EIGHTY-ONE

“HEY,” Gino Benedetto cried. “What kind of polizia are you, that you have to take a taxicab?”

“The kind who doesn’t want to alert your accomplices we’re coming,” Matt countered, in a fair imitation of Franco’s “cop voice.”

“Makes me wonder,” said Benedetto.

“Don’t wonder. Worry. We have backup just minutes away.” Matt shifted the banana hidden inside his jacket. “And remember, I’m armed.”

At Matt’s urging, Benedetto gave the exact address to the cab driver.

“Where are you taking us?” I asked the old man.

“Not far. They are here in Brooklyn. A home in Carroll Gardens.”

“A private home?”

“It’s a rental. Airbnb. The Campanas don’t have a lot of money to stay in a fancy hotel.”

I thought about Donatella’s expensive clothes, sterling silver lighter, and designer eyewear. “That doesn’t jibe with the facts. I’ve seen Donatella, and she dresses like a queen.”

“It’s all on the credit cards,” he said. “The Campanas of Florence have fallen far. Their once-honored jewelry business now consists of selling trinkets made in China to gullible tourists. But they put on a good show. Keeping up with the Smiths, as you Americans say.”

“It’s the Joneses,” I corrected. “If the Campanas of Florence are so poor, why did you go to them after Gus cut off your blackmail payments?”

“It’s true, signora, I did hope Donatella or Bruno would pay me money for the news that the Eye was not at the bottom of the ocean. That didn’t work out so well for me, so we made another arrangement.”

“You would help them get the Eye for a piece of the action . . .”

He nodded.

“Your English is pretty good for a man who lives in Rome.”

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I worked for the Italia Line a long time ago. English was required.”

“And since then?”

“After the Andrea Doria, that man you know as Gus sent me the quiet money—”

“Hush money.”

“Whatever!” he said. “It was a lot of money. So I stopped working. For a while I entertained ladies: eager tourists, lonely housewives, bored little rich girls. My English got pretty good. I became so popular the women were soon entertaining me.”

“What exactly do you mean by entertaining?”

“A gift here, a gratuity there, gold cuff links, diamond stickpins. A Rolex. Maybe a month’s rent. Just little tokens of their esteem—”

“Good God, Clare. This man is a gigolo!”

“Eh, scusami! It’s a living. And I do it well. Customer satisfaction has always been my goal.”

“So why did you grab Mrs. Dubois?” Matt demanded.

“We had a plan,” Benedetto confessed. “The Campanas and I. We know the woman means something to Gus, so we were going to trade her for the Eye of the Cat. Gus going to the hospital ruined that plan.”

“How were you going to fix it?”

“Bruno says the lady’s son inherited the Eye along with Sophia Campana. We are going to send him a ransom note—”

“With the poor woman’s finger, or her ear, included in the envelope?” Matt growled. “You’re no better than those ruthless kidnappers in South America—”

“Che schifo! We are not barbarians, sir! I would never touch a hair on that sweet woman’s head. Why, if she were younger, I would make the love to Mrs. Dubois. Si, fare l’amore! Sadly, Blanche is too old for a virile man like myself.”

Matt stared at Benedetto. “You’re at least eighty. What are you, delusional?”

He shrugged. “I prefer younger women.” His leering interest shifted to me—or more accurately, my cleavage. “Like this belladonna beside me.”

If I’d had dinner, I would have lost it then. Suddenly, I wanted out of this cab as fast as possible. Fortunately, we’d arrived at our destination.

When the cab sped away, it left us on a quiet one-way street with three- and four-story brick and sandstone row houses on either side. A few blocks away, a revitalized Court Street teemed with bistros, bars, bakeries, banks, and boutiques, but on Union Street you could hear a diamond stickpin drop.

Benedetto led us up a flight of concrete steps. He reached for a doorbell, but Matt stopped him.

“We cannot get in unless they buzz the door,” said Benedetto.

Matt shook his head. “We need the element of surprise.” He studied the sturdy door, and the leaded glass panels on either side.

Benedetto smirked. “I told you—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Matt reached into both of the old man’s white pants pockets and turned them inside out. Coins scattered on the ground.

Matt ripped one pocket free, then the second.

“Eh! These are tailored pants!”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find someone who will entertain you with a new pair.”

Matt slipped both pockets over his right hand. With the makeshift boxing glove in place, he punched the glass panel. The first blow cracked the glass, the second shattered it. Then he reached through the gap and turned the doorknob from the inside.

A wallpapered foyer led to a short hall with three doors. Benedetto stopped in front of Number Two.

“Are there any guns in there?” Matt asked.

“What do you care? You have a gun, too.”

Matt grabbed his scrawny neck. “That’s not an answer.”

“I never saw a gun,” Benedetto wheezed. “But Bruno might carry one.”

“Knock,” Matt commanded. “Then call Bruno to the door.”

He did. It took a moment for a muffled response. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Bruno. I have news.”

A shadow crossed the peephole. Matt and I stayed out of sight.

“Gino! What’s going on?”

As he spoke, Bruno unlocked the door.

As soon as it opened a crack, Matt surged forward and kicked it the rest of the way in.