves and the harbor, the bright water, the white ship
lying at quarantine. Particularly not now, he thought. But what
other way had there been?
He knew Lucca. He knew how Lucca's mind worked, every
small suspicious twist, every vicious reaction. Antony is over here
now—this was the way Lucca's thoughts would have run-and
Antony is not a man to let himself rot with inactivity; therefore,
Antony will look around and see what goes, and cut himself a
piece of anything that looks profitable, because Antony is smart,
tricky, always finding angles that nobody else can find; and once
he gets started, even if his beginnings are small in this new land, as
they were in the States, he will grow until, one day, he becomes a
menace. The way to neutralize Antony is to move in on him right
at the start, and if it takes two men, one of them with brains and


the other with muscle, to keep a lid on him, why, the price is cheap.
Antony is a deep one, too deep, and brains are dangerous.
There was another way, of course, to deal with danger, and
there was no doubt in Antony's mind that Lucca had thought of
it, as he always thought first of violence. But there is one thing I
did teach him, Antony thought now; and that is that violence
should be the last, and not the first resort, that a mere show of force
is usually enough. And he learned the lesson, and remembered it,
most times, or neither of us would be over here, merely deported;
we would have been, by now, just lumps, lying in fancy coffins,
not respected or even vaguely feared by the worms.
He was safe, he told himself, as safe as Joe Antony could ever
be, as long as he behaved. He thought of this and tried to draw
comfort from it. Relax, it's all right; there was nothing else to do.
The clichés repeated themselves, unbidden, in his mind. They
sounded shopworn, like last year's advertising slogans.
He stared at the letter opener in his hand. He was impotent,
helpless. Admit it, he told himself. He was through, finished, re-
tired, he had thought. They had deported him, and he had almost
welcomed it, because over here there would be no new men com-
ing up aiming, always aiming, at the top and knowing that the only
way to get there was to pull down and destroy the ones above them,
all of the ones above them whether they pretended to step aside or
not. Over here, he had thought, it would be different-plain Joe
Antony, bothering nobody, worrying nobody, just sitting on his
hilltop and looking out at his lemon groves ... content.
So it wasn't like that, and he blamed himself that he had even
dreamed that it would be. He had fooled himself. Worse, he had
broken a promise made long ago, and thereby fooled somebody
else.
The great white ship blew its whistle and the sound rolled across
the flat water and up through the lemon groves. He heard it, lis-
tened to its echoes. He lifted the letter opener and held it poised,
and then slammed it down on the desktop. The door opened almost
simultaneously, and he looked up, his face expressionless once
more.
It was a woman this time, wearing black, all black. She was old


"No," the old woman said.
He walked past her as if she were not there. He opened the door
and went out. He took his hat from the table, and he started across
the entrance hall, walking carefully on the slick marble. Then, half-
way, he stopped. In his anger, his impotence, he had almost forgot-
ten. “Maria!” The maid appeared quickly. “The young man,” he
said. “Tell him I want him. Alone.” He went on, across the vast
hallway, and the marble heads in their niches seemed to watch him
as he walked. Outside, in the bright sun, he took out his dark
glasses and put them on. He knew the rules. He was tied, tethered
on a short chain. He could go nowhere without one of Lucca's
men-nowhere. He stood on the steps of the loggia, trying to make
himself relax.
The room upstairs was large, with a stone balcony and a
vaulted ceiling and heavy, dark furniture, a room meant for tapes-
tries and candles in ornate sconces. Gino was on one of the beds,
his feet up, one hand behind his head. “I like it here."
“You like it anywhere, big one,” Ricci said.
Gino nodded. When he smiled the large yellow teeth showed.
“It is true. I am friendly. And so I find friends wherever I go."
And this, too, was true. "It is all work, eh, Ricci? Whether we are
at Lucca's house, or here, or wherever, it is all work.”
“A man said once,” Ricci said, “that work was doing something
when you'd rather be doing something else.”
Gino took his time, thinking slowly around the concept, exam-
ining it as carefully as he could. “And do you believe that, Ricci?”
"I was just talking, big one.”
“No,” Gino said. “When you say a thing, it is for a reason."
"Forget it."
"It is true, Ricci.” Then ... “Is that what it is like in America?
Do people there talk only when there is a reason? Like you and
Lucca and this Antony downstairs? He is a deep one, too."
"In the land of the blind,” Ricci said, “the one-eyed man is
king."
"I don't understand.”
“It's not important.” The uneasiness remained, the feeling that
11


it had been too quick, too effortless downstairs; Antony had given
in almost without an argument, and the more he thought about
this, the more he disliked what it might imply. When the knock
came at the door he felt a sudden small prickling up and down his
spine, like the tiny feet of mice scampering over a grave. He
looked at the maid, Maria.
From the bed Gino said, "Cute one. Come in. You will call me
Gino, and we will be friends, great friends, and we will drink some
wine and maybe sing a little, and then—"
To Ricci the maid said, “The signor is waiting. For you alone."
She was gone.
He wore his outward calm as he moved toward the door to
obey. Gino said, “It is all work, eh, Ricci?” He lay back on the
bed. “If you want me, I will be here." His eyes closed. He raised
one heavy hand and began to move it delicately in rhythm, croon-
ing softly to himself. The tune was Puccini's: "Un Bel Di,” “One
Fine Day.” It was the last sound Ricci heard as he closed the door.
Antony was still on the loggia, wearing his hat and his dark
glasses, his gambler's face composed. The car was waiting, a chauf-
feur Ricci had not seen before holding the door. "Sit up front,"
Antony said. But then, "No. In back, with me."
Ricci nodded. He followed Antony into the car, settled himself
in the seat. Now, he told himself, the catechism begins, and his
mind felt bright and clear, able, alert, almost free. It had always
been so, once the waiting and the uncertainty were past.
Antony did not look at him. He faced straight ahead. “You were
born in America,” he said. “You came over here with Lucca?”
"No. Later.” They spoke in English.
“But you knew him over there?”
“No,” Ricci said, and so far it was no more than the truth.
Antony said nothing. He waited.
“Tiny Presser,” Ricci said. "I got in a little trouble in Frisco,
went East. I saw Presser"
“Where?”
So far it was easy, automatic; the preparations had been made
with care. “His apartment, on Tenth Street.” The apartment with
the two-story living room and the enormous bookcase and the
12


library of classical recordings; and Tiny Presser, himself, gro-
tesquely fat, asking his questions in a soft womanlike voice, watch-
ing with his small, bright eyes. From Presser you got clearance, or
you did not; and if you did not, you stayed out of any real busi-
ness. Oh, you could operate on your own, in little ways, petty
ways, but if you got too big, anywhere from Boston to Miami to
Seattle to San Diego, you ran into the organization that led back
to Presser again, as, sooner or later, a check returns to its point
of origin. Presser was, in a sense, a personnel director. Presser had
been the starting place.
“And Tiny sent you here,” Antony said, “to Lucca.”
“That's right.”
“How long ago?”
Drag your heels a little, Ricci told himself; you're not a boy
scout. He turned his head to look at Antony. He said nothing.
“I asked you a question,” Antony said.
“I heard it.”
“Let's get this straight,” Antony said, without any particular
emotion. “When I ask a question, I want it answered. When I tell
you to do something, I want it done."
Ricci shrugged. “I came over here nine months ago.”
“That's better.” Then . . . "You're going to pick up the easy
money, be a big shot someday.” Something in his face and voice
had altered.
Ricci shrugged again. “You've got a nice car here. Nice house."
Antony ignored it. “Know where we're going?”
“No.”
“We're going to meet a ship."
"So?”
“Let it go,” Antony said. He was alone, all alone-first the aunt
rejecting him, now this young punk. No matter. He told himself
that he had been alone most of his life, that he was used to it.
“You a ball fan?”
"Some.”
“Coast League,” Antony said. It was no question. “Some day
they'll have the majors out there, two three clubs, anyway." There


was a sort of relaxation in this kind of talk, American talk. “I
used to have a box up at the Stadium, every year, United Steel on
one side and Coke and Carbide on the other, right on first base,
near the dugout.” He turned to look at Ricci now. “Ever see that
Mantle? Clobbering one? Beating out a bunt? Ever watch Berra
standing up there, swinging at the bad ones and knocking them into
the seats?”
“On television,” Ricci said.
There was no relaxation. He wasn't in America; he was back in
Italy. The taste in his mind was bitter. “Even microwave doesn't
reach this far," he said, and they rode in silence for a time, along
the ancient road. “You got a girl? One girl, I mean?”
"No."
“Got a family?”
"No."
“Nobody?”
“I told you."
Antony nodded. “Just a tough kid,” he said. “In a hurry. Travel-
ing light.”
Ricci shrugged.
“And going the wrong way,” Antony finished.
The ship had already docked and the covered gangways were in
place. They left the car with the chauffeur, and walked through
the crowd, through the clusters of kids, ragged and hopeful, through
the knots of hotel hustlers, the eager family groups, toward the
railing of the customs shed.
There was a smell to the waterfront, a blend of cargoes and oil
and garbage and salt water, of people and automobile exhausts, of
luggage and trucks and old rotting wood, of garlic and stale cook-
ing oil and tenements not far off and pavement heated by the sun.
And, dominating it all, the towering ship.
“Here,” Antony said. He was holding out a postcard-sized pic-
ture. “Take a good look at it, then we'll both try to find her.”
Ricci took it slowly, expressionlessly. He looked at the face in
the picture, at the eyes which seemed to smile, at the bright hair,
short cut, and the lift to the young mouth. He looked at Antony
again as he handed the picture back.
14


He turned away, and looked at the porter who was setting the girl's
bags down. In Italian he said, “Bring them.”
“There is a charge, signor, and I am engaged—”.
“Bring them.” He watched the porter hesitate, shrug; and he
turned and led the way to the car. It was there, as the chauffeur
stowed the luggage in the trunk, that it happened.
He had known all along that sometime, somewhere, it would;
and he had tried to prepare himself for it, thinking how it would
be, and how he would react, forcing himself to memorize this, re-
hearse it silently. But still it took him by surprise, from behind.
"Hey! Johnny! What are you doing here?” A man's voice, an
American voice, carrying loud and clear.
He could almost, but not quite, control the impulse to turn; and
so he let himself continue the movement, his face expressionless,
his eyes looking deliberately past the man of the voice to Antony
and the girl. “This is all the luggage?” he said, and his voice was
quiet, steady.
The girl nodded. Antony said nothing. And the American voice
said, “Hey. What is this?”
Ricci looked around slowly. There was blankness in his face, in
his manner. “Something you want?”
The man was young and tall and wide through the shoulders.
He wore a tweed suit and no hat, and he was frowning, staring at
Ricci now. “What gives?” He began to smile, broad and friendly.
“Remember me? Pete Jenner?”
"Sorry,” Ricci said. He shook his head. “You've got the wrong
fellow." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Antony, no longer
confused by the girl's presence, watching steadily. Ricci smiled at
the tall man. “Forget it. No harm done."
Jenner's smile disappeared now, and in its place embarrassment
began, the sense of ridiculousness in the presence of strangers and
the strangeness of the land. “Look. I don't know what your pitch
is, but don't tell me I don't know who you are. Johnny Bellanca,
a guy I lived with for two years—" He stopped there, anger plain
now, and stubbornness.
It could have been anybody who had known him, Ricci thought;
it had to be this one. He said, no longer smiling, "I told you you
16


had the wrong fellow. Maybe you didn't hear me.” And he turned
his back, watched first the girl and then Antony get into the car.
He closed the door. The prickling had begun again, up and down
his spine. He started for the front door of the car.
Jenner's voice stopped him. “Maybe—maybe I made a mistake.”
His voice was doubtful.
“Forget it,” Ricci said. “No harm done.” He got in beside the
chauffeur. There had been ample harm done. The last he saw,
without appearing to look, Jenner was still standing there, large
and uncertain, staring after the car. Ricci let his breath out sound-
lessly. And now the telephone call was urgent, mandatory, perhaps
even already too late.
In the back seat the girl sat silent. Antony had his hat on again.
He said, "A good trip?"
“Yes.”
“Good weather?”
“Yes.”
"I—hoped it would be."
There was silence.
“Tina,” Antony said. “Do they still call you that?”
“Yes.”
“George and Lucy—” Antony began.
“They're fine."
“I haven't seen them in a long time.”
"They told me.” Ricci, listening, wished that he could turn to
watch the girl's face, because what was in the voice was deep and
bitter, almost contemptuous, resentful.
"Once a year,” Antony said, “a letter from George, and a pic-
ture ”
“That was the agreement, wasn't it? They told me that, too."
Antony's voice was normal, uninflected. “That was the agree-
ment. We kept it, both of us.” And then, “I hope you like it here.”
The girl said nothing.
Antony said, “That's Ricci up there. He's from America, too.”
Ricci could turn now. He looked at the girl and nodded. Her
eyes seemed to look through him. Antony watched, without any
expression at all.
17


“I always” She stopped there.
"Sure,” Lucca said. “Every day. That one, or one like it. Only
thing is, Ricci isn't here to see it today.”
"You're dreaming,” Belle said again.
“Why wear anything?” Lucca said. “Why not prance around
here in a pair of shoes and some earrings like you used to at
stags?”
“I never worked stags,” Belle said, “and you know it.”
“We could fix up a blue spot,” Lucca said. “You could—”
"You used to be a nice guy," Belle said. “Now, over here,
you're—” She stopped herself.
“Go on,” Lucca said. “Over here, what?” His voice was sud-
denly soft, almost gentle. “Say it. You mean since I couldn't beat
what they hung on me, and they threw me out of America, you
don't like it any more? No shows to see, no old pals to wave a new
mink at, only dirty Italians who can't talk English? That what you
mean?”
She rolled onto her back again and sat up, all in one long,
smooth movement. “That isn't so. And you know it. I'm your
wife.”
“Wife,” Lucca said. Then . . . "When I picked you up, what
were you? A dancer?" He shook his head. He was smiling, and
the dimple showed, but the soft brown eyes showed no humor.
He was deliberately working himself up to anger, and he knew it,
but he had no intention of stopping. “Unh-uh. Dancing was just
a front, an excuse to take off your clothes and get a little busi-
ness. You say no; I say yes. Now you're at it again—"
“Maybe,” she said, and her voice surprised her by its steadiness,
"maybe you're trying to say something. Maybe you're trying to say
you're tired. All right. So am I. Tired of you, tired of this imitation
Florida, tired of lots of things, but mostly just tired of you.”
"You don't talk that way,” Lucca said. His voice had become
quite soft. “Nobody talks to me that way. I own you—".
"You don't own me,” Belle said, and some of the steadiness was
gone. There was a tightness, almost panic in her throat. “Nobody
owns anybody else. I go where I want, do what I want. I've got a
passport. I'm an American, and you can't-".
19


It did not look like a hard blow. He delivered it open-handed,
leaning down almost idly from his chair. His knuckles caught her
cheek, and knocked her sideways and down to the mattress. She
rolled over, huddling herself like a hurt animal. She lay still.
"I own you,” Lucca said. “You don't go anywhere, you don't
do anything unless I tell you.” The smile came and went in spasms,
uncontrolled, uncontrollable. “Now get up."
He watched her uncoil herself slowly. Slowly she sat up, slowly
rose to her feet. Her breathing was deep, uneven, frightened. Her
cheek was already turning red beneath its tan. “Look at me,”
Lucca said in the soft voice. He waited until she turned her head.
“Okay. Remember it.” Then, almost a whisper, “That crack about
a passport, about being American—" He paused. “Make that
again, even think it again, and you'll wish you'd never been born.
Now beat it.”
He sat where he was, facing the pool again, forcing down the
anger that was almost fury. Belle and Ricci-he wasn't sure about
them, had really not even thought about them before, but the accu-
sation had been a starting place, an excuse to blow off steam. Belle
and Ricci—it made no difference whether what he thought about
them was true or not. It could be true, he told himself. And if it
was, it was all of a piece with the rest of the world which had gone
sour, suddenly sour, without reason. He had been on top, he was
accustomed to being on top; he had known all of his life that the
top was where he belonged and where he was going to be. Now,
inexplicably, he was here, and he couldn't go back ... and he
hated this country, all of it—Florida house, jewel-like swimming
pool, sun, lemon trees, and all.
America wasn't much in many ways—already he thought of it
as America, as the Europeans did, no longer as the States—but it
was what he was used to, what he had always taken for granted,
and it was barred to him now, barred to him, and there was the
basis for his rage. Barred to him, Angelo Lucca, a name that
meant something, but not barred to Belle, or to Ricci, or to a hun-
dred and sixty million other punks—only to him.
And there was more. In America things worked; you took it for
granted that they would work, that when you turned a faucet
20


water would run, that when you gave an order it would be carried
out. Over here it was different, as the telephone call had proved.
Over here you had people like Pierre working for you, Pierre for
whom he waited now. By the time Pierre arrived, he had himself
under control, only a sort of quiet savagery remaining in his mind.
Pierre was tall and graceful. He wore his hair long over the ears,
and he spoke a very precise English with an English accent. He
was uneasy. “It was bad luck,” he said. “I am sorry.” He had
driven most of the night and all of the day, two-thirds the length
of Italy down from the small town near Genoa, with fear riding
on his shoulders. All during the drive he had concentrated on
thinking of something more than apology, mere confession of fail-
ure; and he had achieved miracles of specious defense, all of
which now, in front of Lucca, collapsed in his mind like bright
bubbles.
"You're sorry," Lucca said. His voice was toneless. “You were
supposed to meet a fishing boat at a beach early last night to pick
up a package. You told me on the phone that the fishing boat came
in where it was supposed to and when it was supposed to. Where
were you?”
“We,” Pierre said, "that is to say, the motor car was—detained.”
He told himself to smile, but his lips refused.
“So the boat waited,” Lucca said, “just sat there on the beach
until a cop on a bicycle came along. One cop. On a bicycle. And
there was shooting, and I told you there wasn't to be any shooting.
And the package was lost, tossed in the water because they were
afraid to be picked up with it." His voice was still level.
“The policeman," Pierre said, "had been told where to go, and
when."
"Had he?” Lucca said. He didn't believe it. Watching Pierre
squirm, feeling the pressure of the rage in his own mind, he refused
to believe it, as he would have refused to believe any excuse.
“It was certain,” Pierre said.
“What happened to the car?” Lucca said. “What held it up?"
"It needed petrol,” Pierre said. "Gasoline, that is. And the
pump in the village was locked. It was necessary to find the owner
of the pump, who was not at home. He had gone down to the café
21


for a glass of wine. That is where we found him.” He paused.
“But you must comprehend that there are several cafés, and"
He stopped, seeing the change in Lucca's face. "It was—unavoid-
able.”
"And you're so sorry,” Lucca said. He made himself lean back
in his chair. He could feel his face smiling in spasms. He ignored
it. He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “See this house?”
Some of the tenseness went out of Pierre. It was going to be
all right, he told himself. “I have seen it. I have admired it. It is
- lovely. The taste which it displays ”.
“I had it built,” Lucca said, “from my own plans. Four bed-
rooms and four baths and a modern kitchen. All the fixtures come
from America. The best. Only thing is, they don't work most of
the time. And there isn't a plumber here who can make them
work.” He was silent.
“A pity," Pierre said.
“That's what I thought you'd say. Like the boat and the cop on
the bicycle and the gas pump that was locked and the character
drinking wine in a café. Pity. Nothing to be done. One of those
things. They happen."
"14" Pierre said, “I am not sure that I understand.”
“That's right,” Lucca said. “And you can say it again. You can
keep on saying it.” His voice was rising, and he controlled it with
effort. He said, almost wearily, "Okay. You're sorry. Now beat it.”
He closed his eyes.
"But—" Pierre began, and there he stopped, watching Lucca's
face, feeling his own fear return, almost a panic in his mind. “I
cannot just ... beat it. This you must comprehend. I have no
place to go. There was shooting. A man is dead. I am known—"
Lucca opened his eyes. He merely watched, and said nothing.
“But I cannot just ... beat it. I have no money—” He might
as well have been talking to himself; the soft brown eyes that
watched him were not even human, they showed nothing.
“Too bad,” Lucca said. And then, “I don't even know you.” He
waited for and saw the defeat appear in Pierre's face. He closed
his eyes again. There was the sound of a chair scraping, of foot-
22


steps, slow, reluctant, going away. He sat where he was, in the sun,
alone.
Gino was in the shade of the kitchen wall. He was smok-
ing one of his thin, knotty cigars. He had a glass of wine on the
bench beside him. He had seen the car return, Ricci in front with
the chauffeur, Antony and a girl in the back seat. He felt no curi-
osity. Men like Lucca and Antony, yes, and Ricci, did things for
reasons that were complicated and frequently incomprehensible.
He was accustomed to this. Had the girl in the car resembled Belle,
borne in any of the recognizable patterns the stamp of Belle, he
would have understood her presence. But to his eyes the girl had
not; therefore, he did not understand, nor did it bother him. Here
in the shade it was pleasant. He sat quietly, and smoked and sipped
his wine. It was there that Ricci found him.
"I'm going to walk down to the village,” Ricci said.
“Good,” Gino said. He finished his wine. He stood up. “I will
go with you."
“No, big one. Stay here. I'm going to telephone. To Lucca."
Gino smiled. It was pleasant to point out what Ricci did not
know. "There is a telephone here. I saw it. It is in the room with
the books where we first saw ”
"What I'm going to say,” Ricci said, “I don't want Antony to
hear.” Which was the truth, if not all of it.
Gino sat down again, resigned. Always there were reasons within
reasons within reasons, like the layers of an onion. “I will wait.”
Ricci walked down the curving hill road, between the tall pop-
lars, feeling the warmth and the sun and seeing the sparkle of the
water but paying attention to none of those. Seeing Jenner had
been a bad break. Antony had not been fooled—he told himself
that he had to assume this, even though he could not be sure. And
there was the further complication of the girl. And still prodding
at his mind, the sense of uneasiness, the feeling that somewhere,
somehow, he had made a mistake.
He called Lucca first, and he had to wait while Lucca was sum-
moned to the phone. “He says he's clean,” Ricci said, "through,
retired.”
23


Lucca's voice held nothing. "Okay. You're staying?”
“Until you're satisfied, he says. He didn't argue much." He
waited, but there was no comment. “He told me to tell you he
wouldn't forget.”
“So he doesn't forget,” Lucca said. “The girl was on the boat?
His daughter?”
So he had known, Ricci thought, and he wondered if it was im-
portant. “We just met her.”
“She's staying where?”
“Here. At the house.”
"Okay,” Lucca said. “Stick around. I'll call you."
There was something in Lucca's voice, Ricci thought. He tried
to isolate it, and failed. “Anything wrong?”
“What would be wrong?” And then, “Belle says she misses you."
“Say hello," Ricci said.
“I'll do that. I'll tell her you miss her, too."
Ricci said nothing.
“That right?” Lucca said. “Kind of lonesome without her parad-
ing around, waving it at you?”
“Whatever you say,” Ricci said. This he did not like.
“Just stick around there until I call,” Lucca said. “Try not to
get too lonesome.” The phone went dead.
Ricci hung up. He took time to light a cigarette before he made
the second call, and as he worked with the tiny wax match he
looked around and saw no one. Holding the receiver tight to his
ear he heard the phone at the other end only once before a voice
said, “Randall."
“Bellanca,” Ricci said. He talked fast, low. “A man named
Jenner, Peter Jenner, American, just off the ship, at a hotel prob-
ably. He recognized me, spoke to me.”
“In front of Lucca?”
"Joe Antony. I'm staying at his house now. Lucca sent me. With
Gino. I don't know for how long."
There was silence on the phone. Then, “Trouble up north last
night. Lucca lost a shipment. We lost a man. That fit?”
Too many questions, too few answers. “I don't know.”
Randall said, “A man named Pierre Leclerc. You know him?”
24


“Yes. Tall. Looks like an Englishman. Smooth.”
“That's the one. We want him, and we've lost him. Keep an eye
out.” Then ... “Jenner. Damn. We'll find him, talk to him. You
be careful, hear? Antony's a smart one."
“Cautious,” Ricci said, “like a little mouse.” He paused. "An-
tony has a daughter. Lucca knew it. She's here, off the ship. Called
Tina.”
“No daughter,” Randall said, his voice businesslike once more.
“Raised by somebody else George and Lucy. A letter and a
picture once a year to Antony. That's all I know."
There was another pause. “Could be. We'll check it.”
He looked around, caught by movement, by sound. Gino stood
there, almost at his elbow, grinning around the thin cigar. Ricci
said into the phone in Italian, “Gino is here. He says to tell you
that the wine is good and the maid is plump, like a pullet.”
“I catch,” Randall said. “Be careful. They play rough.” And that
was all.
Ricci hung up. He had the outward calm in place. “I thought
you were staying at the house, big one. That's why we're here, to
keep on eye on Antony."
"He wants you, Ricci. He sent me to find you."
“Oh,” Ricci said. Now it would come, he thought; because of
the bad break of seeing Jenner, now it would come. So let it.
There was still no way to go but ahead.
Gino crooned to himself again, Il Trovatore this time, as they
walked together back up the curving road in the sun.
Alone in the library, sitting at the big desk, Antony told
himself that he should have seen and understood from the begin-
ning, from the first moment of Gino's and Ricci's arrival. But he
had not. The fine edge of wariness had been dulled by these last few
months. Thinking, fooling himself into thinking that he was all
through, finished, he had relaxed. And this was the result. The girl
was here now; he had brought her here. And Ricci had seen her.
And by now Lucca would know-although he was sure, now that
he was thinking clearly again, that Lucca had known all along that
25


naturally. “He tells me you're a smart boy." He paused. “Maybe
a little too smart sometimes."
Ricci grinned. "I beat him at gin.”
"He didn't say it,” Antony said. “I'm saying it.” He took his
time, knowing the value of surprise. He picked up the book, looked
at its title, set it down again. “History of this part of the country.
I was born here, and I don't know anything about it. You read
Italian?"
“Some,” Ricci said.
Antony leaned back in his chair. “Where are the Bellancas
from?” This was the lever.
“I wouldn't know,” Ricci said. He had been waiting for it, and
he was sure that nothing showed in his face, in his eyes, in his
voice. “Who are they?”
"Sometimes,” Antony said, "you think you recognize somebody.
I've done it. Everybody does it.” He kept his voice uninterested,
conversational. “When people look alike, they move alike, walk
alike, sometimes even have the same gestures. Ever noticed that?
It fools you.”
"I've noticed,” Ricci said.
“You walk up to a man in a bar,” Antony said. “You're sure
you know him. Then he turns around and you see his face up
close, see his eyes and the way his mouth moves when he talks,
hear his voice and you see you've made a mistake.”
"I've done it,” Ricci said.
"Only,” Antony said, "the fellow at the ship, Jenner, didn't
think he'd made a mistake. Even after you told him, he didn't
think so.” He knew, even before the answer came, that he was
accomplishing nothing, that he would have to try to find another
way.
Ricci shrugged. “Never saw him before.” And he was silent
again.
Antony sat up. He folded his hands on the desktop. He looked
at them for a few moments. “Maybe.” Then, looking at Ricci's face
once more, “You ever on the junk?”
“No.” The pattern, Ricci thought, was beginning to form, the
question and answer routine, jumping from subject to subject with-
27


out apparent purpose, but the purpose was there, of this he was
sure, and he watched and waited, silent.
"Lot of it around,” Antony said. “Comes in from Turkey,
Greece, I've heard. They refine it into heroin, send it on to the
States, through Canada, Mexico—I've heard."
“That right?” Ricci said. “I wouldn't know.”
And this way, too, was futile. “All right,” Antony said. “You're
a tough kid." There was one more way. “If you're just a tough
kid, only that, I might as well be talking to myself. If you're not-"
He stopped there and watched Ricci steadily.
Ricci shrugged.
Antony said, “You know about Lucca? You know about me?"
"Not much."
“Just names to you,” Antony said. “A couple of names you
read about sometimes in the papers, hear about here and there.”
He nodded. "Nobody was interested in putting my name in the
paper once. Or Lucca's. We weren't worth it. We were kids to-
gether, lived in the same block. His old man had a pushcart, later
on a little grocery store. Mine mended shoes.” And then, “What
did yours do?”
“He was a janitor,” Ricci said. “When he worked. So?”
Antony nodded again, mere acknowledgment that he had heard,
no comment. “Lucca was a tough kid. I wasn't.” He paused. “Don't
get me wrong. Probably I would have been, if I could. It was the
thing to do. But all I had was my head, no muscles. I ended up
as a lawyer, while Lucca was riding liquor trucks. I got married,
too. We had a kid. We called her Tina.”
Watching, listening, alert, Ricci tried to see the direction An-
tony's mind was taking, but there were no signs, no indications
that gave even a hint. Antony's voice was neither friendly nor
unfriendly; it was detached, as if the man spoke not of himself
but of someone he once had known—a kid who had grown up in a
tough neighborhood, and who had gone one way while his friends,
his pals, Lucca, went another; a young man hanging out his shingle
as a lawyer, taking whatever cases he could get, starting out, maybe
dreaming as all young men dream of the things he would have
one day for himself, and for his wife and kid. “So?"
28


"Lucca got in trouble,” Antony said, and his voice was still un-
inflected, still detached. “I defended him. I got him off.” He was
silent, remembering.
Ricci said nothing.
“You know about the old folks?” Antony said. “The ones who
come over from the old country? From here? You're Italian, too."
“What about them?” Ricci said.
“They stick together. To them America's a new country, and
they don't understand it, and you're afraid of what you don't
understand—so they stick with their own. You've seen that?”
Then, not waiting for an answer, “They stuck with their own
Lucca. They testified for him, for us—Lucca's old man, my old
man, all of them. And so I got him off-acquitted.”
"So?”
"Nobody ever proved perjury,” Antony said. “But it was pretty
plain, even to me after a while. And the bar association thought
so, too. And I couldn't convince them I hadn't arranged it. They
disbarred me."
He was wasting his time, Antony told himself, watching the
young face that showed nothing, that was schooled to show noth-
ing, like his own; watching the eyes that looked without expression;
watching the hands that made no slightest move. He could find no
indication of anything, belief, disbelief, not even, in the twisted
concept so familiar to him, admiration. Still he went on, thinking
of the girl upstairs and of his own stupidity, because there was
no other way but to humble himself.
“Lucca offered me a job. Thinking for him, he called it. I couldn't
practice law, not legally, so I took it.” Not right away, not for long
months, empty hopeless months, not until he had hit bottom. The
succession of piddling jobs, dishwashing, clerking, hashing, what-
ever he could find, and the money, their savings, dribbling away
dollar by dollar to fill the gap between what he could earn and what
they had to have. But that had not been bottom. He had reached
bottom all at once, unsuspectingly, shatteringly. Tina, his Tina-
not the small carbon copy still merely a bundle and a voice and
clutching tiny hands—but his Tina, his wife, gone, suddenly gone,
inexplicably, incomprehensibly gone, because of an operation that
29


afraid to see Gino, in whom, as if in substitution for intelligence,
there had been provided a kind of perception, a sensitivity to mood
and feeling like that of a dog, that sometimes, startlingly, pene-
trated too close to the truth. It was better, safer, to think by him-
self.
Antony was smart. He had not been fooled about Jenner; he had
said as much. But Antony had not told Lucca. Or, had he? There
was no way of knowing. And why the pitch, the personal history?
What had been the purpose of that?
Ricci was unimpressed by what he had heard. A man had his
own path, and he followed it. The concept that man was the vic-
tim of circumstance or of higher force, he had never accepted. A
man was free to choose, and some chose one path and some an-
other, and many cried out that they had been duped but it was not
true. The mistakes a man made were of his own making, just as his
achievements were. And he paid for the one and enjoyed the fruits
of the other, and outside influences had nothing to do with it. He
found it difficult to believe that a man as intelligent as Antony
would think otherwise. Why, then, the personal history? And why
had Antony not told Lucca about Jenner? Or had he?
He had gone out of the front door, turned idly across the lawn
toward the rose gardens. It was there that the girl found him.
She had changed her clothes. She now wore a skirt and a sleeve-
less blouse and sandals, her hair bright in the sun. Looking at her,
he thought of the difference between this one and Belle-Belle in
shorts and a halter, Belle in her damned Bikinis, knowing her effect
on a man, any man; flaunting herself. Belle—and now Lucca hint-
ing, making remarks that showed his annoyance. He swore again
silently, while his face smiled politely at the girl.
“You're American, he said,” the girl told him.
“That's right.”
“You look American.” She was still unsmiling; her gray eyes
watched him thoughtfully.
"Maybe it's just that I like my hair short. Keeps it out of my
eyes.” It had been a long time since he had talked to a girl, any
girl, like this, idly, relaxed. There was never relaxation with Belle.
"It's more than that,” she said. Then, "Why are you here?”
31


“In Italy?" His smile spread. “Nice place. My family came from
here."
“The Bellancas?"
His smile disappeared. “That guy,” he said. “I must have a twin
somewhere.”
“I met Pete Jenner on the ship.”
“The one who thought he knew me?”
“Yes.” Her hand went out, lifted a rose. She stared at it quietly.
“He told me that a friend of his, a roommate from college, had
been here after the war and liked it, and that was why he had come
on vacation.” She looked up. “The roommate's name was Bellanca,
Johnny Bellanca.”
"I feel haunted,” Ricci said. “Pretty soon I'll be wondering who
I am. My name's Morelli, Ricciardi Morelli.”
“And you work for him."
“Your father?” Ricci said.
She was silent.
“In a way,” Ricci said.
She would not let it go. She was young, and it was important.
"And did you work for—him, in New York? Before he was de-
ported?”
"No."
“Then you don't know him very well?”
"No."
"I didn't even know I had a father,” she said. “I thought he
was dead; that's what they told me. That was the bargain.” She
smiled faintly. "I'm trying to get used to the idea that I was just
given away, like an extra kitten."
He had a sudden idea, and then he rejected it. Antony would
not have gone through his personal history in order that he, Ricci,
could tell the girl the facts—if they were facts. Antony was per-
fectly capable of doing his own talking.
He said, “Joe wrote you? Asked you over?”
“Yes.”
"And so you came."
"I came.” Her head was up. She watched him steadily, with the
32


same directness that Antony himself had. “Wouldn't you have
come?”
"I suppose I would.”
“To see for yourself? Somebody you didn't even know existed,
and then you find out-wouldn't you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I guess I would.” The directness in her
was deeper than mere appearance; it was a quality of her mind,
and this was something he had not encountered in some little time.
The girl said, “Is he doing the same things over here? The
things they deported him for? In his letter he said that he was
through, retired, that in a way he was glad for the trial and the
deportation because they gave him a chance to stop. In New York,
he said, he would never have been able to stop.”
“Maybe that's right.”
“Then what do you do for him? You, and the other one, the
big one sitting out by the kitchen?”
“We run errands,” Ricci said.
“Should I believe that?”
“I guess you'd better ask him," Ricci said. "He's your father."
The accident of seeing Jenner had been bad; the girl's presence
here compounded it. And always in the back of his mind was the
feeling that he had somehow, somewhere, made a mistake; he could
not shake the feeling off. Granted that Lucca had known about the
girl's coming, what made it important, important enough to send
him, Ricci, here, instead of to Genoa where he was supposed to
have gone? And there was Belle, and Lucca's pointed remarks
about Belle and himself.
First, and most important, of course, was Jenner. Randall would
have to get to Jenner fast and shut him up, because he had been
sore, good and sore, and in that mood he could do anything-go
around to the Embassy maybe and start asking questions, talking.
Sooner or later word would get back to Lucca. Unless Lucca knew
already because Antony had told him, and in that case the fat was
already in the fire. A letter or a cable to Tiny Presser in New York,
starting inquiry about a man named Bellanca, Johnny Bellanca
... he told himself to simmer down. I'm getting jumpy, he thought;
a year of it is too much. I should have been able to wrap it up long
33


ago. But he hadn't, and maybe he had fouled it up instead, even
before Jenner appeared; maybe that was why he had been sent
here, instead of to Genoa, after that phone call this morning. Easy,
he told himself; you can't be sure of anything yet. But he didn't
have to like it; he retained that privilege. He walked around to the
kitchen.
Gino's cigar was almost finished; the glass of wine was low. “She
is pretty, that one,” Gino said. “She is thin, scrawny like all Ameri-
can women, but her face is pretty.” He leered at Ricci, the large
yellow teeth showing.
It was a pleasure to swear in Italian, ugly gutter words he had
learned as a boy. And it was a relief. And Gino didn't mind; Gino
only laughed.
Tina walked into the house. She stood in the entrance hall,
looking around at the marble floor, at the niches with their empty-
eyed busts. She should, she supposed, feel something, a warmth of
kinship, of identification, a consciousness of having roots here in
these surroundings. She felt nothing but strangeness, unfamiliarity,
the same kind of tourist-uneasiness that Pete Jenner had shown
standing by the car, afraid that he had made a mistake but con-
vinced that he had not.
She thought of Jenner, who had been pleasant, amusing, atten-
tive aboard ship with whom she had swum and danced and talked
and laughed. Aboard a ship life was compressed, and you gave little
thought to the ending of the voyage. It was only during the last
few hours, while you watched your destination approach, that you
recognized that the trip had been mere interlude, a means of get-
ting from one place to another; and when the gangplank went
down, a kind of reality took over again. I'm here, she thought; and
I should be excited in a foreign country, as the travel folders say,
but I'm not. I'm confused, and alone. The busts in the niches
watched her with their empty eyes. And then, gradually, she be-
came aware that someone else was watching her, too, and she
turned to look at the old woman in black, all in black, with tight-
drawn white hair and bitter eyes. Tina's smile was automatic,
friendly.
34


“You are the daughter,” the woman said in slow, distinct Ital-
ian. “Do you speak the language?”
"A little. I studied it at school.”
"One learns his own language in the home."
Tina said nothing.
"But you are American,” the woman said.
“Yes."
“Why did you not stay in America?” She paused. “You came
because Giovanni wrote to you. Now that he is here, and cannot
return, he is like the fox who lost his tail, he wants others to do
the same, leave America and come here."
“Giovanni,” the girl said, slowly, wonderingly.
“That is his name.”
Such a small thing, the girl thought, to come with such impact;
Joe was the shortened translation for Giuseppe, not Giovanni,
which in English was John. I didn't even know his real name, she
thought; but I'm here, I came-
From the library doorway, Antony said, “This is your Great-
Aunt Luisa; my father's, your grandfather's, sister.” He repeated it
in Italian.
The girl nodded. The woman merely bent her head.
"She's giving you a bad time?” Antony said, in English again.
“No. We were just-talking."
"She doesn't like Americans." He looked at the old woman, and
he changed back to Italian, too rapid for the girl to follow. “This
is my house. This is my daughter. You will be at least decent—"
“Decent,” the old woman said. She spoke slowly, that the girl
might follow. "You speak of decency, Giovanni?” She turned then,
and showed them her thin straight back as she walked away.
Antony's face was expressionless. "You've changed your dress,"
he said to the girl.
“Yes.”
“Everything all right? Your room, I mean? Got all you need?"
“Yes. Thank you."
"I don't know much about—that kind of thing. It's been a long
time. Little things, I mean. What women like to have. You'll tell
me if there's anything."
35


It was more than stiffness between them, more than unfamil-
iarity; the girl could feel his embarrassment, share it. “Thank you."
"Joe,” Antony said. “I guess you'd better call me that."
“Not Giovanni?” She saw the sudden tightness come into his
face and then quickly disappear.
“Just Joe.” His voice was as before, even. He gestured toward
the library behind him. “This is my room.” Then, still quietly in
the almost detached voice, “You'll have questions." He nodded
faintly. "I'll try to answer them. Now, if you want.” He smiled
suddenly, a mere movement of the lips, mocking himself. “I'm not
looking forward to it, if that's what you're thinking."
George, her foster father—always she had called him that,
never deceived as to their relationship—had told her this about
Antony: “In his own way, he's honest, or was. I don't think he'll
have changed; I don't think people ever really do change once the
mold is set. You're like him in some respects. Maybe it's genes,
after all, and not environment. I don't think he's ever really fooled
himself. He knew where he was going. Maybe he didn't know how
far, but he knew the direction. And maybe he had justification, if
there ever is justification for ... preying on other people. I'm not
helping much, am I? I don't think I can help. You and Joe will
have to settle it between you. He and I made a bargain. We both
kept it. You'll have to take it from there."
Sitting now in the library facing Antony behind the desk, she
thought of this. Antony watched her, waiting. She said, “I don't
know what to ask. There's too much. I—had a mother once, I
suppose.” And out of a sense of embarrassment and confusion, “I
think most people do have mothers.”
"Your mother died,” Antony said steadily. “It was, at least
partly, my fault-” The phone rang, and he looked at it for a mo-
ment before he picked it up and spoke his name.
Lucca's voice said, “Long time, Joe. How's everything?"
The girl was watching him. He tried not to look at her, and he
tried to make his voice uninterested. “What do you want?”
“Not very friendly, Joe.”
Antony said nothing.
“Somebody with you?” Lucca said. “The kid, maybe? I always
36


wondered what happened to her. I figured that sooner or later she'd
turn up, but you had me fooled in New York, never a sign of her.
Now she's here? She like Italy?”
“What do you want?” Antony repeated.
“Why,” Lucca said, “we used to be pals. That was why I sent
the boys over, to show you we still are pals. They'll take care of
you, keep an eye on you. That Ricci's a smart boy, Joe.”
He couldn't keep his eyes from the girl's face, and he could see
the change that was in it, the withdrawal, the return of the stiffness
that had, for only a few moments, faded away. “I'll call you back,"
he said.
Lucca chuckled. "No need, Joe. Just come on over. We'll have
a little talk here."
"No." He wanted to say more, but the girl's eyes watched him,
as other eyes had watched him from a jury box, from a courtroom
filled with spectators, and he tried to hide in silence, knowing that
he could not hide, ever.
"Oh,” Lucca said, “I think you'll come, Joe. I don't want to
play rough. I just want to talk to you.” The voice changed a trifle,
softened. “I hear she's a good-looking kid. Look like her mother?”
Then, “You don't want anything to happen to her, Joe. You'll
come, and we'll have a little talk. Ricci knows the way. Bring him
along. I'll be waiting.” The phone clicked dead.
Antony hung up slowly. He took his time, getting himself under
control. He said, in the quiet, detached voice, “You asked about
your mother. She-" He looked up then, at the sudden movement,
the sudden sound.
Tina had got up from her chair. “I don't think I'd believe you,”
she said. “No matter what you told me. About-her. About any-
thing." She turned quickly. She was gone.
He sat quiet, expressionless for a long time. Then, wearily, he
stood up and walked slowly to the door and out into the hall. It
was empty, only the busts in their niches were there to see his
defeat. He raised his voice, “Maria!" When the maid arrived, “Find
the young man again. Tell him I want him.”
“Si, signor.”
“And tell Luigi I want the car."
37


Randall was a short, stocky man with sandy hair and a
reddish mustache and intensely blue eyes. His hands were broad
and thick and covered with fine reddish hairs; they rested on his
thighs, motionless, as he talked. Jenner was on the bed. “Cloak
and dagger,” Randall said, "maybe it is. I'm not going to tell you
all of it. I've told you this much just so you won't go around ask-
ing questions, making people wonder about Bellanca."
"A pretty big dose,” Jenner said, “for my first couple of hours
in Italy. Johnny Bellanca is Johnny Bellanca but he isn't.” He was
smiling.
“You don't really believe it,” Randall said. “You aren't even
sure you can believe me—" He took out the small leather folder
again, and tossed it on the bed. “—that I'm who that says I am,
what it says I am.” He nodded. “They speak English at the por-
ter's desk. Have them call the consulate for you. Give your name to
the consulate switchboard and ask to talk to the consul general
himself. He'll speak to you. Tell him what you've got there" He
nodded to the leather identification folder. “_and tell him what I
look like."
"Oh,” Jenner said, “I'll take your word for it.”
"No," Randall said. “Because then you'll only be partly con-
vinced.”
“Oh, hell,” Jenner said. “Do you guys always have to do things
the hard way?" He watched the blue eyes, the unsmiling face. “All
right,” he said. “To make you happy.” He reached for the tele-
phone. And when the call was done, "Okay. You've proved your
point.”
Randall took back the leather folder, put it in his pocket. “A
man was shot last night. Not here. It doesn't make any difference
where. Maybe that will convince you we're not playing a game.”
“Killed?” Jenner said. “That's what you mean?”
“Oh, yes. He's dead.” He stood up. “You can kill Bellanca just
as dead, just by talking around.”
For the first time the smile disappeared. “You mean that,” Jen-
ner said. It was a statement, no question.
“That's how it is,” Randall said. “Remember it.” He was at the
door. He started to open it. Jenner stopped him.
38


. "There was a man with Johnny,” Jenner said. “Who was he?"
Randall pushed the door shut again. “Why?”
"No special reason.” And the smile was back. "I thought I rec-
ognized him, too, is all. Seen him somewhere.”
“Maybe.” Randall said. He hesitated. “You may have seen his
picture, anyway. His name is Antony, Joe Antony."
"Oh,” Jenner said.
"Deported from the States a month ago,”Randall said. “Citizen-
ship revoked. Permanently. For cause."
"So that's who" Jenner began. He stopped there.
“That's who Bellanca is playing around with,” Randall said.
“That may give you a rough idea.”
"It does,” Jenner said. He watched Randall nod, open the door,
go out. The door closed. Jenner stayed where he was on the bed.
It was funny, he thought, how things worked out. Tina had given
him no address, no way of looking her up to continue their ship-
board laughs. Now it was easy; it shouldn't be hard to find out
where Joe Antony lived. As the serious Mr. Randall had pointed
out, the porter downstairs spoke English and seemed eager to be
of service. Tina, he thought, would be surprised when he turned
up on her doorstep. And he began to smile again-old Johnny,
playing cops and robbers; he'd have to needle him about that.
They drove in two cars, Antony in his own, Ricci in the
car he had driven over that morning from Lucca's house. Ricci led
the way. He had no idea what was up, or why; Antony had said
only that they were going to Lucca's house, and that, he decided,
merely proved what he had thought all along—that Lucca and
Antony were picking up where they had left off in New York. As
far as it applied to him personally, beyond this he could not,
would not, allow his mind to go.
Instead, he made himself think about other things, achieving for
the first time in this long day an inner detachment to match his
attitude of outward calm.
Something had gone wrong up at Genoa and Lucca had lost a
package, Randall had said, and whether the package had been raw
opium coming in from Turkey or from Greece, or whether it had
39


been the refined product, heroin, made no difference; one shipment
had been stopped, and by that much Lucca had been defeated-he
had lost one battle, but the war continued; or, rather, stagnated.
There were, in a sense, two levels to the war. The first, lower
level, consisted of small engagements, skirmishes, really, like this
one last night, isolated, and relatively unimportant: A passenger
liner in New York had been searched, on the basis of information
he, Ricci, had furnished, and a hundred thousand dollars' worth of
heroin had been found in an upholstered chair in the First Class
lounge and two crew members were serving time for that; a suit-
case going through Customs at Idlewild had yielded, from an in-
genious false compartment, another forty or fifty thousand dollars'
worth of heroin, and the passenger who had flown in with the suit-
case would not, for some years, be in a position to take another
whirl at dope-smuggling; last night's affair, about which he knew
only what Randall had told him, was merely one more incident on
this level. Operation Nibble was the way Ricci thought of it; and
it could continue indefinitely and accomplish very little beyond
annoyance to Lucca and periodic small bites out of his profits.
The second level of the war was something else again; it was the
grand strategy, and so far it had not got off the ground. It was
aimed, not at individual shipments of narcotics, but at the organi-
zation itself, Lucca's organization, Lucca. Infiltrate, find out how
the organization worked, establish a co-ordinated plan, and exe-
cute it. The traffic would stop, only temporarily, of course, because
some other Lucca would come along eventually, but that was no
concern of Ricci's nor of Randall's.
And so far, after more than a year, only the first step of the strat-
egy, the infiltration, had been accomplished. I'm inside, Ricci
thought, and I haven't done any good at all. He put that thought
out of his mind.
Pierre Leclerc, Randall had said, had disappeared. And Randall
wanted to find him. That would mean, then, that Pierre had been
mixed up in last night's affair, in which, besides a package of nar-
cotics, a man had been lost. So Pierre was loose, and Pierre was
valuable; this much was plain. Randall, being Randall, would not
waste energy trying to find Pierre merely because a man had been
40


me.” He changed to Italian, and Luigi opened his door and got
out, started for Ricci's car.
So there it was, Ricci thought, and he let no disappointment
show in his face. He switched the ignition on and off and on again,
pretending to fuss with the switch. He tried the starter once more.
The engine caught. Ricci spread his hands. He looked at Antony
and shrugged.
“It happens like that sometimes,” Antony said, and there was no
way of telling what he thought. He settled back in the seat. Luigi
got in beneath the wheel again, closed the door.
Ricci pulled out into the street again. In his rear-view mirror he
could see Pierre's car, just sitting there, empty; and he thought of
Pierre himself, inside, a sitting target. He swore to himself, softly
and with feeling, as he drove on, because there was nothing else to
do, toward the glass and stone house.
Lucca was in the living room that looked out on the terrace and
the pool. He still wore the linen trousers and the short-sleeved shirt,
and he was smiling, showing the tiny scar as a deep dimple. The
soft brown eyes were bright, genial. “Joe. How's the boy? Like
my place?” He waved his hand at the big room. “Like Florida,
eh?”
They had not shaken hands, and Antony's face was expression-
less as before. He looked slowly around, and then back again to
Lucca. “You miss America, is that it? Tried to bring it along with
you?”
“You know how it is,” Lucca said. He was silent for a moment.
Then, “Okay." He looked at Ricci. “Beat it for a while."
"I'll stretch my legs,” Ricci said. “Walk around outside a bit.”
The telephone at the foot of the hill, and Pierre, maybe there still.
Lucca shook his head. "We won't be long. And we might want
you.” His voice altered subtly. “Get yourself a beer. You know
where it is.” He paused. “Go find Belle.” He paused again. "She
hasn't had anybody to talk to all day.”
Ricci hesitated, wary. “Maybe she likes it that way. I wouldn't
know.”
“I told you,” Lucca said, and this time there was no mistaking
the tone.
42


Ricci shrugged. “Sure.” He started for the kitchen.
"She's upstairs,” Lucca said.
Ricci merely nodded.
Standing at the bar in the small café at the foot of the
hill, Pierre sipped his third pernod, feeling the warmth of the first
two working through him, loosening the knot of fear that lay in the
stomach. He told himself that he was not-name of a name!-a
lackey to be summoned, sneered at, dismissed. He was Pierre Le-
clerc. He allowed the concept to remain, comfortingly, in the front
of his mind for a brief time. He had another sip of his drink.
He was Pierre Leclerc, and last night's affair had not been his
fault. It had been one of those things, unforeseen, unforeseeable,
unfortunate. The package had been lost; that was Lucca's loss, not
his. A man had been killed; it had not been he, Pierre, who had
fired the shot. This was the plus side of the ledger.
But there was the minus side, too, and he was calm enough now
to consider it logically—he told himself this, too. He was known,
and that was not good. There would be a search for him, and that
was worse. The man who was dead-his name had been Walther,
from that part of Italy which the Austrians still referred to as the
South Tyrol—had gone to the police, as he, Pierre had told Lucca.
Walther must have gone to the police; there was no other explana-
tion. And if that was true, how much had Walther told them, the
flics? About him, Pierre, for example? It was this that brought the
knot back into his stomach, despite the pernod.
He had come south as fast as he could after last night's trouble.
He had hoped-no, name of ten thousand blue little devils! he had
not hoped, he had merely run blindly like a frightened mouse,
without hope, without even thought, to Lucca as to sanctuary. And
sanctuary had been refused, and he was on his own now, with little
money, too little money to do what he should do, take ship, to
Africa, perhaps, French Africa where things were in a turmoil and
the authorities would be too busy to pay him much heed. In Al-
giers, he told himself, a man could
He made himself stop dreaming. He was here, and he had to
hide. Consider, he told himself sternly; face the problem logically.
43


There was the hotel in the city. He had been there two or three
times, always on business for Lucca; he was known there as Luc-
ca's man. He would rather, much rather, have thought of another
place, unknown even to Lucca, but he knew of none. And in the
hotel, which was named The Apostle, heaven knew why, he would,
at least, be out of sight of the police. There, then, was where he
should go. Immediately.
He finished his drink. He considered having one more, and made
himself reject the idea. He felt better, much better, his own man
again—almost. He paid the bill and walked out to his car.
It was even possible, he thought, that Lucca would change his
mind, that he would remember that he, Pierre, had in the past ren-
dered more than small service; perhaps Lucca might even begin
to comprehend, once his anger had cooled, that last night's affair
had not been the fault of anyone, that it had been merely the kind
of thing that sometimes happened, the wheel turning and the red
coming up when one had placed his money on the black. But he
told himself that he could not place much faith in this possibility.
Lucca was, after all, an American. And Americans were beyond
understanding, incredible, formidable!
Upstairs in her own room, Belle sat on the low, broad bed.
She had taken off the Bikini; its two tiny pieces lay where she had
tossed them in the center of the floor. She had gone into the bath-
room and turned the shower on and soaked herself, scrubbed with
soap and rough sponge as if she could cleanse not only her body
but all of her, particularly the stain she could not reach-a blend
of pain and shame and fear in her mind.
She had dressed in slacks, tight-fitting but by her standards mod-
est, and a loose blouse-only these. She had arranged her hair
automatically, and had spent some time over her make-up. Her left
cheek was red, but the redness didn't show much. The hurt was
inside, where it could be concealed, and remembered. There had
been no tears.
She had no illusions about herself. Long ago she had found that
illusions were extra weight, unnecessary handicap, and she had
discarded them as she had discarded her given name, which was
44


Bertha. It had even amused her, she remembered this now with
vague uneasiness, that the name Bertha had come back to haunt
her on her passport application and in large, clear type, on the pass-
port itself.
The passport lay in the top drawer of the dressing table, and
she thought about it, as Lucca had told her not to think about it,
perhaps because Lucca had told her not to think about it. It was
like probing a sore tooth with her tongue ... something she could
not help doing.
She would not use the passport, she had already accepted this.
There was no place to run, no place she knew where she was not
known, where Lucca's influence was not still felt; and once this had
been a source of pride, now it was something else, a source of fear.
But it was not fear alone that held her; and this, too, she knew,
although the knowledge was something she felt, that did not spring
from reasoning. There were many ways to say it; like Antony, she
had her own clichés, polished by use; you take the rough with the
smooth; you make your bed and you lie in it; you pay for what
you get, because everything costs something. Long ago she had
learned that you took what came because nobody had twisted your
arm in the first place.
She touched her cheek gently with her fingers, pressed the sore
spot, felt for swelling and found none. She had been hit before,
but not by Lucca, and never like this—in an offhand, almost idle
manner, like a dog being taught a small lesson. And here was the
seat of the shame and the anger: she had been treated as if she
were nobody; and everybody was somebody, or if he wasn't he was
better off dead.
She didn't think of herself as smart. Brains were the weapons of
people like Antony, whom she had known in New York, or of
Ricci, yes, even of Lucca. She had only one weapon, and she knew
all about its uses.
Sitting there, unmoving, feeling the shame and the anger in her
mind, she thought, Nobody owns anybody else. Nobody's that big,
and nobody's that little. Lucca was vulnerable; he could be hurt.
Lucca wasn't God.
When the knock came at the door, she said, “Come in," and she
45


looked up, her face smooth and untroubled, composed. It was
Ricci.
He had a glass of beer in his hand, and he looked young and
American with his short-cropped hair-like the man in one of
those TV commercials Belle used to watch between innings of a
ball game. Her smile appeared slowly. “Hi, stranger.”
"Hi.” He was uneasy here, remembering Lucca's voice on the
telephone and the way Lucca had looked just now downstairs.
Ricci liked Belle; she was honest, without pretense. She knew what
she had and she took pleasure in it, and it was as simple a thing
as that-innocent, no matter what Lucca thought. But Lucca did
think otherwise, apparently, and there was the danger.
"Don't just stand there,” Belle said. “Come on in. Close the
door. I thought you were gone for a while.” She leaned back on
the bed, braced herself with her hands behind her. "Where's the
man?”
“Downstairs,” Ricci said. “Talking with Antony." He came into
the room, but he left the door open. He watched Belle look at it
and smile.
“Afraid of me?” she said.
“Scared to death."
"I'll bet,” Belle said. “That beer looks good.”
“I'll get some.”
She shook her head. She held out one hand. “I don't want-
much.” She watched him hesitate, then hold out his glass. She took
it, smiled up at him. “I won't give you anything."
"You're wrong.” She was easy to talk to; with Belle you didn't
have to pull your punches. Thinking of this now, he thought, too,
of the other one, Antony's daughter, who was as different as day
from night and yet, basically, the same. Honest was the word.
“You're poison,” he said.
“Am I?” She sipped the beer slowly. She looked up, smiling
still, pleased. “That's nice. You tell that to all the girls?”
“Cut it out,” Ricci said. “Save the line for somebody else."
"Only you and—the man-talk my language.”
“Then save it for him,” Ricci said. He was smiling, too.
“Sometimes—” Belle began. She stopped there. She sipped the
46


beer again. She shook her head, smiling still, but the quality of the
smile had changed. The faint redness of her cheek showed plain,
and she knew that he saw it.
Watching her, no longer smiling, seeing the red bruise and know-
ing its cause, Ricci said, “Trouble?” He wondered whether this was
a part of the pattern, if this, maybe, was at the root of Lucca's
annoyance.
“No trouble.” She touched her cheek with her fingertips. “I ran
into something is all.” She held out the beer glass.
He took it slowly, feeling a sudden, unreasoning anger, a dislike
of Lucca that had nothing to do with logic. He said reluctantly,
tonelessly, “It happens."
“Sure,” Belle said. “You stub your toe. Maybe I talked out of
turn."
He watched her, silent, waiting.
“You were talked about,” Belle said. “That answer your ques-
tion?”
"I guess it does.” Vaguely, “I'm sorry.” Damn Lucca, he thought;
and damn me for letting it happen ... being careless.
“You didn't do anything,” Belle said.
"No."
She was silent for a moment, studying him. “You're a nice guy.”
“That's me.” Shut up, he told himself. Forget it. It's done, and it
can't be undone. Just make sure you stay away from her from
now on.
“You're more than a nice guy—” And she made herself stop
there. Don't put him in the middle, one part of her mind said; the
other voice, the stronger voice, rising out of the hurt and the shame
and the anger, said, Lucca hurt you. He said he owned you. Do
you take that lying down? And Ricci watched her. He seemed to
be waiting. She leaned against her braced arms, shoulders back,
smiling. “Forget it,” she said.
He nodded slowly.
“You don't want any trouble with him, about anything."
He nodded again.
“Then,” Belle said slowly, “it's all settled, isn't it?" And her
smile was clear, inviting.
47


"Cut it out,” Ricci said. “I'm just a man. And you're poison.”
He said it lightly, but he told himself to remember it.
“Now,” Belle said, “you're repeating yourself.”
Then Lucca's voice came clearly up the stairs. “Ricci!” And
some of the tension went out of the room.
"My master's voice,” Ricci said. He smiled, made a small waving
gesture as he started to turn away.
“Tell him," Belle said, "that you left the door open." Her voice
mocked him.
"I'll do that." He looked over his shoulder to smile at her again.
“Tell him I'm just a-sister to you."
He didn't answer. He went down the hall and out of her sight.
She stayed where she was, leaning back, her body arched in its taut
curve. The small voice of reluctance was still there in her mind; it
grew fainter.
Lucca was alone, standing at the glass wall, looking out on the
terrace and the pool. Antony was gone. “I told Joe,” Lucca said,
“that you'd be along after you did a little job for me.” He turned
then, and the soft brown eyes watched Ricci's face. “Something on
your mind?”
Ricci still had his beer glass. He finished the beer, set the glass
down on the low square table. “What would there be?”
“You tell me,” Lucca said.
Ricci shrugged. The man was angry; he could see it in the smile
that came and went, in the dull shine of the brown eyes. “Nothing
to tell.” He kept his voice unconcerned.
Lucca said slowly. “I slugged her.”
Ricci nodded. “I saw.”
The brown eyes studied him for a few moments. Then, “I slugged
her because she got out of line. She needed a lesson. She still does.”
"I guessed that.” And he made himself shrug again.
“No skin off your nose, eh?” Lucca said.
"I don't mix in family quarrels.”
“That's a good policy. Just keep it in mind."
Ricci said nothing.
"I don't like to get rough,” Lucca said. “I like things nice and
easy. Only thing is, people get out of line sometimes and then
48


you've got to wave a little muscle.” The anger had not lessened, but
its focus seemed no longer to be here, in this room. “You under-
stand?” Lucca said.
"I understand.”
Lucca nodded. “You're a smart boy. Tiny Presser was right. I
told him I needed somebody with brains.” He turned again to the
window.
Ricci let his breath out slowly. So it was all right, so far. Antony
had said nothing about Jenner and the name Bellanca. And Belle
-Belle was a matter that was not going to cause trouble; he told
himself that he was not going to let Belle cause trouble. Standing
here, watching Lucca's back, waiting, he thought of the bruise on
Belle's face, and of the way she had talked about it, the way she
had talked to him; and, despite himself, the personal, unreasoning
dislike of Lucca rose in his mind like a storm.
"I said I had a job for you,” Lucca said. He turned slowly from
the window. “For you and Gino. I like things nice and easy, like
I said, but they can't always be that way.” He paused. “You know
Leclerc, Pierre Leclerc?”
It took Ricci by surprise. He had forgotten all about Pierre; talk-
ing with Belle, thinking about Belle, he had let himself forget, and
forgetfulness was inexcusable. “I know him.”
"He's down here,” Lucca said. “Never mind why. And he's
scared, maybe scared enough to make trouble, and I don't want
trouble. You and Gino find him, talk to him, tell him that." He
paused again. “Gino knows how to tell him.”
“You want him so he can't talk?” Ricci said. “You want him
shut up for good?” His voice was steady, and the attitude of out-
ward calm was firmly in place. He had his hands in his pockets,
and he kept them there lest they show the tension he felt. His mind
was already jumping ahead, anticipating, and he tried to make it
stop. Kill a man on orders, he thought, in cold blood. He knew now
what it felt like a tightness in your stomach and in your chest,
and your breathing hard to keep even.
“You're a smart boy,” Lucca said. “You figure it out when you
talk to him.”
Ricci nodded.


"He'll be at the Apostle,” Lucca said. “He doesn't have any
money and he doesn't know any place else."
“Right,” Ricci said.
"Don't make a mistake,” Lucca said. “Any kind of mistake. I'm
tired of mistakes, and people who make them.” The soft brown
eyes looked toward the stairs. “People who get out of'line” The
smile came and went in spasms. “_are just asking for trouble.
They have to be taught lessons.” He looked at Ricci again.
“There won't be any mistake,” Ricci said.
He walked out to the car without looking back. Belle was in for
a bad time, he told himself; he tried to put the knowledge out of
his mind, but it would not go. He started the car, put it in gear.
She was in for a bad time, and he was leaving her to it, and she
meant nothing to him, nothing at all, she was just somebody he
knew, just happened to know, somebody not very bright, even, in
a way, childlike, and friendly, living for laughs and admiration.
What happened to her was, as Lucca had said, no skin off his nose.
He told himself to remember this. As he let out the clutch and
started the car down the curving road, his mind felt cold, and the
coldness spread down through his body, into his hands and fingers.
He hammered softly on the steering wheel with the heel of one
hand, and his lips, moving, whispered aloud, almost as if Belle
could hear, “I'm sorry, kid. That's how it is.” And he could almost
see her, smiling and nodding—and that made it worse.
At the foot of the hill he stopped the car and went into the café.
Pierre was not there; after this time, he had not expected to find
him. He walked straight into the back room, to the telephone,
made his call. To Randall he said, “Leclerc's at the Hotel Apostle,
hiding out. But don't pick him up yet.”
"No?” Randall said. “Why not?”
He could let some of the bottled-up anger come out now. “Gino
and I are supposed to teach him a lesson, work him over. And
Lucca doesn't want any mistakes."
There was silence. Then, “If you see it that way."
"I do,” Ricci said. He was thinking still of Belle, and the cold-
ness in his mind was a deep solid fury. “Afterwards, if he walks
out of the hotel, it doesn't make any difference if you pick him up."
50


Randall said, “I don't hold any brief for Leclerc. But—"
“That's the way it's got to be,” Ricci said. He waited, but
there was no answer beyond silence, which was answer enough. He
hung up and walked out to the car.
Antony sat at his desk. The aunt, Luisa, stood in the center
of the room, tall, erect, contemptuous, her white bony hands
clasped in front of her. “Two men,” she said.
Antony said, “What did they look like? What—"
"I told you. Policemen. They said they were obeying regula-
tions.”
"There is no such regulation," Antony said. “Nobody picks up
a passport once you've come through immigration. They stamp it,
and that's all there is.”
“These things,” the old woman said, “I do not know. I am nei-
ther a lawyer nor a criminal, and so I am not concerned with the
law. If a policeman says a thing is true”
“They weren't policemen,” Antony said. He held his voice down
with effort.
"How do you know that, Giovanni?” Her contempt was plain.
"You were not here."
“I tell you—” Antony began. He stopped there. Easy, he told
himself. Think. “So you gave them Tina's passport."
“I did not. I sent for the girl. She gave it to them. They went
away.”
"Fine,” Antony said. Then, in English, “Dandy."
The old woman watched him steadily. “You are sure they were
not policemen, Giovanni.” She spoke slowly. “Who else would
come, speaking of regulations?”
He was silent.
“This is not America, you have told me.” And the dark eyes,
deepset, seemed to glow, smolder. “What you were in America,
you have said, you are no longer here. Here you are in-retreat,
finished with the world which made you rich.” She paused. “Is
that not what you told me, Giovanni?”
"My name is Joe,” Antony said, but he might as well not have
spoken.
51


“You talk like an old man, Joe.”
“Maybe I am.”
"Don't kid me.” And the dimple had been very deep, the white
even teeth showing in a smile. "Remember me, Joe? I've known
you all my life. You were always the smart one, the brain. You
could always fool everybody—your old man, mine, the cop on the
beat, the teachers, the priest, everybody. 'Joe Antony is a good
boy.' You fooled them all.”
Antony had said slowly, feeling the first real doubts, “Was that
the way it looked?”
"Go on,” Lucca had said. “Needle me. That's my Joe.” And he
had waved one hand in a broad gesture, smiling still.
Antony had sat silent.
"You're an old man,” Lucca had said. “Tired. Got more money
than you need. You kill me, Joe.” He had seated himself suddenly
on the edge of the low square table, and he had leaned forward and
rested his forearms on his knees; even seated and motionless there
was, as there had always been, an impression of movement, force,
speed, strength in the slender-seeming body. “There isn't that much
money, Joe. You know it. I know it. You can't fool me. Every-
body else, sure. But not me, Joe. You never could.”
Still he had tried. “I've never lied to you—”.
"Lied? What's a lie, Joe? You take two people, they look at
something from different sides who's lying?” He had shaken his
head and the smile had not faltered. “Let the priests worry about
lies. That's for them like how many angels can dance on the
head of a pin.” Again the slender strong hand had gestured broadly,
with contempt. Then, almost abruptly, "We did all right in New
York. We did fine."
And for the first time Antony saw what he should have seen
before, but had not, had looked right at it and failed to see; and
at this moment, coming as a surprise, it had shaken him, thrown
him off balance. He wants me. He isn't trying to keep me out; he
wants me in.
“I got a good thing," Lucca had said. “Import-export.” He had
smiled again, showing the white even teeth, dimpling the tiny scar.
“I import from Greece and Turkey. I do a little work, refine the
53


junk. I export to America. World trade, like they write about in
the papers.”
“Heroin,” Antony had said.
"Real high-type,” Lucca had said. “I give them the best." He
had leaned back suddenly, and clasped one knee with his hands,
raised the foot from the floor. The soft brown eyes had not left
Antony's face. “I'm in business, Joe. But I got a problem, like I
said. They don't know how to do things over here.” For a moment,
only a moment, there had been anger behind the smile. “They're
bushers. Remember what they used to say about the Yankees-
they thought it was wrong to lose? Over here they don't."
"So?” Antony had said.
"You want to hear me say it, that it? Okay. I got the business.
I got the organization. I need somebody sharp to run it. Somebody
who knows how. You. Like we did it in New York, Joe, same job
-thinking for me.” And there had been silence.
“I'm through, finished. I told you that.”
"Sure. I heard you.”
“The answer is no.”
“'Joe Antony is a good boy,'” Lucca had said. “The way I used
to laugh when I heard somebody say that my old man, maybe,
when somebody swiped some bananas. When you defended me,
remember? The old man said, 'Joe Antony is a good boy. If he
believes you did not kill this man—' In Italian, the way he talked,
slow, not loud. '—if Joe Antony believes you, then I will believe
you, too.'” He nodded. “We're right back there again, Joe. You'll
come along."
Sitting now in his library, thinking back over the scene, the
words, the expressions, the gestures all vivid and clear, Antony re-
membered his feeling had been that of looking into a mirror and
seeing a reflection of himself unlike anything he had ever seen
before; the difference subtle but overpowering, merely a line or two
changed and the entire image altered, sincerity become deceit by
the lift of an eyebrow, the curl of a lip.
“You'll come along, Joe,” Lucca had said again. “Same reason
you came over here to talk to me. We don't kid ourselves. You
54


Jenner's smile was gone. He looked uneasy. “That wasn't what
I meant.”
"Wasn't it?” Antony looked at the girl. “You're going out?" He
wondered whether this was what it was like having a daughter,
watching her, worrying about her, wanting to keep her close, safe,
even isolated, and knowing that you could not, knowing that there
was no such thing as safety, ever, realizing that the young were
so vulnerable.
"Pete's asked me to dinner.”
“That was nice of him," Antony said.
“But I thought that if you had made-plans—" She let the sen-
tence hang unfinished.
“No plans,” Antony said. She was young, and she was ashamed
of him, he made himself face this. He asked himself why she
should not be? But she was here and she was a guest and she was
determined not to flout hospitality; all of this was clear in her
manner. “It was considerate of you to think about it,” Antony
said. He saw the relief in her eyes. "Have a good time." And he
looked at Jenner again. "Take care of her.”
Jenner nodded. His smile was back, and his young assurance.
"With my life. I don't know the town, but the porter at my hotel
said the Hotel Apostle was a good place to eat?”
“I've heard that,” Antony said. He stood there and watched
them go out. He sat down in the leather chair again. He felt spent,
empty inside. Maybe what he had told Lucca was, after all, no
more than the truth. Maybe he was old, too old, and tired. And
Lucca was still youthful, strong, unchanged. But brains didn't wear
out from use, he told himself, and he was still what he was, Joe
Antony and all that the name Joe Antony meant. And Lucca was
still just—Lucca. I'll do his thinking for him, he thought with
sudden decision, and the lines of his face now were deep, harsh.
And he'll wish he'd never heard of me by the time I'm through.
He picked up the telephone and placed his call. It was answered
almost immediately by Lucca's voice, husky and a trifle breathless.
“Angelo,” Antony said.
"Oh, it's you.” The voice turned friendly. In the background
Antony could hear sounds, muffled, unclear, like a child whimper-
56


ing or an animal in pain. "I was just taking care of a little busi-
ness,” Lucca said. “What's on your mind, Joe?”
“I've been thinking," Antony said. Slowly, “You've convinced
me."
“That's my boy,” Lucca said. His voice seemed to smile. In the
background the sounds were fading. “You've made my day for me,
Joe. My troubles are over.”
Antony hung up. He leaned back in the chair. Lucca's troubles
were just beginning, he told himself. He had no plan, but this was
unimportant. He would play it by ear, make it up as he went
along; there would be opportunities. Of one thing he was certain:
by the time he was through, Lucca would be finished, destroyed.
Ricci left the car in front of Antony's house. He went in
through the big door, across the marble entrance hall. The door
to the library was ajar, and through it he could see Antony leaning
back in his chair, his eyes almost closed. Ricci went in. “Gino and
I are going out for a little while.” The coldness in his mind was
undiminished.
Antony's eyes studied him.
"Okay?” Ricci said. “Lucca wants us to take care of some-
thing for him.” Despite the coldness and the fury, he made himself
put it like this, play the part, stay in line as Lucca had said.
Antony nodded. Then, quietly, “You kind of like Belle, eh? I
thought you were a tough kid, traveling light.”
“Belle,” Ricci said, and that was all.
“Nice girl,” Antony said. “Not very bright, maybe, but a nice
girl.”
"You're dreaming,” Ricci said, "both of you—you and Lucca.”
He could see no sign of belief in Antony's face; there was nothing.
And, as that morning, he felt the prickling feeling up and down his
spine, into his scalp. Lucca was the strong one, but this one, An-
tony, was the one to fear. Ricci shrugged. “Ask her.”
Antony nodded again. “I think Lucca has or is.” He paused.
A small thing, he thought, but it was a beginning, a wedge between
this one and Lucca; jealousy was a potent force once it was set in
motion. He felt no scruples; in Lucca's world, no holds were
57


barred. “I just talked to him on the phone. He was asking her.”
“Let him,” Ricci said. He thought again of Belle, sitting on the
bed, sipping from his beer, smiling at him. She had known, he told
himself. She had seen Lucca's mood, as he, Ricci, had seen it after
Antony had gone, Lucca's anger scarcely controlled, his savagery,
from whatever cause, that would have to have an outlet. Belle
had understood what was coming once he, Ricci, was gone; and
she had sat there and sipped at his beer and smiled-
"You couldn't care less if he kicks her around,” Antony said.
“Is that it?”
“That's it.” He made himself say it flatly. Then ... “Gino and
I won't be long.”
Antony merely nodded, still settled back in his chair, expres-
sionless.
Ricci found Gino in the kitchen. He had a large plate of spa-
ghetti, and he was working on it with satisfaction. The maid,
Maria, was at the sink. “This,” Gino said, “is my friend Ricci. He
is from America, like the Signor Antony." His mouth was full of
spaghetti.
The girl turned. She smiled shyly at Ricci.
“He will want a glass of wine,” Gino said. He waved his fork.
“And, perhaps, food—”
“Big one,” Ricci said. "Come along. The food can wait.”
Gino sighed. He put down his fork. He finished the wine in his
glass. He stood up. To Maria he said, “Until later,” and he fol-
lowed Ricci out through the kitchen door. “She is friendly, that
one. And she is learning to cook well. And she is, as you said to
Lucca, plump like a pullet, not skinny like the American girl, like
Belle-
Ricci slammed the door of the car. Gino got in his own side.
“Have I made you angry?”
"No," Ricci said. The coldness was back again, fury controlled,
deep and solid. They drove down the hill in silence, turned toward
the city.
Gino said, "Where are we going?”
“To see a man.”
“Ah," Gino said.
58


“Pierre Leclerc,” Ricci said, and he turned his head to watch
Gino's face.
“He is a nice fellow,” Gino said. “A friend of Lucca's.”
“Not any more,” Ricci said.
There was silence.
“You understand, big one?” Ricci said. "He is to be taught a
lesson. We are to persuade him that he is not to talk, make
trouble.”
There was no hesitation. “We will teach him,” Gino said. “We
will teach him a good lesson, eh, Ricci?”
Now, Ricci told himself, he knew precisely how it felt to be sent
on an errand of violence, feeling anger, yes, but not against the
man you were going to harm; feeling the anger deep and explosive
but directed against the man who had sent you and against your-
self; and trying to channel this anger, this explosiveness, against a
man you scarcely knew, and finding that it would not, could not,
be channeled.
As he drove, conscious of Gino's relaxed presence, he wondered
whether Gino felt this revulsion, this feeling of shrinking back from
something unpleasant and he knew that Gino did not. Ricci drove
steadily, neither fast nor slow. The first lights of the city seemed
to approach quickly. It had to be done, he told himself; there was
no other way. No mistakes, Lucca had said, and there was an end
to it. And he tried to feel no pity for Pierre, who deserved, be-
yond any doubt, anything that might happen to him. Still, in his
mind, the revulsion, the shrinking feeling remained, even grew,
underlining his impotence.
He found a parking space across the street from the Hotel
Apostle. He got out, dropped the car keys in his pocket. “Come
on, big one,” he said. They started across the street.
The restaurant of the Hotel Apostle was not large; it
opened onto the lobby. There were potted plants against the walls,
and the drapes at the windows were heavy and dark, full length.
The menu was in both French and Italian, and the wine list was
long; a bus boy and a waiter hovered near the table. Jenner said, “I
59


was all right, that regulations were to be obeyed. Face it, she told
herself now; you were afraid to make a fuss; it was merely that;
you didn't want to be embarrassed there in front of the old woman.
“Something wrong?” Jenner said.
She made herself smile again. “What would be wrong?”
He shook his head. “You seem to drift off my wave length
sometimes.”
She smiled at that without effort. “Tell me about Johnny
Bellanca.”
“There's that change of pace again. Why, for the love of
heaven, Johnny Bellanca?”
“Didn't you come over here because of him?”
“That is correct."
“Where is he now? What's he doing?”
"I don't know,” Jenner said. “I've lost touch with him. He
could be anywhere.” He waved one hand again. "Forget him. Pay
attention to me, smile at me, hang on my words"
“Roll my eyes in adoration?”
"Exactly.”
"All right,” Tina said.
"I'll be witty."
“You do that.”
“Pick your subject.”
She began to smile again.
“Not Johnny Bellanca,” Jenner said quickly. “I don't want
competition, even from a man who isn't here."
It was then, looking idly through the lobby entrance, that she
saw Ricci, and Gino beside him. Ricci walked steadily. His face
wore a fixed expression, determined, somehow menacing. She
looked at Jenner, and saw that he, too, had seen and had, like
herself, looked quickly away. "Speak of the devil?” Tina said.
And for a moment, for only a moment, she saw agreement in
Jenner's face, quickly gone; the smile appeared in its place. “That
guy again,” Jenner said. “Every time I see him I think I'm look-
ing at--you-know-who.” He paused. “He's beginning to haunt
me.” He was silent, thinking, strangely enough, of Randall.
“You were going to be witty," Tina said.


The elevator was old-fashioned, of open grillwork; it
crept upwards within the helix of the stairs, seemed to pass each
floor reluctantly. Gino stood broad and solid, imperturbable; he
was humming softly to himself, Aïda this time, the Triumphal
March, taking his rhythm from the soft clank of the turning gear
wheel. Ricci stood by the gates, watching the floors as they dropped
past. He felt naked, exposed, as if a spotlight were shining on him
for the world to see.
There was no other way, he told himself, trying, even now, to
channel the cold anger in his mind. Lucca and Pierre, yes, and
Antony, too—there was nothing to choose among them; they
deserved no pity, no consideration, no mercy. You stepped on a
snake, or took a stick to it without compunction, and without
immediate cause, and you thought no more about it. And a part
of his mind examined the rationalization and rejected it contemptu-
ously. Pierre was a human being. He repeated in his mind, There is
no other way.
The elevator had stopped. The gates opened. Ricci, standing
there, was unaware. The elevator man said quietly, “The sixth
floor, signore.” Ricci looked at him, and nodded, and walked
out onto the carpeted floor. He glanced at the numbers on the
wall plaque: 613, the hotel manager had said, eager to please
those who came from Lucca, but fearful nonetheless. Ricci
turned left and walked down the corridor. Gino followed almost
at his elbow.
"Always you are thinking, Ricci.” It was not complaint; there
was even admiration in the slurred peasant voice. “Doesn't it tire
you?”
"Sometimes, big one.” The words came easily, too easily; and
he thought, I've played the part so long I'm beginning to live it,
beginning to sink down to their level. And then . . . No matter.
Get it over with. He raised his hand and knocked once on the
door, tried the ornate handle and found it unlocked, pushed it open,
walked in.
It was a large room, facing the street; two windows, heavily
curtained, reached almost to the floor. Pierre was there, tall, grace-
ful, his too long hair a trifle rumpled. He had been lying on the
62


bed, and he was getting up now, rousing himself, watching them,
smiling at them; he ran both hands over his ears, brushing the
hair back. A bottle of absinthe, a glass, and a water carafe stood
on the bedside table. “Ah." His smile was a trifle silly. “Lucca
has sent you with a-message for me.” He spoke in Italian, and he
straightened himself to his full height. “An apology, perhaps."
"Not exactly,” Ricci said. Then, “You're drunk.” Beside him,
Gino stood waiting, his legs widespread, firm.
“Drunk,” Pierre said. “It is an unpleasant word. I am ... re-
laxed. I was tired.” His smile was no longer silly; there was con-
tempt in it now. "I was working last night, I, Pierre Leclerc,
while others slept in their soft beds."
Gino shifted his weight, tensed himself. Ricci put out his hand,
and Gino was still again. “Meaning us?” Ricci said.
"You. And others. Down here in that hideous house of glass
and stone, that,”
“That isn't the way I heard it,” Ricci said.
“Ah!" He seemed to gather himself, force his eyes into sharp
focus, drive back the absinthe fuzziness. Only his words betrayed
him; it was as if he translated into Italian from French. “It is that
Lucca—Lucca has told you otherwise, eh? It is that Lucca has said
that all of the fault was mine? That it was I who locked the gaso-
line pump. That it was I who threw away the package into the sea.
That it was I who informed to the police, and not Walther—".
“Walther,” Ricci said quietly. So it had been Walther, who
came from Yorkville in Manhattan, who had been born in Sterzing,
now called Vipiteno; Walther who laughed and loved to ski, who
could dance Schuhplattle in a Yorkville beer hall, and sing German
Lieder, or argue with Ricci in his harsh northern Italian about
which of the two girls at the next table would smile at them first.
“Walther," he said again. “And so you killed him.” In his mind
there was sudden calm.
“Lucca even told you that,” Pierre said, and there was craftiness
now in his face. “But it was not I, do you comprehend? I was
there, while others were sleeping, but—"
"You just fingered him,” Ricci said. “Is that it?” Now, at last,
the fury could be channeled; now, at last, the revulsion was gone,
63


“I had sort of a Humphrey Bogart character in mind,” Jenner
said, “a Duke Mantee out of The Petrified Forest.”
“He isn't like that.” In this moment she remembered Antony
standing in the hall after the aunt had left them, watching her and
smiling that wry smile, saying that she would have questions, and
that he would answer them for her—not, he had added, that he
was looking forward to it. And she had felt something of his lone-
liness, then, seeing behind the smile, and the words.
“He doesn't even talk out of the corner of his mouth,” Jenner
said, “and he didn't point a gun at me when you led me in.”
She, too, could smile. “Should he have?”
“A shotgun, maybe,” Jenner said. “That's traditional. Young
man turns up after a sea voyage with daughter-” He stopped
there, watching her face. “What's doing?” He turned to follow her
eyes.
Ricci and Gino were walking out through the lobby. There was
a handkerchief in Ricci's hand. Even from here, Jenner could see
the red stain on the white material. He looked again at the girl.
“I think,” Tina said slowly, "that I want to go now. I-” She
hesitated. “Please.”
"I'll get the check,” Jenner said.
Pierre was on his feet. He swayed a little, steadied himself.
He walked to the dresser and bent to see his own reflection. Slowly
he raised both hands and brushed back the long hair. He straight-
ened, and stood for a moment, irresolute, afraid. The bottle of
absinthe and the glass were still on the table beside the bed. He
walked to them, poured out a drink, carried it into the bathroom
and added a little water. He drank the entire thing in one long
gulp, and he stood there for a time, looking at himself in the bath-
room mirror, feeling the warmth of the liquor spread through him
like new strength.
He was Pierre Leclerc. He repeated it, aloud this time, speaking
to his reflection as to a stranger, “You are Pierre Leclerc. You are
not-name of a pig, name of a cow!-a nobody to be used, and
thrown aside.” Then, imitating Ricci's voice, “ 'Remember this.'”
66


He nodded to himself. “I will remember. Never fear.” He turned
from the mirror and walked out into the larger room.
The absinthe had taken hold quickly. He could feel it, warm,
confident, flowing through his entire body. He was Pierre Leclerc.
He swayed a little, but the focus of his eyes was sharp and clear.
To try to silence him, like this-ah, that, no! They would have
done better to kill him, but they were weak, and he, Leclerc, was
not weak. He even smiled a little to himself, and he picked up the
bottle and poured himself only a small shot, took it neat; it burned
in his throat and in his chest.
He set the glass down, no longer indecisive, and walked to the
dresser, steadied himself against it with one hand, while with the
other he opened the small top drawer. The pistol was there, long-
barreled, deadly. He took it out, smiled at it. He walked a trifle
unsteadily to the windows, threw back the heavy curtains. The
window was open, and, leaning out, he could see the marquee of.
the hotel entrance, the street, and the single street light. And he
saw two men, one broad and solid, who rolled a little in his walk;
the other middle-sized, with short-cut hair, and a white handker-
chief pressed to his cheek.
He, Leclerc, had marked the American's face. So there would
be something to remember on both sides. There was small satisfac-
tion in that. He leaned far out of the window, raised the pistol,
steadied it, forced himself to wait for the two men to reach their
car, open their doors, stand poised in that moment, fully exposed
in the glare of the street light. The American's memory, he told
himself, would be short. And afterward—what did afterward mat-
ter? He felt tall and strong and confident, the absinthe like adrena-
line in his veins. He leaned out a little farther to make sure of his
aim.
The check came and Jenner looked at the total. “They put
a bar through the middle of a seven," he said, “and what they do
to a nine and a five shouldn't happen. Not to me, anyway." He
was just talking, trying to recapture the lightness that had been
between them before Johnny-before Ricci—had walked out with
the red handkerchief held to his face.
67


Call.
Tina had her gloves on. She held her purse in both hands, and
she waited, as patiently as she could, while he put bills on the
check, smiled at the waiter. “Now,” Jenner said. He pushed back
his chair.
“Pete.” Slowly, “I'm sorry, Pete."
He smiled down at her. “A thing of no importance. It's been a
long day. You're tired.”
“Thanks.” She stood up. “It isn't just that I'm tired.”
“I know.”
She hesitated. “Am I being silly?"
“Who knows?”
“He . . . lives at the house. He works for my ... father. He
came here, you saw him, the way he looked, and the other one,
the big one with him. There was blood on his handkerchief when
he came out-"
“Ran into a door,” Jenner said. "Nobody ever believes it when
it happens. People always want to believe”
“Pete.”
He was silent for a moment. Then, “Offhand, I'd say he'd been
in a fight. He had the look of it. I could be all wrong."
The girl said, “Would Johnny Bellanca get in fights?"
He was grinning now, looking down at her from his height.
“Hypothetical question, of course."
She waited, silent.
“About Johnny,” Jenner said, “the answer is yes. Or, at least,
it used to be yes. He didn't-compromise much-” He stopped
there.
There was a policeman standing at the entrance to the restau-
rant. There was another policeman behind him. And there were
voices in the lobby, raised, excited, speaking rapid Italian.
"I guess,” Jenner said, “that we'd better sit down again. It
doesn't look as if we're supposed to leave right now.”
Tina had left his side. She walked to the doorway. She spoke to
the policeman, who made a small bow, and listened politely, and
then, with his shoulders and his hands and his mobile face ex-
pressed regret, but firmness. Tina came back to the table. She sat
68


down. “There's been an accident. That's all he would tell me. They
want to ask us some questions.”
Jenner was silent.
Tina watched him. Then she watched the doorway, and after a
little time a man came through, another policeman, with authority
in his face and manner. “It is regrettable,” he said in English. Then
... “You are American, no?”.
“Yes,” Jenner said. He reached inside his coat, took out his
passport. The policeman took it and studied it briefly. He nodded,
smiled, looked at Tina.
“And you, signorina?”
“I'm American, too.”
He looked at her purse in question.
"My passport,” she said, “is at my father's house. I'm sorry.”
"Your father.” His voice was polite, and the words held no
inflection.
"His name,” Tina said, “is Antony.” She paused. “Joe Antony."
“Ah, yes. Of course. I do not know him personally.” He paused.
“But I know of him.”
“Yes,” Tina said, and that was all. She sat straight, her shoul-
ders squared, waiting.
“You have dined here,” the policeman said. “At this table. Did
you, perhaps, see anyone pass through the lobby? Two men? One
of them with a handkerchief held to his cheek?” He looked at both
of them, and at neither; his eyes seemed to rest between them.
Tina opened her mouth. Jenner's foot touched hers beneath the
table. “I saw-no one,” Tina said. “We were dining, talking."
“I didn't see anybody, either,” Jenner said. “What's it all about?”
"There has been an accident," the policeman said, and his face
showed neither belief nor skepticism; he smiled at them both.
“Nothing, I think, to concern you."
The road was quite dark. Ricci drove slowly, feeling now
the reaction, the controlled fury dissipated; feeling the tension, as
familiar now as the sound of his own name, beginning again to
build in his mind.
Lucca had ordered, and Lucca's order had been carried out-
69


I've done what—he told me to do.” Then, “It wasn't Pierre who
killed Walther. But he figured it out, and put the finger on him.
Somebody else did it.” He waited. There was no reply. “You heard
me?”
"I heard you. We won't pick him up, you know. It wouldn't do
much good.”
“I don't get it,” Ricci said slowly.
“Don't you? He's dead, of course. A man usually is when he
falls six floors and lands on pavement. He had a gun, was that it?”
"He-can't be,” Ricci said. "He was sitting there” He stopped.
“No gun.” There was silence again; it grew, stretched; he forced
himself to wait.
“There was one when they got to him,” Randall said. “He
must have had it in his hand when he fell-or was pushed.”
“I didn't—" he began, and there he stopped. Gino was coming
in through the door, smiling, showing his large yellow teeth.
“Later,” Ricci said. He hung up.
Gino said, “I am thirsty, Ricci. And you must be thirsty, too.
We will have a glass of wine, eh?” The smile spread. "It was a
good lesson, Ricci. Lucca will be pleased."
Ricci said nothing.
“You,” Gino said, “to envy me. This I do not understand.” He
was shaking his head as he walked up to the bar, hammered on
it with one great hand. “Wine,” he said. “My friend and we
are thirsty."
Sitting in the large room with a cup of coffee at his elbow,
thick coffee almost syrupy with cream and sugar, Lucca listened to
the hotel manager's voice on the telephone. "It is terrible. I did not
dream when I told them which room_"
“Okay,” Lucca said. “Relax." He was silent for a few moments.
“They came out through the lobby?”
"I have told you—"
“I said relax.” And then, “Was he there, on the sidewalk, when
they came out?"
“I do not know.”
71


“Think,” Lucca said. “Would you have seen him when they
opened the door?”
“I cannot say."
“Who saw them?” Lucca said.
“Many people. The elevator operator, the porter at his desk,
two Americans who were in the restaurant-"
“All right,” Lucca said. “Then who told the police about them?"
“It was a woman who was on the street. She saw them. She saw
him_”
“She saw him fall?”
"I do not know. She came into the lobby, running, hysterical"
"And you called the cops,” Lucca said.
“There was nothing else to do. A man, a guest in my hotel-
there were other people on the street. They gathered quickly—"
“But they, Ricci and Gino, had gone?”
“Yes."
Lucca was silent. He looked down at his coffee.
The manager said, "It was only the woman who told the police
that they had been here. None of my people remembered anything.
But the police went to his room, and it was plain that there had
been a—disturbance. The water carafe on the floor, a picture
broken on the wall—”
Lucca said, “He'd been drinking?”
"He had sent down for a bottle of absinthe. It was there, beside
the bed.”
“So he was drunk,” Lucca said. “He was having himself a ball."
"Please?”
“Having a party, all by himself, getting liquored up. He knocked
over the carafe, broke the picture, stumbled around playing with
the gun and fell out of the window. Nobody touched him. Nobody
went near him.” He paused. “Maybe somebody, in the next room,
or the room below, heard him making noise the way a drunk does."
"I do not think that anyone"
"Find somebody,” Lucca said.
There was silence. Then, “I will try.” Hopefully ... "Perhaps
the porter will remember a telephone call of complaint about the
noise?”
72


"Don't get too fancy.” He paused, thinking. “I'm not through
yet. Where is the woman who came in from the street?”
"I do not know. She left with the police.”
Lucca stared at his coffee again. “She saw them. Your people
saw them. Who else?”
"Only the two Americans who were dining, and they said that
they did not see.”
“But you think they did?”
“How can I say? From their table, there is a clear view of the
lobby. It is possible that they did not see the two men come in
one does not notice everything. But when they went out—a man
with a handkerchief pressed to his cheek one would notice, I think.
But they said they had seen nothing."
“Maybe,” Lucca said. He was, in some ways, like an animal,
with an animal's shrewdness and wariness. “Who were they? Just
tourists?”
“The girl is the daughter of Joe Antony—"
“So,” Lucca said.
"And the man, I do not know. An American, he showed to the
police his passport.”
“So,” Lucca said again. If the girl had seen Ricci, she would
have recognized him. Would she then have kept silent? He didn't
know. And the man? "Find out who he is,” he said.
"But,” the manager said, “but how? Americans—there are many,
they come and they go.”
“How did they leave?” Lucca said. “Taxi? He had a car?”
Always you had to spell it out every step of the way, draw pictures,
and even then these people couldn't always get it straight.
"A taxi,” the manager said.
"Then you can find out. Ask the taxi driver, not where he took
the girl—I know where Antony lives. Find out where he took the
man after they dropped the girl—what hotel, or house, or apart-
ment. Can you understand that?”
"I will try.”
"Don't try. Do it. Call me when you know his name and where
he's staying.”
He hung up and leaned back in the curved chair. Every step of
73


the way, he thought. It was like pulling teeth. Nobody over here,
but nobody, could figure things out for himself, or do them without
falling over his own feet.
He made himself relax. He sipped the coffee. All right. Joe was
here now, and this was the kind of thing Joe could handle, and
Joe had damn well better handle it, keep his daughter quiet, talk
to the man, keep Ricci out of the way for a while with his banged-
up face. Ricci—maybe Ricci had better be kept out of the way for
good; marked up as he was, the woman the police had taken might
recognize him, and whether he'd been in the room when Leclerc
had gone out of the window, or been downstairs, it made no differ-
ence, because once the police placed him definitely at the hotel
they would tie him to Leclerc anyway, as a starting place -
Again he made himself relax. Let Joe figure it out; his faith in
Antony's ability to figure angles was deep and solid. Joe would
know who the man was, anyway; the girl could tell him that if he
didn't know already.
He picked up the cup once more, finished the coffee. It was Joe's
baby. And Joe had better handle it right. He felt better. He got out
of his chair. In the morning he'd plug Joe in. Right now he had
had about all he wanted to take for the day. He looked at the
stairs, and thought of Belle.
He hadn't hurt her much, just pushed her around some so she
wouldn't get ideas; she'd deserved it after that crack about being
American and having a passport. He thought of her now as she
had been when Antony had telephoned—in those pants that fitted
her like skin, that blouse with nothing under it but Belle; he could
see her, plain as a moving picture in his mind. He told himself
again that he'd had enough trouble for one day. Right now what
he needed was relaxation. He walked up the stairs.
It was morning, bright and clear, a Mediterranean day.
Ricci ate his breakfast—a roll and coffee in the kitchen with
Gino, sitting at the wood table while Maria served them.
His cheek was sore, but this was nothing. The trouble, he told
himself, was not on his face but in his mind. I killed him, just as
surely as if I had pushed him out of the window myself. There was
74


no other explanation; he had been over it and over it during the
night, lying awake and listening to Gino's snores, and he had fitted
the bits and pieces together until he knew, as surely as if he had
remained in the hotel room, how it had happened, and why. An-
other drink of absinthe for Pierre, to steady him; and then the gun,
first in his mind, and then in his hand; and the low window look-
ing down on the street, and the idea of revenge, simple and direct,
driving out all other considerations; this was the way it had hap-
pened, it had to be. I killed him, just like that.
He walked outside into the warm sun. Gino followed, sucking
placidly through his large teeth. “He will remember you this morn-
ing, that one,” Gino said. “Eh, Ricci? He will not feel good.”
“Big one,” Ricci said slowly, patiently, "sit here, in the sun. I
have some thinking to do.” And he waited for no answer as he
walked off, his hands deep in his pockets.
Working a man over was one thing; Pierre would not have gone
to the police with a complaint, never to the police. But death was
something else again, and he made himself think about the fact of
death.
The police would be involved. I opened the door, he thought;
I touched the door handle on both sides with bare hands. He tried
to remember exactly what the door handles were like, carved and
fancy, ornate; he concentrated on this, and satisfied himself that
no fingerprints would show.
But had he touched anything else? Or had Gino? He couldn't be
sure. Careless again, he told himself as he walked. And always,
underlying everything, the guilty thought remained, I killed him.
It was in the rose garden again, as yesterday, that Tina found
him. She had been watching for him, staying in her room until he
appeared, unwilling to face Antony first. She was not sure why she
had remained silent last night when the policeman had talked to
her; she remembered Jenner's foot touching hers, but that alone
would not have done it. In the taxi, all the way out from the city,
she and Jenner had avoided the subject. Now, coming up behind
Ricci, she said without preamble, "How does your face feel this
morning?” And, “How do you feel?”
75


He turned at the sound of her voice, the outward calm firmly in
place. “Good morning.”
“I saw you last night,” she said, and she told him where, and
how.
He listened quietly. Who else had seen him?
“And when we were ready to leave, the police were there. There
had been an accident, they said.”
“We?”
“Pete and I.”
“Pete.” He said it tonelessly. He disliked this. Jenner had found
her then; being Jenner, he would continue to see her, and him.
“Who is Pete?”
She ignored it. “There was a man, dead, on the sidewalk. The
police said that he had fallen, or been pushed, from a window.
There was a gun beside him, but it had not been fired.”
He wasn't supposed to know, he reminded himself; he was sup-
posed to be as ignorant as Gino. He raised his eyebrows. “What
man? And why tell me?” He studied her for a moment or two
before he let understanding show in his face. “Oh.” He made him-
self smile faintly. “I was there, and I have this” He touched the
bruise on his cheek. “—and therefore I pushed somebody out of
a window. Is that it?”
There were two small spots of color high in her cheeks. “Do I
amuse you?”
They were silent, looking at one another.
“The police asked me if I had seen you—a man with a hand-
kerchief held to his face.” She paused. “I told them I had seen
nothing. I don't know why. Pete told them the same thing."
"I see.” He did not see. Pete's silence, yes; this he could under-
stand if Randall had found him and spoken to him. But the girl,
feeling no loyalty toward Antony or himself, a stranger in a strange
land, alone, not involved. Why should she have tried to shield
him? He asked the question aloud.
"I told you. I don't know. It-didn't make any difference
whether I'd seen you or not. There were other people, there must
have been, people who work for the hotel — "She paused.
"Let George do it, you mean?” Ricci said. “Don't get mixed up
76


in it yourself? If there's an auto accident, don't stop, just ignore
it?” This was not the reason, and he knew it was not, but he let
it stand as a lever to pry out the real motive because, he told
himself, he had to know.
She was angry, at him and at herself. She said, “All right. I did
it because you work for him.” She nodded toward the house.
"I don't think he even knew I was there,” Ricci said.
"And why should I believe that?"
“No reason.” He said, “For the record, I didn't push anybody
out of a window. I went there to talk to a man. I talked to him,
and then I left.” He smiled, feeling not at all like smiling. “The
man I talked to, if it was the same man you're talking about, was
sitting in his room when I left him.”
"You just-talked to him," Tina said. “It was a word he used
that hit you in the face like that?”
She was direct, he thought, as he had thought before, and bright,
and she kept her mind on what she wanted to know; and if she
was afraid, here, alone, mixed up in something she didn't under-
stand, nothing of the fear showed. “It was a very forceful word,”
he said gravely. Then he smiled. “I tripped and fell, coming out of
the elevator. That's how this happened. I was clumsy."
"Johnny Bellanca,” she said, "that's why Pete told the police he
hadn't seen you.” Her eyes watched him steadily.
He shrugged. "I can't convince you. I don't know the guy."
She said slowly, as if he had not spoken, “Maybe that's why
I said I didn't see you, either.”
"I give up."
"All right,” she said. “Shall I tell them, then? The police, I
mean?”
“They'll want to know why you didn't tell them last night.”
"I'll take that chance."
He didn't feel at all like smiling, he told himself, and yet the
smile appeared and he could do nothing to stop it. “You would,
too, wouldn't you? You've got your back up-sparks shooting out
of your eyes, the bit in your teeth—"
"Flattering, aren't you?”
"I meant to be.” No more than simple truth.
77


"I can imagine. You haven't answered my question.”
“You're like a terrier,” Ricci said, still smiling. “You get your
teeth in something, and you won't let go.”
“Have you any other animals I remind you of?”
He was silent a moment, studying her. “You're quite a ...
female."
“That's an answer?”
“No,” he said. Then, “I can't stop you if you want to go to
the police.” Careless, he told himself, and clumsy, and in a posi-
tion now where he was damned if he talked to her and damned if
he didn't, because she was Antony's daughter and Antony was the
one to fear. And again the guilty knowledge returned, coloring all
of his thoughts, I killed him. I told myself, convinced myself that
what I did to him was done in anger, and by that much it was jus-
tified, but it wasn't true. I climbed down in the gutter with them,
Lucca and Antony and the rest; I'm not any better than they are.
I killed him.
The girl's eyes had lost some of their bright anger. She said,
“You told me that when you left the man, the one you talked to,
he was sitting in his room. Is that true?” And she made a small
quick movement with one hand. “Don't tell me I'm quite a female.
Just answer me.”
Ricci nodded slowly. “True,” he said.
She was silent. She looked away.
"I can think it, can't I?” Ricci said gently.
“Think what?” She watched him again.
“That you're quite a female."
"I—" she began, and the anger appeared once more. Then it
seemed to fade. “I can't stop you from thinking whatever you
want.” She paused. “Any more than you can stop me from going to
the police if that's what I decide to do.” She turned away, and
started back for the house.
Ricci said, “I guess that's what you'd call a stand-off.”
She gave no sign that she had heard.
Antony sent for Ricci shortly after nine o'clock. He was
at the large desk, neat and quiet, nothing in his face or his eyes.
78


more complicated than that, and she had never thought of herself
as complicated.
She wasn't much; nobody'd get an argument if he said that, or
thought it. She was Belle Larson, born Bertha Larson, and she
could sing a little and dance a little, and people, men particularly,
liked to look at her, and that was about it. She had heard, and
read, about women who were called inspirations to their men, who
helped them in their jobs, who shared their triumphs and their set-
backs—and she wasn't sure whether she believed that or not; she
supposed it could be so, but she didn't pretend to understand it.
What she had she gave freely and without any idea of uplift-com-
panionship, affection, a few laughs, the basic things between a man
and a woman; this was the way it had always been, and had she
short-changed anybody? Until yesterday, and last night.
Yesterday had been bad. The marks from yesterday's kicking-
around, not the outward marks on her skin, her body, but the
other, deeper marks, these remained and would not disappear ...
ever. Her anger was undiminished; the sense of shame, the resent-
ment, strong and vindictive; the determination to do hurt in return
for hurt to prove that she was not a nothing, that she was some-
body the way everybody was somebody.
But now, shatteringly, she was not at all sure that she was—any-
thing. Not after last night, which had been worse, far worse than
a mere beating. After last night she could no longer look at herself,
or even think of herself, with any kind of pride. Women who mar-
ried detesting their men, and she had known some, wanting from
them only money, or name, or position, living a lie and not mind-
ing it at all—toward these women she had never felt anything but
contempt. And contempt meant that you put yourself above some-
body, and she always had until last night. Now, facing it, she told
herself that she wasn't above anybody; she was right down in the
gutter, looking up at the world, and for the first time that she could
remember she felt soiled. Belle, Bertha Larson, how do you like
it? she asked herself.
Her door was open, and she could hear the sounds of voices,
Lucca's and Antony's, coming faintly up the stairs. She didn't know
what they were talking about; she didn't care; what they said to
83


one another came under the heading of their own business or, it
always had. She sat where she was, alternately puffing at the ciga-
rette and flicking its ashes on the floor at her feet. Then she heard
Lucca's voice, raised suddenly in an almost angry question, “Ricci?
That who you mean?” And Antony's reply was too quiet for Belle
to hear.
Still she sat. You didn't peek or pry; you kept your nose clean.
This was as much a part of her code as her pride in free-giving
was. Or had been. Listening now, no longer passively hearing, she
told herself that she didn't like people who sneaked any more than
she liked women who lived lies, but the old standards seemed to
have lost their clarity.
She stood up slowly. She put the cigarette out in the ashtray,
delaying, giving the voices a chance to stop. But they continued,
Antony's low-pitched, detached, calm, Lucca's argumentative, un-
convinced. In her mind she told the voices to stop. But they did
not stop. She let the scruples go; everything, but everything, was
changed, she thought, and all because of yesterday and last night.
She crossed the room quietly, went out into the hall, stood silent
at the head of the stairs.
"I told him," Lucca was saying, “that I didn't want any mis-
takes. Okay. Maybe it wasn't his fault. It's never anybody's fault.
But things don't get done right. He's marked up. He's hot.”
“You told me," Antony said in the calm, detached voice, “that
you wanted me to do your thinking for you.” Always Antony, and
only Antony, could talk like this to Lucca. Antony was, in a way,
like a judge, or one of the priests Lucca knew, distant and calm,
not like ordinary men.
Lucca said, “You been wrong before. You're wrong now. They'll
pick him up "
“They won't pick him up,” Antony said, “because he won't be
here. I'll take care of it. Tonight.”
And Belle, listening, thought of Ricci, and of Lucca, and of her-
self. She felt fear; its taste was strong and bitter. So, all right, she
told herself; you're afraid. Everything, but everything, was changed
since yesterday, and last night.
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The aunt, Luisa, stood just inside the door of Tina's room,
tall, thin, unyielding. She said in slow Italian, “The American is
here, downstairs."
“Pete?” Tina said. She stood up, smiling, friendly. “Thank you."
The old woman's nod was faint, mere acknowledgment. She
turned away.
"Please,” Tina said. When the aunt had stopped and turned back
into the room, "Have I done anything?”
The old woman was silent.
"If I have offended you,” Tina said, “I am sorry." Choosing
the words carefully in the unfamiliar tongue, conscious of their
stiffness and inadequacy. "If I have made a mistake, because of
ignorance-” It was like talking to a wall or a statue. “Please," she
said. “You dislike me. Why? Is it because I am American? Is it
because he is my father? Can I be blamed for that? Or is it some-
thing else?”
“Why was your passport taken?” the old woman said.
“I do not know.”
"They were not policemen.” The old woman's lips were pressed
thin, disapproving.
"I didn't know. I could not be sure.”
"You doubted them?” The old woman paused. “And yet you
gave them what they asked for.”
“You were there,” Tina said.
The old woman's head moved in the faintest of nods. “But I
did not know then who had sent them."
Tina's eyes opened wide.
“They were sent,” the old woman said, “by Angelo Lucca.” She
almost spat the name. “Like Giovanni, he is one whom America
sent away.”
"I—” Tina began. She shook her head, disbelieving.
The old woman's faint smile was pure malice. “The large man,
who is called Gino, was also sent by Angelo Lucca. He is stupid.
He saw the two men who pretended to be policemen and recog-
nized them. I asked him, and he told me.”
“Then the other,” Tina said, “Ricci—"
"He, too,” the aunt said. “You should have stayed in America.”
85


There was determination in the girl's face. “My passport was
taken. You knew that?”.
His smile disappeared. “I didn't know.”
She took her time, standing there, trying to judge him. “I see.”
She turned away, closed the door, walked purposefully to the stairs
and down.
“You hardly kept me waiting at all,” Jenner said. “It was no
test."
Tina said slowly, “Yesterday you asked the porter at your hotel
to find out where I lived.”
“That change of pace,” Jenner said. “Yes.”
“Can we go there, to your hotel? I want to find out where some-
body else lives.” She paused. “His name is Lucca, Angelo Lucca.
I want to go see him.”
Ricci sat down again by the window after the girl had
gone. He thought about her passport briefly. Lucca had taken it,
probably for reasons of his own. And the girl knew about Lucca.
No matter. He had enough worries of his own. Waiting—he dis-
liked waiting; and yet waiting was a major part of his job, and he
had, actually, done little more than wait for over a year. But not
like this, sitting at a window watching for Antony's car to return.
This was different, much different. This was the kind of waiting
that wore a man down.
Because of a mistake-his own fault or not it made no differ-
ence—he was now in the same position Leclerc had been in yester-
day. And Leclerc was dead. It was possible that he was killing
himself by sitting here, waiting.
Nothing prevented his going downstairs and walking out of the
house, driving into the city, to Randall, to safety, now, before
Antony came back. Maybe Antony would be alone and maybe not
alone; maybe he would return with his mind already made up, and
Lucca's, decided that there was, after all, only one way to keep a
man quiet, for good, and the sooner it was done the better. Maybe
this, and maybe that.
He saw Tina and Jenner come out of the house and get into the
taxi that had been waiting, drive off down the hill. Antony's daugh-
88


ter. Which was a funny thing, a man like Antony having a daugh-
ter like that. And Pete Jenner had not changed a bit in these last
few years; he was still a nice guy, with charm and no seriousness;
irresponsible, or he wouldn't have come out here. Randall must
have told him enough to let him see that it wasn't a friendly game
Johnny Bellanca, now known as Ricci, was playing.
Randall. Ricci knew, could see in his mind, how Randall would
look, sitting at his desk in the small office, waiting, always waiting
and never letting the waiting bother him, the blue eyes calm, the
heavy hands with their fine reddish hairs immobile, controlled. And
there would be no censure in Randall's eyes if he, Ricci, were to
walk into the office now; he would understand; he had said to be
careful, hadn't he? And a year was a long time, a year of tension;
maybe a year was too long.
He stood up suddenly, walked across the room and back. Lucca
didn't like him, he told himself; because of Belle, Lucca didn't like
him worth a damn, and so, in a sense, the year was wasted any-
way. Particularly after last night. Lucca wouldn't trust him again;
and for all this time he had played his part, run small errands,
kept himself in line, done what he was told to do, when he was
told to do it in order to win only one thing—Lucca's trust. So what
did he accomplish now by waiting? What use was a dead hero?
Face it, he told himself. You can do one of two things: wait it
out, or run. Just make up your mind.
The water of the bay was bright and sparkling beyond the slop-
ing hill and the lemon trees; the sky was blue. Out there in the
city people were doing a multitude of things, for a multitude of
reasons.
Nobody had to do anything, he told himself. People said they
did, but it wasn't true. People said they were forced, but they
weren't, except by themselves. You did something because you
would rather do it than accept the alternative; it was as simple as
that. You chose one action because it was less distasteful than the
consequence of not doing it. You waited, for example, because you
would rather do that than run. That was all there was to it.
He wondered whether he would remember this later, after the
waiting was done, and he decided that it was unimportant whether
89


you. Maybe he'll shoot me first.” Tina's smile and the touch of
her hand on his arm, he told himself, made it all worth while.
There was a maid. Tina spoke to her in Italian, listened to her
answer. The maid held the door. Tina said, “Mr. Lucca isn't here.
But his wife is.”
They crossed the large living room, following the maid. Beyond
the glass wall the pool and the terrace were plain. Belle was there,
lying in the sun. Jenner said, “Um, his wife?” He hesitated. “Maybe
we'd better—" But Tina did not pause.
Belle sat up as they came out on the terrace. She wore one of
her Bikinis, two tiny wisps of fabric scarcely concealing anything
and she saw, with a small flicker of resentment, the disapproval in
the girl's eyes; she saw, too, what was in the man's mind, not dis-
approval, as plainly as if it were printed on his forehead. She made
no move to rise, merely sat there, outwardly calm. Her mind was
not at rest, merely quiescent, the sense of fear temporarily sus-
pended. Until tonight, she had told herself, there was nothing to
do but wait, and behave normally for Lucca's benefit-or try.
“My name” Tina began. She stopped there. “My father is Joe
Antony.” She felt at a disadvantage. This was a beautiful woman,
no older than herself; and the body that she flaunted was slender,
but full and rounded, lovely, well worth exposing with pride—but,
really! It was not prudishness that she felt, not outraged innocence,
she told herself; it was closer to jealousy. Which was ridiculous.
And it was as if the calm eyes, unabashed, looked into her mind
and read her thoughts and found them amusing. Which was unfair.
"I didn't know Joe had a daughter,” Belle said. She looked at
Jenner.
“I'm just a friend,” Jenner said.
Tina said, “Mr. Lucca—"
"He isn't here."
"I know,” Tina said. She thought, We look at each other this
way, like two strange cats, because there's a man present—as sim-
ple as that, as basic. “I came for my passport,” she said bluntly,
almost angrily.
Belle shook her head faintly. “Come again?” She watched only
91


the road atlas. So now he was committed, he thought, and he
wasn't sure whether he was glad or sorry, whether he had been
smart or stupid. All he knew was that he had done what he had to
do, and that was that.
Jenner had called him a philosopher; he remembered this now
for no real reason. He wasn't a philosopher, that was the wrong
word. But sometimes he did tend to see things in broad outline;
by some obscure mental process adding together the small acts and
events and motives, and seeing them all as part of a whole, a com-
bination of forces, seeing, even, the eventual, and final, results.
Like now.
From the beginning there had been a sort of inexorability to
everything that had happened. The beginning had not been yester-
day morning, but a long time ago, years ago; the real beginning
had been down in the street where he and Lucca had lived as kids,
where Lucca's old man had kept the pushcart and, later, the
grocery store, where his own father had mended shoes. He and
Lucca, right from the start; this was where the pattern had begun;
and everything that had happened since had been inevitable, right
down to joining Lucca again. He had thought that he was going
into it with his eyes open. So he had been wrong. He wondered
whether he was wrong again now. It was too early to tell. Lucca
was the imponderable.
He didn't underestimate Lucca. He knew him thoroughly, and
he respected him. No, respect was not the word; what he felt
toward Lucca was what he had felt once standing outside the bars
of a tiger's cage and imagining the animal in its own habitat, gov-
erned entirely by its cravings of hunger, thirst, sexual desire, dis-
comfort of heat or cold, magnificently competent to take what it
wanted, without scruples to hinder or even to give it pause, strong
enough to kill anything that could catch it, cunning enough to
avoid what it could not kill. This was Lucca, and there was no one
word to describe him in Antony's mind.
And yet, as part of the pattern, as a result of the combination
of forces, he, Antony, had chosen defiance, not open but all the
more dangerous for being concealed. He refused to examine his
motives for the choice; maybe they were sound, maybe unsound,
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“If it's that simple,” Lucca had said, “why not keep him here?”
Patiently: “The woman saw him. And she saw Gino. Keep all
three of them in the same town and you're asking for trouble.
Sooner or later they'll run into each other."
"All the answers,” Lucca had said. “Like a quiz kid." Then, in
sudden anger, “Okay. Take care of it any way you want. That's
what I've got you for, isn't it?”
“That's the way I heard it,” Antony had said quietly, allowing
no triumph to show.
“So okay. But this time I don't want any mistakes.”
“There won't be any."
Thinking of this now, remembering this now, Antony hoped he
had been right. There were risks, of course, but he thought that
they were not insurmountable. Ricci' was a smart boy. He hadn't
been very smart last night, but maybe he'd learned something from
that. He wouldn't want to be picked up by the police, and with
any luck he would not be.
But if they did pick him up then he, Antony, was gambling.
If Ricci was only what he appeared to be, it would be bad if the
police got him. If he wasn't, if his name was Bellanca and he was
over here working for Lucca for a purpose, then he would have
connections; and the local police would talk to Ricci and his
connections, and they would believe what they were told—that
Leclerc had fallen all by himself, and then the police would turn
Ricci loose, and Lucca would never know.
So it was a gamble, but it was a good gamble, Antony thought;
and nothing in life was a sure thing. And once Ricci was in Genoa,
in the middle, as Lucca had said, then he, Antony, could see to it
that Ricci learned everything: where the junk came from, how and
where it was landed, how it went, step by step across Europe and,
finally, to the States ... how and where and when and by whom.
As soon as I find out myself, Antony thought, he'll find out, too.
But it would have to be carefully done, and this was a bitter
concept.
He, Antony, could see both sides of a problem; this was, had
always been, both his strength and his weakness. Strength, because
the ability to put yourself in another man's place let you under-
99


stand how he would think, react to a given situation, and you
could, therefore, plan accordingly. Weakness, because the under-
standing of both sides tended to rob you of the singleness of
purpose, even the blindness, that was necessary to carry out any
plan. A Lucca acted without thinking; he, Antony, thought-and
could not, then, act without hesitation.
And in this ability to see and understand both sides, lay the
bitterness. I have to outsmart the kid; even if he is what I think
he is and we're working for the same goal, I have to outsmart him,
make him think he's outsmarting me, because otherwise he
wouldn't believe anything I told him. To him I'm Joe Antony, only
that.
He sat quietly at the desk, and the bitterness was strong. This
was the way Tina saw him, too: Joe Antony, a face and a name
out of a newspaper column, a public enemy, deported for cause.
You're the brain, he told himself; let's see you figure out how to
change this.
A man was what he had made himself, and there was no chang-
ing. The pattern of each life continued, repeated itself, because
the combinations of forces were always the same. Sometimes a
man struggled, tried to break the pattern, even convinced himself
that he had changed—but it was nonsense, really. He saw this
now with sudden clarity. I won't break out. With luck, he might
accomplish what he wanted to accomplish-Lucca's destruction.
But he would never break out into the life he had thought he had,
only yesterday, sitting here in the library, looking out of the win-
dow and seeing the white ship in the bay—before Ricci and Gino
appeared. That life wasn't for him, ever.
And in this moment, sitting there, it was as if he could see
ahead, read what was already written in the big book-Lucca's
destruction, and his own, too. He faced it quietly, objectively,
feeling no particular fear, merely a regret that that was the way
it had to be, because that was the way it was.
.
It was dark. The big car, Antony's, drove without haste,
skirting the city, Luigi silent at the wheel. Antony sat on the right
side of the rear seat; Ricci on the left, the bandage on his face
100


toward the inside. “Sure you're getting a break,” Antony said.
And this, too, he could see, and understand-Ricci's skepticism,
even his anticipation of a trap. “You're getting it because, like I
told you, I don't do things the hard way when I can help it. Lucca
tried it the hard way last night, and look what happened.”
Ricci tried to weigh the reasoning. But the doubts remained.
He said nothing. There had been no chance to leave the house, get
to a telephone, call Randall. There was nothing that Randall could
do, it wasn't that; he, Ricci, had made his own decision to take
his chances, play his part until he could be sure one way or an-
other, and if, when he found out what Antony really intended, it
was too late, why, that would be too bad. But he would have felt
better if he had been able to let Randall know what he was up to.
Antony said, “Napoleon is supposed to have said that he didn't
want good generals, only lucky ones. You weren't lucky last night.
You weren't very good, either. Maybe you learned something. Do
it the way I told you, take the roads I told you to take, don't drive
so you'll attract attention, not too slow and not too fast, and I
think you'll be all right.”
“The main roads," Ricci said.
“Why not? You go off on a side road, try to get smart, and
you'll wind up dodging donkey carts, the only automobile for
miles around. Every village cop will take a good look at you just
to make himself feel important."
“I hear,” Ricci said.
From the front seat Luigi said, in Italian, without turning his
head, “We are being followed, signor."
“So,” Antony said. There was no change in his voice, in his
manner. And then, “Continue. No faster.” And, in English again,
to Ricci, “You were at the house all day. Any cops?”
"I didn't see any."
Antony repeated the question in Italian to Luigi. “No, signor.
I think I would have seen, if they were watching the house. We
were not followed when we drove to the house of Signor Lucca, nor
on the road back.”
"How long has this car been behind us?”
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slowing. He allowed himself to look. The car reached the next
corner, slowed, seemed to hesitate, and then turned left and dis-
appeared. Antony's car was nowhere in sight.
And then, lying there, he could breathe again, great gasps of
cool night air. Slowly he got to his knees, stood up. His legs were
trembling. He brushed himself off, picked up the suitcase, started
to walk.
Antony still had the gun in his hand. He pushed it down
behind the seat cushion out of sight. He sat quietly, his face com-
posed. “The car has followed?”
"Si, signor.” Then ... “No. It has stopped. It is turning now."
“Turning around?”
“No, signor. It has turned at the last street. Toward the garage."
There was nothing he could do, Antony told himself. Ricci was
on his own. If they, the police, somebody—if they were waiting
for him, they were waiting for him, and that was that. He said
quietly, “We will go home.” His face showed nothing. Only his
thoughts continued, plaguing him. He felt old, tired, inadequate.
The new car was there, in the garage, small and bright and
shiny, with tourist license plates and proper documents in the
glove compartment. Ricci got in. He sat there for a moment. There
was only a mechanic in the place; he had peered at Ricci's pass-
port, stared at the picture and at Ricci himself, and beyond that
shown no interest. He stood at the large front door now, and he
heaved it open. The street looked deserted. Here we go, Ricci
thought. He drove through the door, heard it close behind him.
And in the shadows of the building he saw a movement, heard
a voice, a woman's voice, familiar. “I was afraid I'd missed you."
The voice was not quite steady. "And that would have been a fine
kettle of fish.” Belle, with a small suitcase in her hand, wearing a
coat, her bright bare head clearly visible even in the darkness. Her
voice was still unsteady. “Would you give a girl a ride?”
He had both hands on the wheel. He made them relax. He felt
weak, drained. “Where?”
“Where you're going. All the way." She was close now, standing
104


at his elbow. She said, “I ought to laugh, make it funny, tell you
that girls come in handy sometimes for—lots of things.” She shook
her head. “I'm fresh out of funny. I-lost it all, standing here,
waiting, thinking maybe you'd already gone.”
"You were in the car behind,” Ricci said.
"A taxi. He said he spoke English, and he did a little. But he
couldn't understand I wanted him to stay close, and then we lost
Antony's car.” She shook her head. “I saw the garage, and I
hoped it was the right one.” She stood motionless, waiting, all of
the Belle-like assurance, even brashness, stripped away.
Ricci said, “You've left Lucca.”
“Yes."
"You're running."
“Yes.”
He felt a sudden, unreasoning anger at her, at himself. He said,
“So you come to me, put me in the middle.”
She nodded the bright head slowly, solemnly. And, for the third
time, she said simply, “Yes.”
“Damn it,” Ricci said, “what do you think I'll do? What do you
think I can do? I'm not God.” I'm Ricciardi Morelli; it repeated
itself in his mind, Ricciardi Morelli. And Antony's words came
back to him, too, out of his memory: “A tough kid, in a hurry,
traveling light—" With, now, the break he'd been waiting for for
over a year, the break he didn't deserve: Genoa.
Still she stood there, merely watching him, waiting.
He made his voice gentle. “I would, if I could.” I did it once
before, he thought; I walked out on her and left her there alone,
and I've got to do it again. “I'm sorry, Belle. You and Lucca—"
He stopped there. Despite himself his voice turned harsh. "I told
you you were poison.”
“Yes.” Slowly, “I guess I can't blame you.” She straightened her
shoulders, seemed to straighten her entire body. Her face changed,
produced a sort of smile. She stepped back from the car, and she
made a small, odd gesture with her free hand as she turned away
into the shadows and the darkness.
He could hear her footsteps. He said, “Belle.” The footsteps did
not stop, or even slow.
105


but it was there, nonetheless, crowding up into his throat, prick-
ling with tiny electric shocks at the back of his neck. He said in
the quiet, detached voice, “Passport.”
“I told her I haven't got it,” Lucca said. “Now you tell her,
Joe.”
“Two men yesterday—” Tina began. She stopped there. She
shook her head stubbornly. She had turned away from the desk;
she faced them both now. "I went to Mr. Lucca's house this after-
noon. He wasn't there. I talked to a girl, an American—".
“And she said I had it?” Lucca said. Antony, watching, knowing
the man, saw the subtle change in the soft brown eyes; they seemed
to cloud like a summer sky when a thunderstorm approached.
“No,” Tina said. “She said she didn't know anything about it.”
She paused. “I believed her.”
“Tell her, Joe,” Lucca said. “I haven't got it.”
The girl watched Antony steadily. He said without inflection, “If
he says so.” And he watched the girl turn without a word, and walk
across the room and out. The door closed. Antony looked at
Lucca. “Now,” he said softly, “where is it? It's time we settled
that."
Lucca still smiled, but the cloud in his eyes remained. “You
don't talk to me that way, Joe. Nobody does.”
Antony said nothing.
"You hear what I said?”
He remained silent, unmoving.
Lucca said, “Don't ever try to get tough with me, Joe. Just re-
member that, and we'll get along fine.” He seemed to relax a trifle.
The smile came and went. “I said I haven't got it. I haven't. She
took it.” And now the anger was plain again, and ugly.
“She,” Antony said.
“Belle.” The word itself was a malediction.
"She walked out on you," Antony said, and he made himself
think about this, concentrate on it, put the other, the sight of Tina
turning away from him, out of his mind. He said quietly, “You
asked for it, Angelo.”
"Because I kicked her around?” He shook his head. "I told her
that she'd wish she'd never been born. She will. Nobody walks out
107


on me, Joe. Nobody takes what I have. Nobody-" His voice had
begun to rise, and he checked it, mastered the violence he felt,
forced it down. The smile spasms stopped. “Forget that. It's my
business. I'll take care of it.”
“Then?” Antony said.
Lucca nodded. “Business, eh, Joe? Always business. You're
right.” And he seemed to settle himself in the big chair. Even his
eyes now were normal again. “She walked out while I was in town,
talking to a couple of ... friends. One is from Athens, one's from
Istanbul. We do business.” His smile this time was pure amuse-
ment. “They're my suppliers. Like General Motors, I have to start
with raw material.”
"Opium,” Antony said. He nodded.
“You know about it, Joe?”.
"Enough.”
Lucca said, “You're a smart fellow. You always were. What you
don't know you find out about.” He smiled again. “Were you going
to be President someday, Joe?”
"At least,” Antony said. “Only I got sidetracked.” His tone said
nothing. “You made a deal with your suppliers.” He paused. “A
big deal, or a little one?”
“Why, Joe?”
Antony said, “That's why you came here, isn't it?” And then
... “You think with your stomach sometimes, or with your fists or
your feet—or a knife, or a gun.” He raised one hand in a brief
silencing gesture. “I've said that before, Angelo. We both know
it's true. That's why you need me.” He was walking a tightrope,
he thought, treading the narrowest of lines that separated anger
and respect in Lucca's mind. He had done it before; he could do
it again. His face was calm and composed; his voice, like that of
a judge on the bench or a priest behind the screen of his confes-
sional, was dispassionate, removed. “You make little shipments,
Angelo. And each little shipment, by itself, runs almost no risk
at all.”
“Go on,” Lucca said.
“But you add all the little risks together, and then you have
trouble. You lose a man here-Leclerc. You lose a shipment there
108


- like the other night. You try to change your routes, and pretty
soon you've used them all up, and you can't use any one of them
again. Then you're finished.”
“Words,” Lucca said. “Forget you used to be a lawyer.” But
there was no anger; and the respect was not far beneath the sur-
face.
"Put it this way,” Antony said patiently. “You've got a tip, a
sure thing in the eighth race. What do you do? Set up an eight
horse parlay?" He paused. “Or do you save your money, not let it
dribble away, and bet the whole roll on the race that will pay off?”
Lucca took his time, the soft brown eyes contemplative. Slowly
he nodded. “Okay. You've sold me.” He smiled. “My-friends
both said the same thing. I told them I wanted to think about it.”
“You want me to talk to them?”
Lucca shook his head. “You're going to be busy." His smile
appeared, full-blown, dimpling the tiny scar, exposing the white,
even teeth. "Niarhos and Kemel-it sounds like a dance team, eh,
Joe?”
“Vaudeville comics,” Antony said. He repeated the names in his
mind, engraved them there. "You said busy."
“Genoa, Joe. Where else? You're a brain, but you can't sit here
and see all the answers."
Antony stayed in the library for a few minutes after Lucca had
gone. One part of his mind was satisfied, even pleased—Genoa,
and a big shipment, soon, a week, ten days Lucca had said. He
could ask for no more than that. Niarhos and Kemel, he thought.
The names would be useful to Ricci, if Ricci had got away all
right. He closed that part of his mind as if it were a drawer in a
filing cabinet
Belle had run out. She had taken Tina's passport-he believed
Lucca in this; he told himself that he knew the man well enough to
know when he was being cagey and when he was not. He won-
dered where Belle had run to; but he couldn't know. Unless—he
sat quiet, examining this new idea, weighing it—unless Belle had
run to Ricci. They had been friendly. And Belle could have heard
this morning when he and Lucca talked; she could have known
109


about the car and the garage; it could even have been Belle in the
car that had followed him. So?
He considered the possibility and reached no conclusions, except
one: If he had thought of this, it was possible that Lucca had
thought of it, too; he did not allow himself to underestimate Lucca
who sometimes achieved miracles of almost feminine intuition.
And Lucca had not even asked about Ricci tonight, which might
mean something. He told himself that there was no way of know-
ing, and that further thought was useless. He closed this second
drawer in his mind.
And now he allowed himself to think again of Tina, turning her
back on him, walking out of the room. What else could he have
done but back Lucca up? You played your cards as they were
dealt to you, and—but the cliché was old, shoddy, shopworn; it
sounded false even to his own mind.
He pushed back his chair and stood up. He turned out the lights
in the library. Slowly, with the old, tired feeling in him again, he
crossed the hall and walked up the stairs. He started for his own
room, and stopped. Face it, he told himself angrily; don't let her
sleep on it. And he walked down to her room, thinking that she
had been here two days now, and what had he done to get close
to her? Nothing. Nothing at all. He had not planned it this way.
In his mind, in his daydreams, he had built a lovely tall structure
of reconciliation; the girl, shy at first, of course, but losing the
shyness quickly, seeing him and understanding him, accepting him
—forgiving him. Instead ... What else could I have done? The
thought echoed and reverberated like a chant in a hollow chamber.
He knocked at her door, his face composed once more.
She was in a dressing gown, silk, shimmering, and her hair was
tousled, and wonderful; her eyes were her mother's eyes, looking
at him, searching his face, wise beyond their years. He thought
how it might have been, a daughter grown, his daughter, part of
him. He tried to smile. “That's nice,” he said. “The robe, I mean.
They make them here, in Italy, weave the silk themselves. Did you
know that?”
She could see into his mind, his loneliness, and she wished that
it were not so. “I know,” she said.
110


"I can show you,” Antony said. “The shops where they are,
where they make them, design them. Other things, too, lots of
things.” He paused, almost afraid to put the question in words.
“Would you like that?” And he held his breath while time sus-
pended itself, stood still.
She didn't want to speak, to be forced to answer. The words
seemed to form themselves. “Yes. I'd like that.” Facing him,
standing there, almost hating herself for her weakness.
“Whatever you want,” Antony said. “In Rome there are dress
designers, good ones, the best, and—and—” He shook his head.
After all this time, he told himself, at his age, to be close to tears
-like the old folks who wept at weddings and at family reunions,
always wearing their emotions on their sleeves. When you are
young, he thought, you do not understand these things. He said
slowly, “I have never given you anything—”
"It doesn't matter,” the girl said.
“I made a promise,” Antony said. “Nothing—because I had
promised. One picture, once a year, and a letter from George.”
With no return address on the envelope, lest the secret come out.
“I_” he stopped there. He made himself look straight into the
girl's eyes. "I'm sorry. For everything."
Slowly, standing there, her hands clasped loosely in front of her,
feeling not young but strangely old, she said, "I'm trying to believe
you, believe in you. But you make it—too hard.” Then, quietly,
“Good night.”
Antony turned away from the closed door. He walked down the
hall to his own room, let himself in. He was alone again. But he
was used to loneliness, wasn't he? Wasn't he? His mind refused the
answer he sought. And he thought, When I was a kid, I prayed,
knelt down by the bed and believed. Now even that was gone. He
looked at himself in the mirror, kept looking until his face was
composed again. Then he began to undress. Maybe, he told himself,
maybe in Genoa it would be different.
They were not yet clear of the city. Ricci drove carefully,
without haste. Belle sat quiet on her side. Her tears had been brief;
and the reaction, the terrible feeling of fear at being left behind,
111


had finally subsided. She had meant to approach Ricci lightly, but it
had not worked out that way. What she felt now was a humility,
a shame, and something deeper, much deeper-something akin to
gratitude, but more than that. "I goofed, didn't I?” Her voice was
low.
“You couldn't help it,” Ricci said.
She said slowly, “Funny, you look at something from one side
and it's fine; turn it around, or inside out, and it doesn't look so
good.” And then, “I'm sorry.” Strangely enough she was thinking
at this moment of the girl, Antony's daughter, standing there on
the terrace, looking down and saying that Belle had tried to be
helpful, thanking her for it. Little things like this stuck in your
mind sometimes, changed everything. In a way, Ricci and An-
tony's daughter were alike; she saw that now. She said aloud,
“You're a nice guy, a nice, sweet guy, that's what makes it a boo-
boo. If you were like the others” She shrugged, thinking of
men she had known, of what she had come to expect from men.
"_it wouldn't have mattered."
"Philosophical speculation,” Ricci said, smiling, “from you?”
“Big words,” Belle said. “But I see what you mean. It is a laugh,
isn't it?”
“That wasn't what I meant,” Ricci said.
She smiled to herself in the darkness. “Yes, it was. And I don't
mind it. I'm not very bright. I know it.” She shook her head, smil-
ing still, mocking herself. “Bertha Larson, like it says on my pass-
port. You don't really get away from what you are, do you?”
“Forget it,” Ricci said.
They drove in silence for a little time. There were few cars on
the road as they approached the city's outskirts. Belle said, “Your
face, the bandage-they're looking for you, aren't they? The cops?”
"Probably,” Ricci said. It was not a probability, he told himself,
it was a certainty. And if he was picked up, his usefulness was at
an end. He had been confident when he had told Antony that he
would not be picked up. Now, actually on his way and faced with
investigation, however cursory, he was not so sure. If the airport
and the ships and trains were being watched, the roads would be
watched, too; this would be standard police procedure. A man of
112


his general description, with a bandage on his face, or, at least, a
mark of some sort this was what the police were looking for, and
there was nothing he could do about it. “They won't be looking
for an American,” Belle said.
“Won't they? Why?” But, in a vague sort of way, he saw what
she meant, and it was true. Americans were tourists, unpredictable,
incomprehensible, doing strange things sometimes. Often they
threw money around as if it were waste paper; they complained
about unimportant things; they got drunk and obnoxious, loud,
and spoke no language but their own and expected the world to
understand them; they had an exaggerated sense of their own im-
portance, and were, consequently, to the Italian mind somewhat
childish. Oh, everyone knew about crime in America, shootings on
the street in places like Chicago; American movies had made that
clear. But the Americans who came to Italy were tourists, a breed
unto themselves; from them one expected eccentricity, but not vio-
lence, not murder. “You may be right,” Ricci said. “But if a cop
sees my face"
Ahead a light flashed, a small light, moving back and forth in
a horizontal movement. Ricci began immediately to slow the car.
Even before he saw the man behind the light, standing in the cen-
ter of the road, and the second man waiting beside the two motor-
cycles pulled off onto the shoulder, he knew. “We'll find out now,"
he said, and the mice feet began their scampering between his
shoulder blades.
"Who do you suppose those men are, honey?" Belle said. Her
voice, quite suddenly, was almost petulant, querulous. “What do
they want?” And she had moved close, quite close against him;
her head rested on his shoulder. “Can't you drive with one hand?”
He wanted to grin, with the sudden admiration he felt. Instead,
he put his arm around her, tight around her; her elbow clamped
his hand and wrist against her firm softness. She seemed to raise
herself in the seat, crowd against him; her hair brushed his band-
aged cheek, covered it. As the car stopped and the policeman ap-
proached, raised his light, Belle said loudly, “Ask him what he
wants, honey. Why is he stopping us like this? Tell him we're
Americans.”
113


Ricci said in English, “What's doing?”
The policeman spoke Italian. “I am sorry, signor"
And Belle leaned even farther across Ricci, to look at the man,
her bright hair almost obscuring Ricci's face. “What's he saying,
honey? Can you understand him?”
"Search me,” Ricci said. Then slowly, distinctly, in English still,
“What do you want?”
The policeman's face was a picture of frustration. “Signor"
He stopped there. His light swept into the rear seat, rested only a
moment on the two suitcases.
"Show him your passport, honey,” Belle said. “Maybe that's
what he wants. They like to look at them.”
Ricci got out his passport with his free hand. Belle still hung
across him, her hair fragrant against his face, her forehead warm
against his. He held out the passport in a tentative gesture. “This
what you're after?" He watched the struggle in the man's face, the
dicomfort beneath the stare of alien eyes.
“You may go, signor," the policeman said.
Ricci almost, but not quite, moved. “Passport,” he said. “Is that
what you want?" His voice was overloud, and he spoke the word
as to a child.
The policeman stepped back. He made a motion with the flash-
light, unmistakable, indicating that they should proceed.
"Well, I never,” Belle said. “He didn't want anything at all,
honey."
"I guess not,” Ricci said. To the policeman, “Okay?" And he
pointed up the road.
"Okay," the policeman said. There was resignation in his voice,
in his shoulders and his face. He moved the light again, almost
urging them as the car pulled slowly away.
The roadblock was well behind them, and no one had followed.
Ricci let out his breath in a long, soft sigh. His arm was still
around the girl's body, still pressed tight. Slowly, even reluctantly,
he withdrew it. “Like you said, girls come in handy sometimes.”
"Sometimes,” Belle said. Her voice was quiet again, no longer
petulant, no longer querulous.
“Thanks,” Ricci said.
114


“Don't mention it.” She moved away, to her own side of the seat.
"You—” he began. He stopped. “I said something wrong?”
“Of course not.”
“Bertha Larson,” he said, and he made it light, as light as he
could, “thinks pretty fast.” He could relax now, for the moment
anyway. He doubted that there would be another roadblock, but
if there was, with Belle in the car to play her part-
"Bertha Larson,” Belle said, "still goofed. She's still poison, like
you said.” And she was silent for a moment. “Bertha Belle Larson
-Lucca.”
“We settled that,” Ricci said. Nothing, at this moment, he
thought, could dim the sense of triumph. He had made a mistake
last night, maybe only one of many mistakes, but it had all worked
out for the best. And he had spent time today, too much time,
waiting and worrying about things that had not happened. He was
clear of the city now, and he was headed for Genoa after more than
a year of patience and tension.
“We didn't settle anything,” Belle said. “I know him.”
“You knew him when you made up your mind to walk out.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
"I told you I wasn't very bright. Or maybe I just didn't care. I
don't know. But you—” She stopped there. Her voice altered,
picked up some of its old brashness. “Thanks for the lift. Like I
said, you're a nice guy, and if I helped a little back there, then I
can feel that I paid my way. Part of it, anyway. Drop me off some
where. I'll make out.”
“Doing what? Going where?”
She turned to look at him.
"I'm going to Genoa,” Ricci said. “Or near there.”
“I know. I had big ears this morning.”
"All right. We drive all night tonight. We stop over some place,
Florence, maybe. Tomorrow night we're there and France isn't far,
if you want to go to France"
"I'm not very bright,” Belle said, “but neither are you."
"So I'm not, but show me where—” He hesitated. He said al-
most angrily, and he could not have explained the feeling, “Look"
115


“I am looking,” Belle said. “Drop me off.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Do you want me to?” he said quietly.
“Yes. No. What difference does it make? You said I was poison.
I am. 1–” She shook her head. She was silent for a moment. "I'm
not very much. But I don't put people in the middle for me.”
“The Golden Rule,” Ricci said. “Do unto others—"
"You don't have to spell it out. I went to Sunday school once,
pigtails and flour-and-water paste and pictures in a book and every-
thing.” She paused. “That's a laugh, too, isn't it?”
"I don't think so,” Ricci said. Now, the anger suddenly fled, he
could smile. “Except that it was maybe the wrong Sunday school,
and the little boys were probably more interested in you than they
were in anything else.”
“Not then,” Belle said. "Not until later.” She was silent again,
watching him still. “You haven't answered me why.”
"You've heard of looking the gift horse in the mouth?”
Belle said, "I've given you a bad time right from the beginning,
I didn't think about it. I didn't think, period. I'm-ashamed of it
now. I—"
“Woman,” Ricci said, “you talk too damn much.” In the dim
light of the instrument panel the bandaged cheek gave his smile a
lopsided quality. “If you can't think of something cheerful to say,
be quiet.”
She was silent.
“You hear?”
“I hear.” And she thought, Way back, way far back, why
couldn't it have been somebody like this who came along, instead
of— She stopped the thought right there, and forced herself to
look it full in the face. Nobody twisted your arm, Bertha. Bear that
in mind. Strangely, she felt better, able to sit straight and smile
once more. “You're quite a guy. I've said that before, haven't I?”
She felt like Belle again, in command of herself. She smiled again,
slowly, lazily this time. “Okay, so I'll say it again.” She paused,
and the smile spread, became full blown, even a trifle mocking.
“Unless it embarrasses you?”
116


He saw the smile, heard the words and the tone. He told him-
self to be careful, but it was a distant voice dimly heard, and he
could ignore it. “Not any more,” he said.
The telephone connection was not good-like everything
else in this country, Lucca thought. And Giulio on the other end
of the line, in the little fishing village near Genoa, was not too
bright to begin with, which merely added to the frustration. “I
know he isn't there yet,” Lucca said. "He's coming. He'll look you
up. His name is Morelli, Ricci Morelli.”
“When is he coming?”
“What difference does it make? You don't have to plan a cele-
bration.” Spell it out, draw a picture, and still they tripped over
their own feet. Or got ideas, which was worse. He was thinking of
Belle; she had not been out of his mind even for a moment. It was
not mere anger that he felt; this was rage, deep, sullen, gnawing
at his fiber, refusing to let him sit still. “You understand? And he
may have someone with him.”
“Who?"
“A woman."
“What woman?"
“Never mind. Just a woman."
“Very well,” Giulio said. “They will be two: this man and his
woman. You have a message for them?”
"Now listen to me,” Lucca said. “Stop clicking your teeth and
listen. The man is coming. He may have a woman with him. I
don't know if he will or not, but I think he will. Do you under-
stand that?”
“But it is simple.”
“Yes,” Lucca said. “There is no message. But if the woman is
with him—if she is with him—telephone me.”
“I understand.”
“And say nothing to them."
There was a pause. Then, “Understood."
“That's all,” Lucca said.
Giulio said, “How will I know if it is the right woman? You
have not told me her name.”
117


“Her name is Belle.”
“She is young? Old? Pretty? Ugly?”
Lucca said, “She is young. She is pretty.” He slammed the tele-
phone back into its cradle. He stood up. The scarf at his throat
felt tight and he undid it, jerked it free; the silk burned the skin
of his neck with the violence of the movement.
He crossed the room, stood at the glass wall staring out at the
terrace, the lawn, the jewel-like pool shining in the night. He had
warned her, which was more than she deserved. He had told her
that she would wish she'd never been born. She would. What he
wanted, he got; what he had, he kept; when he let anything go, it
was because it was worn out, worthless. She would find this out.
She was young and she was pretty, he had said to Giulio. That
face, that body she was so proud of she should have thought of
them before she walked out. He was Angelo Lucca, and she, she
was nobody, nothing; she would be less than nothing before he
finished teaching her her lesson—he, himself, in person.
The darkness had faded; to the east, above the hills, a
single great star hung in the lightening sky. Belle watched it. They
had driven all night, but she felt no sharp fatigue, merely a lassi-
tude and a sense of calm, almost a wish that the night would not
end. It was funny, she thought, that a day begun the way this one
had begun could end on a note of peace, relaxation, even warmth.
And she turned her head to look at Ricci; she smiled, and watched
his answering smile. “Tired?” Belle said.
“Around the edges.”
“I could spell you.”
“No need. We'll stop soon. There's a town not far. I forget its
name. It'll have an inn.” In a way, he, too, wanted to delay the day,
push the morning star back down behind the hills. He could not
have said why, except that the night, for the first time in over a
year, had passed without tension. Since the roadblock he had not
once felt the scampering mice feet, or the tug of worry, or felt his
mind turning back in time to examine, to search for mistakes. The
night had been easy, comfortable. “You make a good passenger.”
"Do I?” She smiled faintly. “I'm still poison.”
118


“Forget that,” Ricci said, and his voice surprised him by its
sharpness. He looked at her. “You hear?”
She looked away. “Tomorrow, or the day after, sooner or
later ”
"I said, forget it. Tomorrow can take care of itself.”
"Now who's making like a philosopher?” And the ease was
between them again.
“Okay,” Ricci said, smiling.
Belle said, “How did you get-mixed up with him?” And then,
quickly, “It's none of my business.”
Thinking of Lucca, Ricci said carefully, “I could ask you the
same question.”
“Yes.” She said it tonelessly.
“But it's none of my business,” Ricci said.
"No secret.” She looked straight ahead as she spoke, conscious
of the growing light, the peaceful night ending. “I danced. They
called it that, anyway."
"I told you it was none of my business.”
She ignored it. “Big town. Bright lights. Out front, the custom-
ers, visiting firemen on expense accounts, with their wives, eating
eight-dollar dinners. Backstage, me, the rest of us— fifty dollars a
week-same old story, pure corn."
Ricci was silent, watching the road. There was only the gentle,
monotonous sound of the engine and the rushing wind.
"Nobody twisted my arm,” Belle said.
He turned to smile at her then. “Where was the Sunday school
you went to?”
“Kansas.” Now she, too, was smiling. “If I'd been a boy, I'd
have joined the Navy. If you're a girl, you go to New York. Same
difference.”
“You,” Ricci said, “in pigtails.” He shook his head.
“And what's wrong with pigtails?” She paused. “I cut them off.
My mother cried. Big scene. I ended up crying, too, but it didn't
change anything. No more pigtails, just skinny me."
“Skinny,” Ricci said.
“Little-girl skinny. Some are fat. I wasn't.” Her face was sober.
“That's the way it was.”
119


"I ran away,” Ricci said. “I was going to see the world. The
ferries were still running then, and I got all the way to Oakland,
clear across the bay, six, seven miles.” He shook his head, smiling,
remembering. “The biggest Irish cop you ever saw, desk sergeant,
sent out for an ice cream cone, a double, chocolate and vanilla, he
wasn't taking any chances. I broke down and told all. I'd never
had a double cone before, chocolate and vanilla.”
Belle watched him in silence. Her smile was gentle.
"Back in North Beach again,” Ricci said, “my mother cried, my
father cried, the neighbors came in and they cried.” He paused.
"I liked it. I. was a hero."
Belle's smile spread. “You tried it again?”
“No use,” Ricci said. “I'd seen the world. I'd—” He glanced at
her now. “_cut off my pigtails.” He looked away again, uneasy,
almost embarrassed. “There's the town.”
“Yes,” Belle said. She glanced above the hills to the single star
fading in the dawn sky. She watched it with regret, with the knowl-
edge, long ago gained, that nothing could be indefinitely prolonged,
that the good things passed too quickly, left you far behind, and
you were powerless to delay their passage. Still you tried, and the
certainty of other things coming, not good, made the effort all the
more urgent and sweet. She looked at Ricci again. He was watch-
ing her. “So here we are,” Belle said. “You don't like ice cream
any more.”
"I grew out of it,” Ricci said. It was as if he could see into her
mind and understand her thoughts.
“And I grew out of my skinniness?” Belle said.
“Yes.” .
"And tomorrow_”
“Tomorrow never comes.”
Belle was silent.
"Here's the inn,” Ricci said. He pulled up to the curb, switched
off the engine, got out and took both suitcases from the back seat,
closed and locked the doors, doing all this without looking at the
girl. She stood quietly on the sidewalk, waiting. Together they
climbed the steps and went inside.
There was a porter, sleepy and unenthusiastic. Ricci spoke to
120


formless thoughts nagging at her, and she tried to still them, but
their strength was too great. “I'm not much. I've told you that.”
“Now you talk too much."
She lifted her head to look at him, face him. “I'm just a—
woman.”
Slowly, gravely, “I've noticed.”
She shook her head helplessly, wishing that the nagging thoughts
would go away and leave her free. But they continued, even
stronger. Against her own will she stepped back, and he let her
go, watched her, frowning now. "You were wrong," she said. “To-
morrow does come. And the next day. And the ones after that."
“So they do?”
Not really understanding, she could not explain. "Maybe you're
too nice a guy."
“That doesn't make much sense.”
“Maybe I-like you too much.”
“That makes less.”
“It's my fault,” she said. “This—you and me-here, now. I
know it. I admit it.” And the thoughts were gathering shape and
form. “I was going to use you. To hurt him, get even with him."
"And?”
"I don't want it that way. Not-you.” She paused. “I'm not
very proud of myself.” Then ... “Say what you're thinking. I
won't argue.”
He raised his hands again, caught her arms. She made no move.
His hands dropped. He shook his head slowly. "Forget it.” He
turned away.
Long after the sun was up over the hills and the sounds of the
day had begun, she lay awake, still fully dressed, the coverlet of
the bed drawn up over her feet and ankles. Ricci was in the big
chair, sprawled out, his shoes off; he slept, stirring gently from
time to time, his breathing deep and heavy. She watched him, in a
sense watched over him in silent vigil. Maybe I like you too much,
she thought; she had said it and it was true. And maybe he had
been right, too, that her behavior then made no sense.
You were what you were, she thought, and nothing could change
122


hand and turned quickly away lest what he felt should burst out
and embarrass them all.
It was almost a repetition of the scene that first afternoon,
Jenner thought. He sat on his bed in the hotel room. Randall, short
and stocky, with his sandy hair and the reddish mustache, the
broad thick hands resting immobile on his thighs, sat on the
straight chair by the writing desk. His intensely blue eyes watched
Jenner steadily as he talked. “I told you about Bellanca, because
there wasn't any other way. You'd seen him. I tried to protect
him."
“I haven't seen him since,” Jenner said.
"Not true. You saw him that night, at the Hotel Apostle."
“Accident,” Jenner said. “I didn't talk to him. What differ-
ence ”
“You were there with Antony's daughter,” Randall said. “You
went straight out to see her, you must have, as soon as I left here."
"So?”
"Bellanca was staying there in the house. You knew that.”
"I did,” Jenner said. "So?"
Randall said slowly, “Tact isn't my business. Maybe I rub you
the wrong way. I can't help it.”
“That I can believe,” Jenner said. And then, “The girl, Tina,
Antony's daughter or not, is my business."
Randall said nothing.
"I'm not trying to be ornery,” Jenner said. “You're trying to do
your job, and if you had it your way everybody would stand back
and let you do whatever you thought best. You have a point. But
I have a point, too. I'm the public, the_” He smiled briefly.
“_free citizenry, if you like, the thing authority is always getting
itself tangled up with.”
"You talk like a lawyer.”
“I am a lawyer, not that it makes any difference. I'll co-operate,
within bounds."
“But you won't stay away from the girl, and from Antony."
It was then that the telephone rang, and they both looked at it
for a moment as if it were a strange voice intruding into the con-
125


paused. “I guess that's all I can do.” He closed the door behind
him.
Here, on the Ligurian coast, not far from Genoa, the scen-
ery was changed. The hills seemed stronger, somehow harsh, prom-
ising mountains only just beyond sight; their slopes dropped
abruptly into the sea.
Ricci drove; Belle sat quietly. No one had stopped them or even
noticed them on the road; all the way from the inn where they had
rested, the trip had been without incident, and yet, somehow, the
peace and the relaxation of the night drive were missing. Because
this is the end of the road, Belle told herself; and knew that this
was only a part of the reason.
From time to time she glanced at Ricci. In sleep, only this
morning, his face had seemed young, even boyish. Now it was
altered, not angry, but blank, controlled, and older—too old.
Ricci said, “Money is first. You have enough? To go where you
want to go?” He told himself that he was looking forward to the
ending of—responsibility. “Do you?”
“I brought a few things to hock."
“What kind of things?”
“A couple of rings. A bracelet.” Her jewel box had been full,
but she had taken only these.
Ricci glanced down at her hands. She wore no rings, and this he
had not noticed before; always, at Lucca's house, she had worn
jewelry_diamonds, he remembered, and a large square emerald,
these in particular, gifts from Lucca who liked to look at them.
No matter. She had taken them off for reasons of her own. “That
means Genoa,” he said. “There'll be somebody there to buy them.”
She said nothing.
“You know where you're going?”
“Don't worry about it."
“France would be best,” Ricci said. “It's close. From there, you
can decide.”
“Yes.”
“Back to the States, if you want, or anywhere.” He paused.
“You can go back to the States? There's no trouble about that?"
127


She remembered telling Lucca that she had her passport, that
she was an American, that she could go where she wanted, and
she remembered his reaction. For a moment she felt again the fear
that was almost panic. She checked an impulse to touch her cheek
where he had hit her. She said, “No trouble.”
Ricci said, “I don't know Genoa. I've never been there. But
there's a man I'm supposed to see, and he'll know where you can
go to sell your things."
“If you say so. Thanks.”
"Forget it,” Ricci said. But he couldn't leave it like that. “You
don't owe me anything. You paid your way just by ... being
along. Somebody to talk to. If there's any thanks, it's on my side.”
“That's one way to look at it—backwards."
“I was coming up here anyway,” Ricci said. “And if I'd run into
that cop aloner" He shook his head. He didn't know why it was
necessary that he convince her, but the feeling was strong that he
had to. “We're all square.” He turned to look at her. "Aren't we?”
She was smiling faintly. She nodded. “All square.”
“Okay,” Ricci said. “We'll stop at the village and I'll see this
character.” He felt relieved. “His name's Giulio. How many do
you suppose there are in Italy?” And he was smiling. “Like in the
States, I guess, mothers name their kids after big people and hope
it will do some good—Andrew Jackson Franklin Ike Julius Caesar
Brown. Or something."
"It has a good solid ring to it,” Belle said. And she thought,
He doesn't even know I'm alive. Not really. And last night, this
morning I could have—but I didn't. And, again, Nobody twisted
your arm. “With a name like that,” she said, “Junior ought to go
far.”
“For a fact,” Ricci said. All the way from the inn, he thought,
he had been dreading this time of settlement. And now it had
come, and gone, and there had been no awkwardness at all. He
did not think of himself as particularly superstitious, and yet there
were patterns to events sometimes, cycles of good luck, and bad.
For over a year his luck had seemed mediocre, and then, sud-
denly bad, and now, within the last thirty hours or so, incredibly
128


The rage and the frustration were almost too much. He began
to swear in English, ugly, vicious words going out over the line.
And then, abruptly, he stopped. “What did you say?” In Italian
again. And he listened carefully, sorting the words from the crack-
ling of the phone.
"He has jewelry to sell. It belongs to her, I think. He will return
here to the village tonight. Tomorrow I will tell him where he can
sell the jewelry—”.
“That,” Lucca said, “is different.” He relaxed in his chair. He
was smiling now in spasms, the dimple scar coming and going in
his cheek. “That is much different. Good for you, Giulio."
Gino rode in the front seat with Luigi, the chauffeur; Jenner,
Tina, and Antony in the rear. It was the morning of their second
day, bright, clear, pleasant. Gino and Luigi talked in quiet voices,
as they had talked almost from the begininng of the trip, and An-
tony listened to them in idle, relaxed amusement. The subject was,
and had been all along, wine; and the terms of the discussion
changed, waxed and waned from the general to the specific, but the
basic disagreement remained, running like a thread, a motif,
throughout all of their words. To Antony it was restful.
“You are from the south,” Gino was saying, as he had said
before. "The south is soft. The sun is always shining and there is
no snow, no real mountains.”
“The people of the south are soft, you are saying?” Luigi said.
“We are talking of wine.”
“True.”
“The wine of the south is soft, like a woman_"
“It is not sour, if that is what you mean.”
“_but the wine of the north, of Piedmont, my country, is a
man's wine. Barbera—"
"Barbera, Barbera, Barbera,” Luigi said. And Antony in the
back seat smiled to himself. “I have tasted it. My mouth was puck-
ered for days. To compare it to Lacrima Christi, to mention it in
the same breath with Lacrima Christi”
"Barbera," Gino said, “is a man's wine."
Jenner, sitting on the far side of Tina, said, “Who's ahead in
132


the girl and Jenner as a front, and the passport meant nothing."
Remembering his own experience with Belle-“Who questions
American tourists?”
“I like that better," Randall had said. And, “All right. They left
yesterday. That means they'll be there tomorrow some time. Say
early afternoon."
And he had been content, he remembered that now, almost eager,
anticipating activity after all the time of frustration. "The police
down there "
“Never mind them. I don't think they'll cause you any trouble
now you're out of their sight.”
And this, too, had been pleasant to hear. “One thing more," he
had said. “Was this where Wally bought it?”
“Wally? Oh. Walther, you mean. Forget that.”
"I'm here. I can keep my ears open.”
“Forget it.” And there had been no mistaking the command in
Randall's voice. "You're going to have your hands full without
thinking about anything else. Anything else, you hear me? He's
gone, and you've got a job to do.”
Despite himself, he had even smiled a little. "Sure.”
“All right,” Randall had said. “Maybe I don't need to make it
any plainer, but just in case ” He had paused. “If you buy it, the
way he did, we'll forget about you, too. You know that. And
somebody else will be moved in to try to pick up where you fell
down, and he'll try to finish the job. You know that, too.”
“It seems,” Ricci had said, smiling still, "that I may have heard
something to that effect before."
"All right,” Randall had said again, the tone of command gone
from his voice. "That's the way it is. You keep your eye on what
you're doing, which is Antony. And you'll have to handle Jenner
any way you can. You've got plenty to worry about without think-
ing of anything else. I mean anything else.”
"I hear. I obey.”
Now, waiting, the morning already gone and Giulio not yet ap-
peared, and by this much Belle still his responsibility, he felt the
impatience rising, and the sense of uneasiness from whatever cause.
Come on, he thought; walk out here on your bandy little legs,
137


himself? Belt, was it? How lights. Fuself, as anyontel lobby, he .
Giulio, and let me get it over with. And, again, his mind refusing
to leave the concept, he thought of Belle, sitting, waiting, alone.
Belle.
She was a funny kind of female, not really what she seemed to
be—merely a face, a body parading around in those Bikinis. Her
behavior at the inn yesterday morning had been almost virginal.
He wondered whether he understood it now, as he had not at the
time.
"I was going to ... use you,” she had said. “To hurt him, get
even with him.” But she had not. Instead, “I—don't want it that
way. Not-you.” And, “I'm not very proud of myself.”
Now, remembering this, and the kiss in the hotel lobby, he de-
cided that she could be proud of herself, as anyone could who be-
haved according to his own lights. Funny kind of thinking, coming
from him. Or, was it? Had she seen him more clearly than he saw
himself? Belle? He didn't know the answer.
The bell in the village church tolled once. One o'clock already.
And Antony on his way, with Jenner, and Tina. Damn Giulio, he
thought. He started for his hotel for lunch. Walking in the bright
sun, thinking still of Belle, he found himself wondering, incongru-
ously, ridiculously, what kissing the other one would be like-
Tina; and he even wondered how Tina would have behaved had
she been in Belle's place on the trip, what she would have done at
the roadblock, and during the night of driving, and at the inn.
It was well after his lunch when Giulio at last appeared. He sat
down and took off his fisherman's cap, laid it on the table. “It is
not easy,” he said. “Jewelry, such as your friend would have ”
He shrugged. “—there is not a ready market.”
"I told you it wasn't stolen,” Ricci said.
Giulio nodded. “It is taxes you are thinking of. No one wants to
give part of a purchase price to the government. Understood. Still —”
“Never mind that,” Ricci said. “You have somebody?” Get it
over with, he thought.
"Oh, yes. I talked to a friend. And he told me of a man, a very
good man—" He smiled. “_who does not believe in taxes, either.”
He took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, handed it to
Ricci. “His name is Renaldo, his hotel, and his room number. If
138


scent fear. “No trouble at all.” And he stood alone, only feet from
the single telephone, and, in Antony's presence, powerless to use
it; thinking, My fault. Because I was smart, cocky, sure that my
luck was running. I told Giulio and through him, Lucca, exactly
where she is. Or almost exactly. And he felt again, as he had felt
before, the blind, unreasoning anger rising against Lucca who was
the focus and center of_everything.
At his elbow, Antony said, “Walk around with me. Show me the
town. I want to stretch my legs.” It was a request as binding as a
court order.
"Sure,” Ricci said. He was conscious that Jenner and Tina
watched them go.
They strolled in the square. "You made it,” Antony said. “No
trouble?”
“No. I drove all night—"
“We hit a roadblock,” Antony said. “They had the city closed.”
It was a question, although his voice was uninflected.
"I was an American,” Ricci said. “I didn't speak any Italian.
I waved my passport and—”.
"And Belle helped out,” Antony said, in the same quiet way.
“She's a smart girl, in some ways."
He supposed he had been prepared for it. He said, “Belle?” And
he looked at Antony, frowning. “I don't get it. I was alone.”
“Okay,” Antony said. “You were alone.” There was a bench
beneath a tree. “Let's sit down.” Seated, he took his time as if he
were again behind his own desk. He had given considerable
thought to this; Belle and Ricci and the effect on Lucca. And there
was only one solution that he could see. “She ran out,” he said.
"In case you didn't know.” And he raised one hand in a silencing
gesture. "We'll assume you didn't.”
Ricci was silent.
“I like Belle,” Antony said. It passed through his mind that once
he had thought to set Ricci and Lucca against one another be-
cause of Belle; that had been his first, unconsidered action. It was
different now. "And I've gone to some pains to get you up here
where you could be useful.” He looked sideways at Ricci. “There
aren't enough people who can be useful, to throw them away.”
142


Still he was silent, knowing, dreading what was coming. Antony,
in his way, was saying what Randall had said; keep your eye on
the ball.
"Lucca sees things differently,” Antony said. “He doesn't like
somebody, he doesn't like somebody.” He paused. “He isn't going
to like anybody who helped something that belonged to him run
out.”
“You're still talking about Belle,” Ricci said.
Antony merely watched him.
The choice was there, but it was no choice at all. Ricci said, “I
don't know anything about her. I told you she didn't mean a thing
to me. I told Lucca. She's good for laughs—”.
“And good to look at,” Antony said. .
Ricci nodded. “And that.”
Antony nodded slowly. Argument was futile, he thought; and he
allowed himself a brief moment of annoyance that Ricci should
make things more difficult for them both. Because I'm Joe Antony,
he told himself; and he won't trust me no matter what I say or do.
He stood up. In the same detached voice, he said, “Now we've got
that settled.” And, “I'm not up here on a vacation. You come with
me. We've got some people to see.” They started back across the
square. “We'll take my car. Leave yours for Jenner and Tina, if
they want it.” He kept his eyes from Ricci's face.
“Okay,” Ricci said. He couldn't telephone. He couldn't get into
town. And maybe Belle would be waiting, just sitting in the hotel
lobby, or maybe the message had not got to her, he had no way
of knowing. You made one decision, took one step, and from that
point on there was no drawing back. He thought briefly of Ran-
dall, and of Randall's warning, but there was, he told himself, no
other way. He said uninterestedly, "I'll give Jenner the keys." He
didn't wait for a reply; he walked past Antony's car into the hotel
and straight up the stairs.
Jenner answered the knock. He looked at Ricci in surprise. Ricci
said, “Antony and I are going off for a while. Here are the keys to
my car, if you and Tina want it.” He spoke fast and low. There is
no other way; he tried to cling to this, take comfort from it. “The
Hotel Genoa. There's a girl there, in the lobby. I hope she's there.
143


Young, blonde, good looking—" How to describe Belle? How to
make her sound different from ten thousand other blondes
“Lucca's?” Jenner said. He was smiling.
"You know her,” Ricci said. And the relief in his mind was a
solid thing, warm. “Get her away, out of sight, somewhere, any-
where. Tell her I sent you. I can't explain. No time. Antony
doesn't know.” And then, “You cut yourself in on this, Pete. Don't
let me down.”
"Cloak and dagger" Jenner began.
"Pete!” He kept his voice low, but the force in it was plain.
“Here.” He took the piece of paper Giulio had given him from his
pocket. "Show her this, tell her it's Lucca.”
“But how? Where? I'm—”.
“Just do it,” Ricci said. “You cut yourself in. You're not on the
sidelines any more." And, as he turned away, he said, loudly,
“There's plenty of gas. I had it filled last night.” He went back
down the stairs. Again he had done what he could, but there was
no comfort in the thought. He walked out to the waiting car and
got in without a word.
Jenner remained standing in the doorway of his room, the keys
and the note in his hand. He felt a measure of anger, resentment,
and he decided that it was justified. Johnny, Ricci, whatever he
wanted to call himself, had no right to impose, to assume blithely
that he, Jenner, would jump when Ricci said frog. And that crack
about not being on the sidelines any more-it was one thing for
Jenner to say it to himself, amuse himself by thinking it; it was
quite another for somebody else to say it right out loud.
He turned back into the room, shut the door. Some people, he
thought, took themselves too seriously, and thereby distorted their
vision of the rest of the world. He remembered Lucca's blonde,
flaunting herself in that Bikini, leering at him—or maybe it had
been the other way around. He began to smile. Face it, boy. The
leering was all on your side. Even Tina had seen it; she had told
him not to smirk. He was back to normal again, and he looked
down at the keys and the note, the angry resentment all gone.
In a way, he supposed, he had asked for it. Put me in, coach.
I've got my number on, and everything. And that was funny, too,
144


“If he is what he is,” Tina said, "and if you know it, and have
known it, as you have” She paused. “Then you should have
known it, as yom him, shouldn't your woman. No
stayed away from have” She parand if you know
Jenner said slowly, “You're a hard woman. No—” He raised
one hand in a silencing gesture. “_I mean it. You step right up
and look things in the eye. Worse, you expect other people to do
the same thing.” He took a deep breath. “All right. Staying away
from him meant staying away from you, and I never thought I'd
live to hear myself saying anything as naked-making as that.”
Her smile was gentle. “You mean it, don't you, Pete? I'm flat-
tered.” The smile disappeared all at once. "Can we help him? In
any way?” And her lips were pressed tight. Her chin was firm.
“He's after my father. He must be. And the other one-Lucca.”
Her head was high. “My father.” Then ... “You asked me once
if I thought my blood was tainted, and I said no."
“I remember,” Jenner said.
“Now,” she said, “I'm not so sure. Can you understand that?”
“ “The sins of the fathers,'” Jenner said, "and so you feel you
have to atone.” He shook his head.
“Maybe it's foolish. I can't help that.”
"No," Jenner said softly. “It's admirable.” And he was silent
for a moment. “It's also more complicated than you think.” He
smiled, without humor. “You've built him up in your mind, haven't
you?”
“My father?”
“Ricci.” The smile spread a little, turned inwards to mock him.
“I can't blame you. He's quite a guy."
“I hadn't thought about it.”
The quality of the smile changed suddenly. “You,” he said.
"Fooling yourself? You?”
Slowly, reluctantly, she looked up at him. “I guess maybe I have.
Fooled myself, I mean. I'm sorry, Pete.”
He sighed. He stood up. "The metamorphosis of P. Jenner.”
She watched him, frowned up at him.
“We go to give your atonement an assist. We go to push me
out on the stage where the action takes place.” He shook his head.
“How silly can a man get” He paused. “_when he's in love."
146


with the knowledge that because of his carelessness, she, who had
not wanted to put him in the middle, was now in the middle her-
self. Pete, don't let me down. Don't let her down. It was almost a
prayer in his mind.
"Did they call you Gabby when you were a kid?” Antony said.
Ricci made himself smile a little at that. He said nothing, but he
tried to push the other thoughts aside and concentrate on here and
now. Randall had been right, of course; it was almost impossible
to think clearly, to be always on balance, poised, ready to react
quickly and in the right way, when other matters, other responsi-
bilities nagged at you. And with Antony you were allowed no mis-
takes.
“What do you know about junk?” Antony said. “Heroin? Any-
thing?" He spoke without looking at Ricci.
“A little," Ricci said. I know pretty much everything there is to
know about it, he thought; how the opium is grown, and where,
how it's extracted from the plants, how it's refined into heroin, how
it's peddled and why, and what its effect is on people who use it.
Do you know that part, Antony? Have you seen its effect? You or
Lucca? “Not much.”
"It's heavy,” Antony said. "It doesn't take up much space. A
half-million dollars' of it doesn't take much space at all.”
"Handy,” Ricci said. He kept his voice toneless, but there was
no way to stifle the sense of excitement, anticipation, the knowl-
edge that he was, at last, after more than a year and despite his
mistakes, getting close to his goal. It had to be that way; Antony
would not have talked like this otherwise. And the sense of luck
running strong began again; he told himself to mistrust it this time,
to be careful, wary. "Makes life easier."
Antony said nothing.
"But,” Ricci said, "there's a lot of water between here and the
States."
“Lots of water," Antony said. And he thought, in this moment,
strangely enough, of something Lucca had said about his, Antony's,
having wanted once to be President, or maybe boss man of some-
thing big, General Motors, U.S. Steel, that kind of big. And maybe
I could have, he told himself, instead of what I am. The thought
148


Then, “I hear, sergeant—" Antony began.
“Call me Bud, sir,” the boy said. “Everybody does.” And Ricci,
watching the young face, decided that the shyness and the eager-
ness, the appearance of ingenuousness were as much a mask as
his own attitude of outward calm, as Antony's gambler's face. Un-
accountably, he felt better.
Antony was speaking, saying something about money, and Bud
listened politely, and nodded. “A man likes to make a few bucks,
sir. A little here, a little there. You know how it is.”
“Particularly now that black markets aren't operating,” Antony
said.
“Why, sir, they never proved nothing about that.” Smiling, easy.
“You fly to the States,” Antony said.
“Yes, sir. Sort of a ferry, you might say, back and forth like
across a river.”
And Ricci watched, and listened, and thought how simple it
was, if you kept it simple, if your mind, like Antony's, went straight
to the core of the matter, considered and rejected ships which had
to dock and go through customs, passenger airlines that were sub-
ject to the same limitations. The military, he thought; we'd catch
it only after it had been used two, three times, and evidence began
to point in that direction. But he won't use it two or three times,
only once; and then he'll find another way, and each time he'll
make it a big shipment, because there's no more risk in that than
in a little one. His respect for Antony grew.
"It's easy to bring back little things,” the boy said. “A Swiss
watch somebody wants, maybe a bottle of perfume, French per-
fume, nobody pays much attention.” And he paused. "If it's some-
thing big, now—”
“Not big,” Antony said. “Not big at all. Heavy—"
"Heavy?” the boy said, and his face took on a thoughtful look.
"How heavy would that be, sir? In an airplane they watch weight.”
“Maybe ten pounds,” Antony said.
Ten pounds of gold, Ricci thought, ten pounds of platinum,
nothing compared to ten pounds of refined heroin; cut, and cut
again, and again—how many hypodermic syringes would that fill?
How many people would that
150


“Why, ten pounds isn't much, sir. I thought you were talking
maybe about”
“All right,” Antony said. “You can handle it then.” And he was
silent for a moment, watching the boy's face. “Now, money."
The boy seemed to settle in his chair. “Well, sir, that would
depend. It's valuable, I reckon—".
“Not to you,” Antony said. “It's not worth a nickel to you."
There was a small edge to his voice. "Because you can't sell it. To
anybody.”
“Only get sent to jail if I'm caught with it, is that it, sir?”
Antony was silent.
"Why," the boy said, "a thousand dollars, I reckon, wouldn't be
too much. Maybe even fifteen hundred.” His eyes were bright,
shining. And then, thoughtful again, “There's a frontier, sir, be-
tween here and the base, and—”
“No,” Antony said. “It'll be delivered to you in France, in
Nice.” He nodded his head sideways at Ricci. "He'll bring it."
And then, “I'll pay your price. But don't get ideas.”
“I'm honest as the day is long, sir. Always was."
Antony ignored it. “Five hundred in Nice. A thousand when you
deliver it in New York.”
“Why, that's fair, sir."
Antony watched him steadily. “You're a bright boy. Keep it that
way.” And this time the edge to his voice was plain, and the men-
ace that lay behind it.
Tina stayed in the car. Jenner got out. He crossed the side-
walk, went into the hotel lobby. He felt large and conspicuous;
and a measure of his resentment had returned. He told himself
that he cut a poor figure mounted on a white horse dashing in to
rescue a female in some sort of distress. Because another female
doesn't see me as a heroic, he thought, I put my feet in the gallops
and stirrup off to show her she's wrong. And he decided that he
was being idiotic, adolescent, and more than a little ridiculous.
He walked past the porter's desk. There were potted plants scat-
tered around the lobby, and a fountain tinkled in its center. There
were people, but none of them blonde, not the way Lucca's blonde
151


for reasons.” The roadblock and the police, these were nobody's
business. “Nothing happened.” Gently, “Make you feel better?”
Tina's head was high. There was color in her face. “I didn't ask.”
“But you wanted to know. Why not be honest about it?”
Jenner blinked.
Tina said, “You're in love with him, aren't you?”
“No comment.” Remembering the way he had looked, asleep,
relaxed, almost boyish. “How about you?”
“I_” Tina stopped there. Slowly, she began to smile. “Maybe.”
"Now that we have that settled,” Jenner said, and he tried, and
managed, to keep the disappointment and the hurt out of his voice.
He looked at Belle. “He said to get you away, out of sight, some-
where, anywhere."
Belle said slowly, “No.” Looking down at the note again, feel-
ing the old fear, no longer panic, merely a sort of resignation, she
thought, Sooner or later, I'll have to stop running. And if I stop
now, maybe, just maybe it will help. She didn't pretend to under-
stand how or why it might help, but the conviction was strong.
From the beginning it was my fault, all mine. Maybe Lucca would
accept that; he would have to accept it. She looked at them both.
"I've had my fling. Now,” She spread her hands. She was smiling.
Tina's chin was set, square. Jenner kept his eyes on the road.
Belle said, “I took something when I left.” She had her purse
open on her lap. She took out two passports, opened them, handed
one to Tina. “I didn't know anything about it. But you said it was
there, and it was. I was going to give it to Ricci.” She smiled again.
“Slipped my mind, I guess.”
"You were trying to help,” Tina said. “Thank you.” Her eyes
fixed on the passport in her hands. “Drive back to the village,
Pete.”
“Come again?” He looked at her in some surprise.
"Pete."
He hesitated. “But the lady said—”.
“Pete.” Tina's voice was sharper this time. Her head came up,
and she looked at Belle. “There is another hotel there. You can
stay in it, out of sight. Don't argue with me. You owe him that
much—at least to talk to him-Ricci, I mean."
154


He stood up suddenly, finding the torment of inactivity grown
too great. He crossed the room, re-crossed it. And there, beside
the chair and the telephone again, he stopped, feeling the animal
wariness stirring in his mind, a feeling, no more, a warning bell
ringing softly. Antony, Ricci, Belle, and that daughter of An-
tony's, and the business at hand, the big shipment Antony had
urged—as Niarhos and Kemel had urged, too, it was true, but still
-and the girl's passport was gone, with Belle, and did that prove
anything?
He sat down in the chair again as suddenly as he had stood up.
The warning bell rang steadily, insistently in his mind; he felt the
familiar smile spasms beginning, and he made himself ignore them.
He picked up the telephone. Giulio, he thought. It would be well to
have Giulio ready, just in case. He placed the call and sat there
waiting.
There was pride, satisfaction in Antony's voice, although
his face, the gambler's face staring straight ahead in the rear seat
of the car, showed nothing. “You're a smart boy,” he said to Ricci.
“You got up here all right. You can get into France with the junk
in the car. They don't search tourists' luggage much. Those are
their orders. And you look like a boy scout—sometimes." He
paused. “If they do want a look, make sure you open the right
suitcase, that's all."
“There won't be any trouble,” Ricci said. It was hard to hold
down the sense of jubilation, almost of triumph, concentrate on
rounding out the picture. "You think you can trust the Air Force
kid?”
Antony looked at him. “Why not? He likes a buck, you heard
him. And he's done it before, little things, watches, perfume. He's
done it the other way, too, bringing things in here when the black
market was working-cigarettes, nylons, fountain pens.” He even
smiled faintly. “How do I know?”
Ricci shook his head.
“Sometimes,” Antony said, "you aren't as bright as you think
you are.” He paused. “How did Lucca find out about you?”
He should have seen it, Ricci told himself. “Tiny Presser." He
156


nodded, remembering the grotesque fat man with his questions,
and his own knowledge that the questions had to be answered right
because Presser already knew the answers.
Antony was in a talkative mood. “Insurance companies do it.
Banks and stores do it. They set up a sort of clearing house for
information. That's why I set up Presser.”
Ricci hoped that he showed the proper blend of admiration, re.
spect. The respect, at least, was real.
“Organization,” Antony said. “So don't worry about the Air
Force kid. All the way from Niarhos and Kemel where the stuff
starts, into Presser's hands, it's tight. Once you get it across the
frontier into France.”
“There won't be any trouble,” Ricci said. And now he had it all,
he told himself. Niarhos and Kemel—if the names meant anything,
and it added up that they did; one was Greek and the other Turk-
ish, and Greece and Turkey were main sources of supply for raw
opium. Into Presser's hands—it would be, then, to the Tenth
Street apartment that the Air Force boy would make delivery.
I know both ends, and I'm the middle, and if we can catch—when
we catch Presser with the stuff in his hands After more than
a year of waiting, of tension, of fumbling and falling over his own
feet, here it was, all of it, dropped right into his lap.
He wanted to laugh aloud, to shout. He sat quiet, silent, not
looking at Antony, not trusting himself to look at Antony. His
mask of outward calm was securely in place. “Nice day,” he said.
At last, relaxed only a trifle, he allowed his mind to return to Belle.
It was dark when they reached the village. His car, Ricci saw,
had been moved. He tried not to wonder whether that meant that
Jenner had been successful or not. He followed Antony into the
hotel. From the dining room the clerk appeared, carrying his nap-
kin, wiping wine from his lips. “A telephone call for you, signor,”
he said to Antony, and he produced a slip of paper with a number
written on it.
Antony took it. He nodded. The clerk went back to his meal.
Antony looked at Ricci, and Ricci turned away and went up the
stairs. At the top he hesitated, hearing Antony begin the call. He
told himself that it was unimportant, that there was no need to try
157


to listen. He walked down the hall to Jenner's room, opened the
door and went in without knocking.
Jenner was tying his necktie at the mirror over the washstand.
He merely glanced around as the door opened and closed again.
“The car keys are on the dresser.”
“Well?” Ricci said. Then, softly, “Pete.”
“I ran your errand,” Jenner said. “I found the blonde-mer-
chandise.” He paused. “You're a hero. To both of them.” He fin-
ished the knot, gave it a last minute adjustment, turned away from
the mirror. He told himself that there was no reason to feel anger,
and yet the anger was there, pushing at him, crowding him. “Luc-
ca's female is here, at the other hotel, Room 5. She's waiting for
you.”
Ricci said slowly, “What's eating you?”
“Not a thing. What would be?”
“That's no answer.”
“It's as good a one as you're going to get."
“Why?"
Jenner picked his coat off the bed. His back was half-turned. He
put the coat on, shrugged it into place, his movements slow and
deliberate, provocative. He said nothing.
“Pete,” Ricci said.
“Go cuddle the blonde.”
"Pete,” in the soft voice this time.
“Go play at your heroics.”
Slowly he made himself unwind. “So that's it.”
“What is?” The anger, Jenner knew, was at himself, not at Ricci;
it rose from a sense of his own ignominy; it was as if he stood off
at a distance and looked at himself dispassionately, viewed himself
as Tina obviously viewed him, and did not like what he saw. Empty
wit, sideline capers, detachment, and the ability to see both sides
of any argument, without the courage to feel strongly about either.
In this moment, allowing the anger to rise uncontrolled, he dis-
liked everything about himself, and it occurred to him to wonder
that he had ever found admirable what was, really, only emptiness.
Ricci took the keys from the dresser. He dropped them in his
pocket. “Thanks, Pete. I didn't think you'd let me down.”
158


"Don't ask me. I don't know the answers.”
"If you don't, then nobody_”
“Cut it out,” Ricci said sharply. And there was a pause. “What
do you want?”
“Can I-help? Whatever you're doing? Anything at all.”
“Why?”
“I—told you."
“You've made up your mind he's no good, your father, he's like
a bug to be stepped on. Only it's different because you wouldn't
dislike a bug and you wouldn't step on him to make yourself feel
better.”
She was frowning now, puzzled.
So am I, Ricci thought; but the words and the thoughts, begun,
could not be stopped. He said slowly, “In your book you write
things down the way you would in a ledger—this is right, and this
is wrong, and that's all there is to it. And if it's right, then it's good
and you're happy with it; if it's wrong, it's bad, and if you aren't
sore about it, you should be.” He shook his head. “It doesn't work
that way, all clear and sharp. Maybe the right thing is done for
wrong reasons, bad reasons; maybe the wrong thing is done for
right reasons, good reasons—" He stopped there, his shoulders
hunched angrily. "I'm not a deep-type thinker.”
“No,” she said, “you're not.” She stood up. “Is that what a
policeman is supposed to do? Think about the reasons before he
decides a man is a-thief?”
Here, at least, he thought, he was on sound footing. “A police-
man,” he said, “does what he has to do, his job. And he does it,
or should do it, without malice. You're not a policeman,”
“I'm just malicious—is that it?”
He made himself relax; his voice came out gentle. “Think about
it. Do you like him enough to hate him? Do you know him well
enough? Or are you just trying to prove that you're better than
he is?”
"For a non-thinker you come up with odd ideas.”
He nodded slowly. “I guess I do.” He stood aside, held the door
for her. He watched her walk out, tall, straight, proud—and angry.
He closed the door again. Face it, he told himself; you like Antony,
163


no matter what he's done, what he's doing. And he was glad that
Randall had not been in this room to hear what he had said to
the girl.
It was after dinner. Ricci stood on the loggia. There were
stars and the soft blackness of the water. He watched them, and his
own thoughts. He was not aware of Antony's presence until the
quiet, uninflected voice said, “Lucca is here, in the city.”
He was glad that it was dark; he had time to compose his mind
and voice. “Is he?”
“That was my phone call,” Antony said. “He wanted to know
if everything was all right, ready.” He was silent for a moment. “I
told him it was, is."
“The-junk?”
"It will be here before morning.”
“Okay,” Ricci said, feeling again the excitement rising, the sense
of triumph.
“Everything is fine,” Antony said, "if you don't-foul it up."
He half-turned. “I don't get it."
“Sometimes you're smart,” Antony said, "and sometimes you
aren't. This time, tomorrow, you'd better be smart.” And again he
paused. “You'd better keep your mind on what you're doing.”
Ricci was silent.
“You heard me?”
“Yes,” Ricci said.
“Then remember it.” And the footsteps moved away.
Ricci waited for a time, impatient now. No one else came out
onto the loggia. He walked its length, and down the steps, strolled
out into the village square. Out for a walk, to stretch his legs
before bed, no more than this, if anyone asked. No one did. There
was a telephone at the far end of the square. He used it, and the
call went through quickly, and Randall, as always, was there at
the other end. It did not take long, and he came out again, unseen,
and resumed his strolling, feeling the satisfaction and the triumph
beating high, strong.
Niarhos and Kemel–Randall had taken the names with quiet
eagerness; the Turkish government, and the Greek, would co-oper-
164


ate, and that source, at least, would be plugged. Tiny Presser wait-
ing in New York—there had been no mistaking the satisfaction in
Randall's voice at that; the Air Force boy would be followed, un-
molested, because it was Presser they were after, and had been
after, for a long, long time. Both ends, Ricci thought, and I'm the
middle; it was like a high, fierce chant in his mind.
He strolled on, past one of the cafés. He stopped. Laughter was
flowing out, deep, pleasant laughter. He turned toward it, went
inside.
Gino was there, leaning against the bar, a glass of wine in one
great hand. He saw Ricci, and he seized him by the arm and almost
lifted him to a place by his side. He hammered on the bar top.
“Wine. For my good friend. He is from America.”.
Here he could relax, smile. "You are happy, big one."
“I am always happy."
“True.”
“But here” The deep voice changed, became solemn.
“—there—" He gestured with one enormous arm. "I am near my
own country, Ricci. I am almost home.”
“We will drink to that, big one." And to luck, he thought, luck
running strong, and to tomorrow.
Gino said, “You are happy, too, eh, Ricci? I have never seen
you sofree.”
He was up early. He took the bandage from his face,
washed the bruise Leclerc's foot had given him. He studied the
cheek carefully, lathered his face and shaved with some pain. His
hands were steady, but his mind was keyed high, tense. When he
had finished with his face, with the pancake make-up painstakingly
applied, the bruised area appeared almost normal. It was a good
omen, he thought. He dressed and packed his suitcase, let himself
out of the room and went downstairs. Antony was already there.
A second suitcase stood by the door. Ricci put his own beside it.
“Breakfast,” Antony said.
They sat together over coffee and rolls. “The suitcase has a false
bottom,” Antony said. “You'll find it when you look. On top it's
165


and plain as if it were spelled out in front of him—she had stopped
running, and gone back to Lucca.
He sat quiet, thinking this, tasting the bitterness of this. Lucca.
Lucca. And he brought a picture of the man into his mind and
stared at it, hated it, allowing his anger to rise until it almost
choked him, sitting there, hammering softly with his fist on the
steering wheel—wasting time, he told himself; sitting here and
wasting time!
He put the note beside him on the seat. The suitcase was in
the back. The Air Force boy was waiting. Two ends plugged, he
thought, and I'm the one who has to set everything in motion.
And only last night, drinking wine with Gino, that thought had
been jubilant. Only a few minutes ago, sitting with Antony, the
knowledge of success had been warm, and prideful. Now-
He started the car up the narrow road again. Even now, against
knowledge and logic, he searched the sides of the road, the trees,
the rocks; they were empty. He reached the highway, turned on
to it. And now he began to drive faster, faster.
There was no choice. Like an echo, the thought repeated itself
in his mind, No choice, no choice, nochoicenochoice ... I'm the
one who has to start the wheels turning and there's no choice.
Faster, pushing the car now, extending it, hunched over the
wheel, his elbows tucked tight against his sides. You did what
you had to do, because you were what you were—as everybody
was: Antony, Tina, Jenner, himself, Belle, and Lucca, everybody.
But I'll be back, Lucca. He tried to project the thought, launch it
into space that it might be heard everywhere. I'll be back. It was
a high fierce chant in his mind.
“You came back crawling," Lucca said. The dimple scar
came and went as he smiled in spasms barely controlled. The soft
brown eyes held a shine, a polish, like gloss on silk. His voice was
low, this too, held tight in modulation. “I told you that if you
tried to walk out on me, if you even thought about walking out
on me, you'd wish you'd never been born. You will. You hear
me?”
There was no answer, none.
168


Antony was still at his coffee, sitting quiet, his face com-
posed. It was done, he told himself, and it had not been hard. He
felt no sense of achievement, merely a need to wait. He had set
in motion forces reaching from the far end of the Mediterranean
across the broad ocean into New York; there was no longer doubt
in his mind that this was so. He could not foresee the final result of
the forces moving; he told himself this, too; and he wondered if
it was from this sense of ignorance that a vague uneasiness arose.
Lacking knowledge, exact knowledge, of the organization of which
he was now sure Ricci was a part, he had been handicapped from
the beginning, unable to foretell all moves and counter-moves.
Like a general without communications, he was operating at least
partly in the dark. And yet what else could he have done? ..
Talking with Lucca on the phone last night, telling him that
everything was set and ready, convincing him that it had to be
Ricci to carry the junk into France because Ricci was the only one
the Air Force kid knew and would accept, arguing with Lucca,
beating him down with quiet logic, winning, as he had won before,
time and time again, he had, nevertheless, felt the uneasiness
beginning then, and he had tried, and failed, to isolate its causes.
Lucca had been sullen, even vaguely menacing, like the tiger in
the cage prowling slowly, softly, looking out through the bars,
waiting. And, as in the tiger, there was, there had always been in
Lucca an animal intuition not to be forgotten.
He could go no farther than this in his search for explanations,
Antony told himself, because he knew too little. And the sense of
waiting remained, and the vague uneasiness that was not quite,
but almost, fear.
He was still at the table, his coffee long finished, when Jenner
came down from his room. “Nice day,” Jenner said. He sat down,
gave his order to the waiter. “Tina's not up yet?”
“Sleeping, I suppose,” Antony said. There was a change in
Jenner this morning, subtle but unmistakable. His air of amuse-
ment was gone, and he seemed almost subdued.
“Ricci?” Jenner began.
"He left early,” Antony said. “He had something to do." He
dismissed it. "Slept well?”
169


stripped of sham and pretense, naked and plain. It was only when
you tried to look at yourself that your vision was distorted. Now,
relentlessly, he said, “What else did you expect?”
"Maybe a miracle.” The faint smile showing again. He stood up
suddenly. “I've got some—things to do.” It was not true; he had
nothing to do, but wait. But the uneasiness was strong and would
not be denied. “I'll be back after lunch sometime."
Jenner nodded.
“When she comes down,” Antony said, and his voice now held
almost a pleading note, “take her for a walk. Or there's a beach,
and you can swim—".
“Yes,” Jenner said.
Antony hesitated. “I'm sorry. I don't think anybody'd believe
that—from membut—" And he left it there, unable to finish the
sentence aloud, wearing still the faint smile like a mask.
“I'll tell her,” Jenner said. So easy to look at others, see into
their thoughts; they were so transparent. Take another look at
yourself, boy, he thought; that's the real trick. He sat alone, sipping
the bitter coffee.
The frontier was close, and Ricci began to slow the car.
He worked his shoulders gently, relieving the stiffness and the mus-
cular tension. He saw the sign indicating Customs inspection, and
then the striped barrier across the road; and he braked to a full
stop and got out, car papers and passport in his hand.
He felt no particular nervousness, only a sense of urgency push-
ing at his mind, and he set himself against this, knowing that there
could be no hurry, that any attempt at haste would only end in
delay. He made himself smile as he walked into the building, and
he asked directions in halting, American-accented Italian, gestur-
ing with the green passport.
It did not take long: the page from the car papers torn out, the
new page stamped, his passport glanced at and stamped. He came
back out to the car. Two border guards were looking at it idly. He
smiled at them, and they nodded and touched their caps politely.
He made himself hesitate, wave passport and papers; and then he
171


opened the door of the car and reached inside, took out his own
suitcase, held it up and made opening gestures, his face a question
mark.
The nearer guard shook his head. He gestured toward the road
ahead. The other guard raised the barrier. Ricci drove through.
There was no more to it than that. And the French side of the
frontier would be, if anything, easier. Hurry, hurry! his mind said,
but he could not hurry, not yet. “No sweat," he had told Antony;
he remembered this now. God!
“Just sit tight,” Lucca said. “We'll see.”
“Get it over with, whatever it is.” Belle held her hands tight to-
gether in her lap, but there was no way to keep the tremble out
of her voice. “I—came back."
"Sure you did.” Smiling, showing the dimple, deep. It was funny,
he no longer minded waiting now. You looked forward to some-
thing, could hardly hold out until it happened, and then, when the
time came at last, you wanted to postpone the actual moment lest
it slip by too quickly. "You came back.”
Belle was silent.
“You think that fixes everything?” Lucca said. “You say, 'So
sorry' and that's it?”
She had known it was going to be bad, but not like this not
cat and mouse.
“You know what happens some places when somebody runs off
with somebody else's wife?"
“Wife,” Belle said. And then, “He didn't. I told you. I hitched
a ride, was all. He didn't know. It was my fault.” Over and over
again she had said it, but after a time even truth, like a word too
often repeated, seemed to lose its meaning.
“So now we wait and see.”
“Wait for what?”
“He knows where you are. He'll come after you."
She closed her eyes. Oh, no!
“Just sit tight, like I said.” This was part of his enjoyment,
watching her squirm.
172


Jenner had finished the bitter coffee, and the roll. He had
smoked two cigarettes. He got up slowly from the table. The sun
was high, the morning quietly gone. He strolled out on the loggia.
The Mediterranean was flat, blue, sparkling-like in the travel
posters. And on the shingle beach men and women in rope-soled
shoes worked at the eternal job of mending nets. There was an
unreality about their movements, and he told himself that it was
because he could not escape the feeling that somewhere hidden
travelogue cameras were grinding away, and presently, when the
scene was done, the men in the rope-soled shoes and their women
would line up for pay and the whole thing would be exposed
as fake.
But there was unreality, too, about his standing here watching,
and about all that had happened within the last few days, and
about the people involved-Ricci, Antony, Lucca's blonde female,
Tina upstairs, himself, particularly about himself—and this sense
of unreality he could not explain away.
He left the loggia, and went back through the dining room. It
was empty. The lobby—why did Europeans call it the hall?was
empty, too. He climbed the stairs. He had waited long enough, he
thought; and he mocked himself for the rationalization. Little Lord
Lovelorn, wanting to see if his Lady Fair will smile at him this
morning. Or even look at him. He felt better. Mockery, he told
himself, was his forte; amusement his strength; and if he kept it
that way, he could not be hurt.
He knocked on Tina's door. “Rise, sloth. Wiggle out."
There was no answer.
He knocked again, louder this time; and again, frowning, puz-
zled, the amusement suddenly fled. He tried the door. It was un-
locked. He hesitated, and then, slowly, he pushed it open, called
her name. There was still no answer, and he pushed the door wide,
and then just stood there.
Her suitcase was there, open, on the luggage stand. And the pair
of shoes he had admired-only yesterday?-stood prim beside a
chair. The bed was turned down, but its pillow was unwrinkled, its
sheets and single blanket undisturbed. The girl was gone.
173


It was a joke, of course; he tried to tell himself this. Or she had,
somehow, gone with Antony. Or-or-
He had no explanation, only a feeling of emptiness that was
almost nausea. He backed out of the room and closed the door.
He tried to think, tried to drive himself to thought, all detached
amusement gone now; but it was no good. He knew too little. He
was involved, but he didn't know in what.
And, walking back down the stairs slowly, helplessly, not know-
ing which way to turn or even how to start looking, he wished that
Ricci would come back, or Antony—somebody—to tell him what
to do. And now, at last, he felt that he was looking at himself
clearly, all sham and pretense stripped away.
The Air Force sergeant had a rented car, and in the front
seat of this they had opened the suitcase and taken out the two
packages hidden in the false bottom. Ricci closed and re-locked
the case. The sergeant said, in some surprise, “This is all of it?
This little bit?”
“That's all,” Ricci said.
“Not much bigger than a couple of pounds of butter.” And he
shook his young head, smiling. “When I think of all the trouble I
used to have finding room for cartons of cigarettes."
“That's how it goes,” Ricci said. “Some people get in the wrong
business.” He took out the money Antony had given him—ten
fifty dollar bills. “Here you are. Count it.”
“Why, I trust you,” the sergeant said, smiling still. His fingers
were busy riffling the money. He folded it and tucked it in his
pocket. “You tell Mr. Antony that I'm happy to oblige him, and
for him not to worry one little bit.”
"You've got the address on Tenth Street? And the name
Presser?”
“I'm right good at numbers and names.”
Hurry, hurry! he thought, but he made himself take his time,
play the scene all the way through, make it right, and convincing.
“We wouldn't want anything to happen to these.” He touched the
two packages on the seat between them, but his eyes did not leave
174


the sergeant's face. “It wouldn't be good if anything did.” His voice
was soft.
"I'll treat them like they were my own kin. Tell Mr. Antony—”
"No," Ricci said, softly still. “I'm telling you. You're a delivery
boy. Don't get ideas of being anything else. Play it straight, and
everything's fine. Get cute and—”
"I don't like people pushing at me, mister.”
"Good. Keep it that way and nobody'll push at you, or go look-
ing for you.”
"I'm not hard to find, if that's what you mean."
"It is,” Ricci said. “You're not at all hard to find. Just remem-
ber that."
“And I don't scare easy."
"No," Ricci said. “I don't think you do.” He paused. “But this
time you'd better be scared, good and scared, if you're smart."
And he saw the change in the boy's eyes, subtle, but there. He was
satisfied.
He opened the door and got out, the suitcase in his hand. In-
stinctively he looked around. It was a lonely road; no one was in
sight. He closed the door. Through the window he said, “Nice and
friendly, that's the way we like it. You'll remember that.”
The sergeant nodded. “You don't have to worry. Tell Mr. An-
tony that.”
"Sure,” Ricci said. He turned away to his own car. And now,
at last, he was free. Hurry, hurry! And, walking back to the car,
tossing the suitcase in, getting in himself and starting the engine,
the job done and the wheels started on their turning, his mind
could answer, Yes. Now I can hurry. I'm coming, Lucca. And
then, Belle.
Tina lay on her side, her hands and her feet tied behind
her. It was dark and stuffy, and the smells were strange smells, not
easily identifiable. She did not know where she was; she did not
know how she had come there, or why. And it was this sense of
not knowing, not understanding, that was worst of all—worse, by
far, than the discomfort, even the pain of constriction at wrist and
ankle.
175


I haven't done anything. It was a senseless thought, but it re-
peated itself over and over in her mind like a jingle or a snatch
of song that would not be forgotten. I haven't done anything. As
pointless, as ridiculous as that other wail of despair, They can't do
this to me. But no matter how she tried, the cycle of impotence
continued, rolling endlessly, its tail in its mouth, no beginning and
no end.
Lying there in the dark, trying to remember, trying to under-
stand, and failing in both, she began to cry, not noisily as a child
cries, but soundlessly, breathing through her mouth as the tears ·
increased, tasting their salt bitterness, and their frustration. And
the chant in her mind would not stop. I haven't done anything.
I haven't ...
He had come back through both frontier stations; and the
officials and the guards, witnessing his return after so brief a time,
had stared at him curiously, even, this time, looked at his suitcases
and into the trunk of the car for they knew not what. Then, re-
signed, they had dismissed him, wearing on their faces the peculiar
expression reserved by Europeans for American tourists who were,
clearly, incomprehensible_always rushing here and rushing there.
He should, of course, have stayed overnight in France in order
to escape this close attention; but whether the frontier people re-
membered him or not no longer mattered because the wheels were
already turning and the long masquerade was at an end, or almost.
He drove as fast as the little car would go, pushing it recklessly
around the sweeping turns of the road. He did not question the
sense of urgency that crowded him, drove him. What he began, he
had told Belle, he liked to finish. But it was more than that, much
more.
It was relief that the end of the job had begun—not finished, of
course, because Lucca and Antony were still to be tied in with the
shipment now on its way, and how that was to be accomplished, he
had no clear idea, yet.
But it was more than relief, too. It was anger, hatred, even,
strong and bitter in his thoughts, against Lucca, and the power that
Lucca controlled, but mostly against Lucca himself. The man was
176


simple, uncomplicated, so simple and so uncomplicated that he
was frightening. What he wanted, he took; what he had, he kept.
Everyone had something to hold him back, some scruples, some
inner obedience to the rules of conduct that enabled men to live
together. Lucca had none, and there, really, was the root of the
hatred; the realization that a man like Lucca could not live amongst
other men, could not be allowed to live amongst other men. But it
was more, even, than hatred.
It was Belle who was the heart and focus of his urgency. I let
· her down. All the way along. I've let her down. And he found him-
self remembering what, in his omniscience, he had said last night
about motives and actions, and he applied it to himself. I meant
well; everything I did in letting her down was wrong, but for the
right reasons. And this, at the bottom, was worst of all.
She bore him no malice; he almost wished that she did. Instead,
in her own way, out of her own wisdom, which was a strange word
to apply to Belle and yet it was the only word, she understood and
accepted, and made no complaint, looked things in the eye and saw
them as they were, not as she might have wished them to be. There
was a gallantry to her-he had seen this before and in the pres-
ence of her gallantry he felt humble and ashamed, and determined.
Yet it was more than this, too, more than humility, shame, deter-
mination. He had, for the final motive, the basic motive, under-
lying all of the others, no one word, only a name—Belle.
Antony's voice had altered, lost its quiet uninflected de-
tachment. Facing Jenner here on the loggia, he had seemed to
grow, and then, suddenly, unaccountably, to shrink. “Go upstairs
to her room and look?” he said. “Why? What good?” He seemed
old, tired.
“Tell me what to do,” Jenner said, “because I don't know.”
Antony merely looked at him.
"I don't know enough even to guess,” Jenner said. “And maybe
that's my fault, and maybe it isn't, it doesn't matter.” In a way,
out of the waiting for Antony's return, out of the sense of helpless
impotence, he had achieved a sort of equilibrium, a coming to
177


terms with himself, a recognition of his own limitations. He felt
calmer. "I thought of calling the police ”
“No police,” Antony said. He roused himself, made the effort to
throw off the feeling of age, of fatigue, the sense of failure. He
might have heeded the vague uneasiness this morning, and he
blamed himself that he had not, but he had ignored it, and that
was that. But he doubted if anything he could have done would
have altered matters by the smallest margin. From the beginning,
there had been an inexorability to the pattern of events, one step
leading inevitably to the next as if each action and each motive
had been foreordained, written, as the Moslems had it; and nothing
that anyone could have done would have changed it. What would
be, would be. Struggle was futile, but it, too, was written, and so it
had to be continued, even though his heart was no longer in it.
“No police,” he said again.
“I'm over my depth,” Jenner said. “I admit it.”
And Antony nodded. “Find your niche, and then stay in it. I
didn't. That was my original mistake.” And, in the customary un-
inflected voice, “Stay here.” He turned away.
Jenner said, “Will you tell me where you're going?” He watched
Antony hesitate, and then, incongruously, smile faintly with no
amusement, only regret, acceptance.
“I'm going to arbitrate,” Antony said.
He walked out to the car. He beckoned to Luigi. He got into
the rear seat and settled himself. The girl's passport had been
taken; that had been the first warning that she was to be the lever
for Lucca to use. Now the girl herself was gone, and he had no
doubts of the meaning of that. She was a hostage against the safe
delivery of the shipment Ricci had carried in the suitcase; and he
thought of the wheels already turning, and he doubted that they
could be stopped. Struggle was futile, he knew this; and arbitration
would fail. Still-
Something else came into his mind then, dropped into his con-
sciousness as if it had been waiting all this time for this moment,
one more small action, long since forgotten, which, at the time, had
seemed to be unrelated to anything else, merely dictated by imme-
diate circumstance. But it had been related; and now, of course,
178


chair. She clung to the arm until the first shock passed. Then she
sat up straight again, her hands together once more in her lap.
“Feel better?” she said.
Ricci's drive was done. He parked the little car, rolled up
the windows, took time to lock the suitcase in the trunk against
petty theft-doing these things quickly, automatically, his mind
clear and sharp now, skipping no details.
There was a back entrance to the Hotel Metropole. He walked
to it and went inside. Nobody stopped him. And there were back
stairs, as he had been sure there would be. He went up them two
at a time, counting the floors as he passed each landing, reminding
himself that the fourth floor was actually the fifth because Euro-
peans did not count the ground floor.
He opened the door of the landing, and looked down the hall-
way. Nobody was in sight. He stepped through, walking steadily,
without obvious haste, watching the numbers on the doors. A few
days ago he had done this, heading for Leclerc's room, but that
time he had been reluctant; this time he was not. He knocked at
the door of 407.
. When the door opened, he was ready, tensed, poised, his mind
prepared. He hit the door hard with his shoulder, felt it strike
something, and then swing free. And he went into the room in a
rush, the eagerness unrestrained now, the entire tableau open
before him: Lucca, caught in the moment of regaining his balance,
his movements frozen, and his face caught in the act of surprise;
Belle, in her stocking feet, a shoe raised, its heel pointing down-
wards looking not at Lucca but at Ricci, beyond him—and she was
frozen, too.
“No!” Belle said, loud and sharp. “No! Ricci!”
He managed to stop himself. He did not know how, but it was
unimportant. He stood quiet, understanding, tasting the bitterness
of one more failure, one more mistake. And he felt the hard pres-
sure of the gun in the small of his back, although the pressure was
not really necessary.
Lucca said in Italian, “Close the door.” The sound of its closing
seemed loud in the quiet room.
180


“You'll get her back,” Lucca said, “when the junk is delivered,
when I hear from Tiny. Not before.”
Ricci's hand tightened on Belle's, and he waited, partially under-
standing now, not wanting to interfere.
"Suppose,” Antony said without inflection, “it isn't delivered,
Angelo? Or suppose something happens when it is?”
“So it's like that,” Lucca said, and all the loudness was gone
now; his voice was quite soft.
“Ask him,” Antony said. Then, to Ricci, before Lucca could
speak, “Can you stop it? What you've started?”
Ricci was silent.
"His name,” Antony said, “is Bellanca, not Morelli. The nar-
cotics people sent him over here ”
“And you've known it all along," Lucca said.
"No."
“I say yes."
Everything that had been said had been leading up to this, An-
tony thought; and now, watching Lucca's face, studying it and see-
ing the conviction that was in it, conviction that no amount of
argument or logic would ever be able to shake, he told himself that
he had known from the moment he entered the room that this was
what he would have to deal with. He said quietly, “I have proof,
Angelo.” The logical voice, the patient voice, distinct and unhur-
ried. To Ricci, “You left something in the car the night I drove
you to the garage. Do you remember?”
"No."
"Think,” Antony said. “You're a smart boy. Just before you got
out you left it, and maybe you meant to get it back, but you
didn't.”
Ricci searched his memory, searched it again. There was only
one thing he had left in the car, left, actually, in Antony's hand,
and until now, occupied with other things, other thoughts, he had
forgotten all about it. Belle had been behind them in a taxi that
night, but neither he nor Antony had known that; it might have
been the police, and Antony had said in the same quiet voice he
used now, that it would not be good for the police to pick Ricci
up and find a gun on him, and so he had given the gun to Antony.
184


It was the gun he was talking about, as if he were giving clues on
a quiz program.
"It's been in the car all along,” Antony said. "I found it today.
I have it here.” He put his hand in his pocket.
"I remember,” Ricci said, and he hoped that the tension he felt
did not show. His hand still held Belle's, squeezed them. Marco
was close, and Marco's attention was on Antony. And Lucca was
clear across the room. Ricci still did not understand completely,
but he told himself that it made no difference. He was conscious
that Belle watched him, and Antony; Lucca's eyes, brown and shin-
ing, were fixed on his face. Ricci took a deep breath. He let his
shoulders slump. “All right,” he said sullenly. “You win. Show it
to him.”
"It's very interesting, Angelo,” Antony's voice began quietly,
and Ricci waited to hear no more.
It was impossible to jump from the sitting position on the sofa.
Instead, he dove, launching himself at Marco, concentrating on
this and only on this. He saw Marco's head swing around, the gray
eyes unblinking. And the gun moved without hesitation. Behind
him, he heard Belle's sudden, indrawn breath, but that was the
only sound in the room. And the gun was almost around, almost
pointing at his face.
He grabbed, caught the gun and the hand that held the gun in
his own hand, halted their movement, or at least slowed it. And
then his shoulder crashed into the little man's stomach, drove him
back against the wall. And from his knees, using the full force of
his body, Ricci threw his head upwards against the chin he sensed
was there, felt skull and chin strike with crunching force. And he
snatched the gun from the small limp hand and rolled clear, and
rolled again, came up to his knees facing out into the room. Out
of the corner of his eye he saw Marco falling, his entire body un-
hinged. But that was not where his attention lay.
Antony's back was to him, and Antony's hand was clear of his
pocket, and the gun he held was in front of his body, hidden. But
it was there; Lucca's face proved that. Anthony's voice said, “All
right?”
185


might 2 youth
said, "
"All right,” Ricci said. He stood up slowly, wary still. On the
sofa Belle sat motionless.
Antony turned slowly. He looked at Ricci. He looked down at
the gun in his own hand. He shook his head. Step by step, he
thought, and each step deeper into impotence-because it had to
be; there was no other way. He felt old, and tired, looking again
at Ricci, at the blood on Ricci's face, at his youth and his strength
-his sureness. I'll never know what might have been, what I might
have been. Waste. And he said, "So.”
Ricci said slowly, “You knew how much?” It no longer mat-
tered; the masquerade was done.
“About you? What difference? What I didn't know I guessed."
“You asked me if I could stop what I started.”
“Yes. You have it all, or should have—Niarhos and Kemel the
source, Tiny Presser the end—"
"And you gave me the job in the middle so I could be sure." He
wanted it plain, clear, spelled out.
Antony said, “Would you have believed me if I'd just told you?”
Ricci was silent.
"I—tried,” Antony said. “But you couldn't see it. Whatever I
said, I was still—” He paused. “_Joe Antony.” And, lest there be
misunderstanding, “I didn't blame you. I don't now.”
“The wrong things for the right reasons,” Ricci said. Or maybe
it was the other way around. He didn't know. With something of a
shock, it came to him that he didn't much care. I'm not God to
pass judgment on anybody. “All right,” he said. His eyes had never
really left Lucca, and now, seeing the tenseness in the man, he
said softly, “Try something. I wish you would.” Then, “Where's
the girl? Where's Tina?”
"I can't hear you,” Lucca said. The soft brown eyes held their
gloss, like silk, and the scar dimple was plain.
Antony made a small vague gesture. His voice, when it came,
was no longer uninflected, and its detachment was gone. “She
hasn't done anything, Angelo.”
“Too bad. I told you when you'd get her back.”
Antony looked at Ricci. "I asked you once. Can you stop what
you started?"
ar dimple ture. His vont was gone
186


“No.”
Antony said, “The Air Force kid is on his way, and they—your
people—are waiting for him at the other end, but they won't touch
him until he gets to Presser, puts the stuff in Presser's hands, is
paid.” Quietly, hopelessly, recapitulating the facts, the circum-
stances.
“Yes,” Ricci said. “But I can't stop it.”
And from the sofa Belle said gently, “Would you stop it if you
could?”
Ricci looked at her then, still not letting Lucca out of his vision.
He took his time, although he knew the answer without thought or
hesitation. No choice, no choice, the chant seemed to begin again
in his mind. “No," he said.
"A tough kid,” Antony said. “I called you that. You are.” And
he turned to Lucca again. “Angelo "
"Can't hear a word you're saying, Joe.” Smiling still. There was
silence, only the sound of the clock ticking on the mantel.
Antony said, “You've lost, Angelo—”
"Have I? Prove it.”
“What good does the girl"
“What girl?” And there was silence again.
Ricci took a deep breath. The anger was there, the hatred, and
he fought them down, mastered them. “I could beat it out of you.”
"Could you?”
"Or maybe I couldn't. I don't know.”
"Make up your mind. You're a bright boy, almost as bright as
Joe here.”
Belle said slowly, “How did he know I was here? That I wanted
to sell some jewelry?”
Ricci looked at her, stared at her.
“Does that help?” Belle said. “Or maybe it doesn't.”.
"It does,” Ricci said, and he blamed himself that he had not
thought of it. He looked at Antony. "I'll find her.” And he saw
the relief in Antony's face.
“You know where she is?”
"I can find out. Keep him away from the telephone.”
Antony hesitated, nodded. He seemed to gather himself. “Yes."
187


alone in that hotel room, and he didn't really know the reason for
that, either. He thought of Tina, who had no part in all of this,
and yet who was, actually, the fulcrum on which the forces bal-
anced one another, and so she was involved despite herself. And
Belle, too, sitting quiet on her side of the seat, Belle, whom he had
called once his good-luck charm. He turned to look at her. “I'm
sorry,” he said. “Forget it. I didn't mean to snap at you.”
She smiled. “It didn't hurt.” Much, she added silently. They
spoke no more until they reached the village, pulled to a stop in
front of the hotel. Jenner was on the loggia. He came down the
steps two at a time on his long legs.
“Where's Antony?”
"He's all right,” Ricci said. He got out of the car. He worked
his shoulders.
“And what happened to your face?”
"I ran into something. Forget it.” Belle was out, too, and Ricci
looked at her. “You stay here. With Pete.”
“Look,” Jenner said. “Tina's—”
Belle touched his arm. “He knows.” Her voice was quiet. She
watched Ricci turn, walk across the square, middle-sized, solid,
purposeful. “That's why he's here,” she said. She put her hand on
Jenner's arm. “We wait,” she said.
“But—"
"Waiting,” Belle said, “is the hard part. And he knows that,
too."
Jenner looked down at her. “Is that it? You're trying to build
me up? It's that plain that I've sprung some seams?”
“Beating yourself over the head,” Belle said, “because you're not
what—he is?”
Jenner was silent.
“Maybe he isn't what you are, had you thought of that?” And
she watched his eyes widen a trifle. “The same way,” she said,
"that I'm not what-Antony's daughter is.” And she smiled. “It
takes a little getting used to."
“What does?”
“That you can't be everything. Nobody can.”
189


"I decided not to wait,” Antony said.
“I know.” Ricci's voice was quiet, gentle. All of the pieces fitted
now, everything was plain. Watching Antony's face, seeing its gray-
ness, trying not to look at the great stain spreading on Antony's
coat, knowing with an odd, sure clarity that the man was beyond
help, he said now, “You meant to kill him. That was why you sent
Belle with me. You knew when you took that gun out of your
pocket that that was what you had to do."
“You're a bright boy,” Antony said. “Sometimes.” It was the
quiet, uninflected voice, and there was the faintest of smiles tug-
ging at the corners of his eyes. “He should have been-destroyed
-a long time ago." His eyes moved, went beyond Ricci to Tina
coming down the steps, running down the steps.
Antony made no move as she leaned into the car, far into the
car. He said, as if he were speaking to Lucca, almost apologizing
to Lucca, "I did want–” And he stopped there. He seemed to
wait.
The girl said slowly, quietly, finding no pain in the saying, only
the one word, “Father."
And it was as if a curtain were lifted, he thought, and he was
no longer blind, and the great truth was exposed in all of its gran-
deur and simplicity. “The best I could,” he said.
The hotel seemed quiet. It was morning, bright, clear; the
hills rising out of the sea seemed sharp in their outline. Jenner,
sitting at his coffee, said, “Will the medal be gold, with maybe a
diamond or two stuck in it somewhere?” And then, hearing the
words aloud and finding them somehow-juvenile—“That isn't
really very funny, is it? I'm sorry.”
Ricci said slowly. “It doesn't matter, Pete.” It had been a job,
he thought, and now it was done, and he was tired, empty-feeling
inside. His shoulder was stiff, sore, but the pain had ended; he kept
his hand in the pocket of his coat. He had telephoned Randall, re-
ported Lucca's death, and Antony's, verified the delivery of the
packages to the Air Force boy; and in Randall's voice there had
been as much satisfaction as Randall ever allowed himself to ex-
press. Ricci told himself that he should feel pride, even triumph;
195


and he did not. Triumph was a Dead Sea fruit, tasteless as ashes;
achievement was nothing, satisfaction lay only in the striving-
funny thoughts; they needed Antony's quiet voice, his detachment,
to give them meaning.
I killed him, Ricci thought. I left him there with Lucca, and so
I killed him just as surely as I killed Leclerc. My fault.
Jenner stood up quite suddenly. He smiled at Tina, held a chair
for her, sat down again. The girl looked at them both and said,
"I'm going into Genoa. There'll be a ship."
Ricci said nothing. Jenner shook his head. "No ship.”
“Then an airplane. There are flights”
“No airplane. No water wings.”
She was frowning now.
“You want to go off and forget,” Jenner said. “You want to go
back and pretend nothing ever happened.”
They both watched him in silence.
“Even I know better than that,” Jenner said.
Ricci opened his mouth and closed it again. Inwardly he smiled,
a quiet smile, Antony's smile.
“Responsibility,” Jenner said. He seemed almost embarrassed.
“Funny word.”
"I have no responsibility,” the girl said. “What do you want me
to do? There's nothing—” She stopped there. She looked from one
face to the other.
Ricci was silent, expressionless.
“Damn it,” Jenner said. “You're a big girl. You don't just-
walk out." And he wore the embarrassed expression again. “I seem
to be reading somebody else's lines.” He paused. He shook his
head stubbornly. “It doesn't make any difference how you get on
stage, maybe somebody pushes you out from the wings, but you're
there, and you stay there until your part is finished.” He looked at
Ricci. “Am I blushing?”
Ricci allowed the inward smile to show. He nodded. His voice
was quiet, uninflected, detached-Antony's voice. “You are."
"Well,” Jenner said. “That's all.” And he started to rise.
Tina said, “Will you tell me what to do, Pete?” It was a strange
voice, a small voice, and her head was bent, her face hidden.
196


Words, sometimes, were difficult things; it was necessary to
choose them with care because words were, in effect, thoughts
given life, and thoughts were rare and precious things, delicate,
fragile, not to be harshly treated. “No," Gino said. “It is hard to
explain, but I will try.” He frowned in concentration. “A man must
choose the things he wants most, and for each man the things may
be different, and for each man the time of choice may be different,
too.” He paused. “In the end, I think, each man must find the
place where he belongs, where he feels comfortable and at ease.”
He shook his big head helplessly. "I cannot explain more fully than
that."
199


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