Vincent and Bob stepped off the train at Wilson, North Carolina. Vincent stretched his back, grateful for the relief from the full day ride. He disliked trains intensely, especially since they had degraded to nothing more than filthy carriages which never ran on time. But the plane connections were out of the question, flying to Washington, then changing to a local to Raleigh, and finally a train to Wilson. Bob wanted to drive, but Vincent had never really gotten over his aversion to cars since his wife, Bernice, and his twin sons had been killed.
It had actually turned out to be an agreeable trip in one respect; it had provided him with the first real opportunity of getting to know Rose and Vito’s oldest son. Bob had always been the quiet one, very much like his father, but it was evident that he would be the largest of the DiStephanos once he got a bit more flesh on his bones. He was studying pre-law at Harvard, and had kept his uncle talking shop since leaving Chicago. Vincent had been pleasantly surprised at the gut-deep questions asked by his nephew, and the mature insight displayed when Vincent had fielded some of the questions and rifled them back.
“There’s a whole world of people to help out there,” Bob had said with his quiet earnestness. “Black people, Indians, Mexicans. Attorneys should lead these programs, not ultra rightists and leftists. There will be an explosion if some hard-hatted labor union types decide to take the lead.”
“There are presently quite a number of lawyers involved,” replied Vincent. “I daresay they blanket the entire shebang.”
“Young fellows, just out of school. What we need are professionals who care more about people than massive incomes.”
“Well, everyone would like to see that, but human nature cannot be overlooked. Most attorneys, by the time they pass the bar, are smack in the middle of their acquisition period of life. They’ve spent ten years or more, and a whale of a lot of money, to prepare themselves. Now they have to acquire a wife, house, car, office, furniture, kids - and God knows what.” His eyes twinkled. “Most of them don’t have rich dads like you and me.”
“I find nothing wrong with that, Uncle Vincent. What I do find wrong is that most of them see only the dollar. They can still earn an adequate income and help people. Look at you and Uncle Michael. I know you made scads of money in private practice, but gave it up to take the bench. And Uncle Michael could triple his income if he did less work for the hospital.”
“A good man deserves a little extra.”
“Okay, give him a bit extra. But who needs these absurd earnings. I’m speaking of those making a hundred thousand and more. They can live quite satisfactorily with twenty or thirty thousand and devote part of their time to causes and people who need their expertise desperately.”
“They are professionals, Bob. Professionals are worth more than that.”
“What about Uncle Paul? He’s a real professional. His salary isn’t more than twenty thousand a year, yet he gives his all anyhow.”
Vincent found that he could easily agree with the boy. However, Wilson, North Carolina had been called by the conductor, so he shelved the discussion for the trip back.
They checked their bags at the station, entered a taxi, and Vincent gave the driver an address. In just minutes the taxi stopped on an oak-lined street in front of a large building. It had once been a lovely house when built sixty or seventy years ago, but had been converted into apartments during the thirties. Time had taken a heavy toll of its former beauty. Vincent paid the driver, then he and the boy walked up the steps to a wide veranda and into a high hallway. Vincent slipped on his reading glasses.
“Here it is,” said Bob. “Mr. and Mrs. Howard Beaker.” He motioned down the hallway. “They have Apartment Three.”
At the entrance to the apartment, Vincent rang the bell. “Coming,” called a woman’s voice, and the door opened. She was in her mid-twenties, so completely Italian that Vincent found himself thinking of the words he was about to say in that language. She was short, buxom, olive skinned, with dark brown hair and eyes, and the full lower lip which is so characteristic. She was a very pretty woman, radiating warmth and good humor.
“Mrs. Beaker?” he asked.
“Yes.” She eyed him levelly, recognizing their Italian blood as readily as they had hers.
“I am Judge Vincent DiStephano, of the New York Supreme Court.” Vincent felt a qualm at using his title, but he had to overawe her quickly. Her eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed. Like all Italians, she was going through the usual conflict of respect for a professional and reticence before authority. “This is my nephew, Robert Donini. We would like to speak to you about a personal matter.”
Feeling welled up into her brown eyes, as if she understood what they were there for. Slowly she stepped back and motioned them inside.
The apartment was small, clean, smelling of rich Italian cooking. Vincent and Bob took seats pointed out by the woman. She remained standing.
“Mrs. Beaker,” said Vincent. “Is your husband at home?”
“No, he is at work. What do you want?”
“We have come from Chicago.” Her eyes grew more guarded and the features of her face tightened. “We will be speaking in all confidence, so what you say will not be repeated. About ten years ago, you had an involvement with Caesar Bonazzi.”
“Oh, my God,” whispered the woman, sitting down heavily on a straight backed chair.
“Please, Mrs. Beaker, do not become disturbed. All that is past history, and we have no intention of prying into your life or causing you any trouble.”
“How did you know about that?” she asked, trying to keep a calm voice.
“Let it suffice to say that we know a great deal more than we plan to discuss. All that is of no importance. Most of all, we do not wish to bring up this distasteful subject in front of your husband.” He saw that his barb had struck home. “The moment we have finished our discussion, we will leave Wilson to return to Chicago.”
The comments about avoiding her husband and soon leaving Wilson brought obvious relief to her. She relaxed in her chair. “Just what are you here for, then?”
“We want some information about Bonazzi. We know that he impregnated you approximately ten years ago. That is correct, isn’t it?” The woman remained silent. A nerve pulsed in her throat. Vincent leaned forward. “First of all, in which state did you have your abortion?” The woman’s face grew grim and her jaw locked shut. Vincent waited until he realized she would not reply, then continued. “Mrs. Beaker, you can either cooperate, and no one will be the wiser, or we can make a lot of racket finding out this information elsewhere, which we will do. We are taking this course - speaking to you directly by yourself - to make certain we do not complicate your life any further. You have to make the decision now.” He sat back to wait her out. It did not take long.
“I don’t see why you want to know about the abortion,” she finally said.
“It’s really not important. It was mentioned only to determine if you would cooperate.”
“Then why don’t we just drop it,” she said, her jaw firming up again.
“I would be quite willing to leave the subject if I felt you were speaking frankly. Answering the question is my way of determining that. However, I’ll make it easier for you. Did you have the abortion in the northern part of the United States or in the south?”
Bob had been mystified when his uncle suddenly pulled out this abortion bit. Learning the name of the girl whom Bonazzi had impregnated ten years ago had been relatively simple. Uncle Anthony had obtained that the very next day, probably from the person who had told Father Brennan in the first place. With this vital bit of information, Uncle Dominic and Junior had worked around the clock tracking down her family, which was not as easy, since they had moved from Chicago a few months after the incident. In time they learned that the father, mother, brother and a young sister had gone to California. Dominic and Junior borrowed Vito’s jet to fly there. For days they haunted a bar where the thirty-year-old brother drank and played darts in before managing a casual meeting with him. As soon as they mentioned they were Italians from Chicago, the brother tripped over his feet to buy them a drink. A few rounds later, they had compared family trees and people they knew back home. The next morning, armed with the news that the sister had married a fellow from down south, had a daughter six years old, and was living in Wilson, North Carolina, they flew back home.
“Good work, Dom, and you too, Junior,” Ettore said with satisfaction. He turned to Vincent. “This is your cup of tea, Vince.”
Vincent nodded. “I’ll take Bob along.”
“Thanks, Uncle Vincent,” Bob responded, almost floating on air to be singled out by this very important judge. Then he chuckled. “Do we split fees?”
“Bob!” said his father with pretended severity, trying to keep a straight face. Vincent was not the type of person one joked with.
Vincent’s brow furrowed for a brief second, then he guffawed, to the relief of the others. “All right, son,” he chuckled. “As long as we keep it in the family.”
“Take the plane,” said Vito. “I’ll need it tomorrow for a short trip, but you can have it the day after.”
“Bert has to go to Boston the day after tomorrow for his teeth,” said Rose.
“Put him on a commercial line,” said Vito.
“Never mind about us,” said Vincent. “We’ll go by train.”
This had precipitated a family argument, each one trying not to use the plane, but Vincent had prevailed.
Bob continued to ponder, sitting in the chair in Mrs. Beaker’s apartment, how Uncle Vincent guessed she had had an abortion. She could just as easily have given the child away at birth, since it was quite clear that it didn’t live here. Two pictures, one of her husband, a medium sized, brown haired man with friendly smile, and a six-year-old girl, a replica of her mother, rested on a table. If she had had, and kept, Bonazzi’s child, it would have been over nine years old now.
Bob’s mind stopped wandering when Mrs. Beaker answered Vincent’s question. “It was in the north.”
“Who paid for it?” asked Vincent.
He noted a dark shade cross her eyes. Years of questioning witnesses as a defense attorney, prosecuting attorney, and from the bench had trained him to know what most signs signified. He had hit upon something important.
“I guess it was Chet’s father,” she said casually.
“Mrs. Beaker,” he rasped. “I don’t want evasive answers.”
“It’s the truth,” she replied indignantly.
“I know quite well it’s the truth,” said Vincent. “I know a great deal more than you suspect. I have been testing you with certain questions. But if you continue to be misleading or don’t answer honestly, I would rather drop all this and find out the details elsewhere. It will be as noisy as a bull in a china closet, and will take a bit longer, but I won’t be burdened with half-truths or false answers. How all this will affect you is your own concern. Now, what is it to be?”
The woman was shocked by the attack. “I didn’t mean to be evasive,” she said, her voice implying how frightened she was to have Vincent rake up a fuss. “I’ve told you the truth.”
“Yes, but there is a lot more to it than you are indicating. I want to know all the details. Where and when did it happen?”
She took a deep breath. “Last May it was ten years ago,” she mused. Another long breath. “Chet had just gotten his driver’s license and called me to go out for a ride. We had had a few dates by then, and got along fine. He hadn’t been fresh or anything, and my parents thought the world of him. Out by the lake is a small restaurant where the owner grills hot dogs outside. They were really great. When we had our snack, he drove to one of the lovers’ lanes nearby. Chet and I had necked a few times, but it was just kid stuff, you know. He knew I wouldn’t allow a fellow to go too far. We kissed and petted for a while, then all of a sudden he got fresh. I told him to quit or I would walk home, but he didn’t stop, so I opened the door and got out. He called after me, saying I shouldn’t become mad, that he wouldn’t get fresh any more, and to come back into the car.
“I was still pretty sore because I liked Chet a lot and he should have known that a good girl doesn’t do those things, so I kept walking.”
She stopped talking and lowered her head. “Then what happened?” prodded Vincent gently.
“The next thing I knew Chet had gotten out of the car and slipped up behind me. He wrestled me to the ground, and kept saying, “Damn it, I told you to come back.” I really became scared, so I told him to let me up and that I never wanted to speak to him again. He didn’t even listen to me, but kept saying, “Damn it, I told you to come back.” He got on top of me, and......” Her face flushed dark red.
“Go ahead,” said Vincent. “Get it all out.”
“Well, he kept going up and down, you know, like he was making love to me without really doing anything. I laid real still, hoping he’d get over it after a while. Then he stopped and opened his pants. I couldn’t help myself, I began to fight and yell. Then......” her voice dropped, “.....he began to choke me.”
Bob almost rose from his seat, but a short, hard sign from Vincent halted him in his tracks. Vincent seemed as calm as if he had heard all this a dozen times.
“Did he hold your neck to keep you from squirming?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said Mrs. Becker vehemently. “He choked me.”
“Then what happened?”
“I quit fighting,” she said weakly, eyes lowering in embarrassment.
“What did Bonazzi do after that?”
“When he finished, he got up and just drove away, leaving me on the ground. I walked back to the restaurant and called my father. I guess I was pretty near hysterical. Papa came and took me home. But before he could phone the police, two men walked in and talked with him.”
“Bonazzi’s father’s men?”
“I suppose so. Papa didn’t say anything to me about it, but Mama told me later. The men warned Papa that if he went to the police, everybody in Chicago would know about it. They talked and shouted, and right afterwards Papa took me to a specialist. We didn’t have that kind of money, for that kind of doctor, so I guess the men paid for it. The doctor made some tests, probably to make sure I did have intercourse. I was supposed to have my period ten to twelve days later, but it didn’t come. A couple of months afterwards I had a D and C.”
“Did Bonazzi pay you any money?”
“Papa gave me a thousand dollars. I know darned well he got the money from Chet’s father.” She spoke bitterly. “Papa certainly was paid some money, too. Then out of the clear, he got an offer of a job in California. Probably Chet’s father again. They are pretty rich, you know.”
“Did you ever see Chet again?”
She shook her head.
Vincent rose and motioned for Bob that they were leaving. “Thank you, Mrs. Beaker. You can be sure what you’ve said will be kept in confidence.”
They walked quietly out of the apartment. She remained in her chair, head bowed, and did not say goodbye.
They went a couple of blocks before finding a taxi. “Stop at the station for our bags, then to Raleigh,” said Vincent to the driver. As they settled inside, he said to Bob, “We’ll take a plane home. I couldn’t face that train ride back.”
Bob nodded. “I feel sorta pooped too.” He eyed his uncle. “How did you know she had an abortion?” he asked quietly.
“It was her eyes that told me. They were bitter. If she had had the child, they would have been full of remorse.”
“That’s pretty keen, Uncle Vincent. I thought you were gambling.”
A pin could have been heard dropping on the floor in the living room when Vincent told the others what he had gleaned in Wilson. The veins in Ettore’s head stood out like ropes. Even Anthony was moved out of his usual composure.
“That’s it,” said Dominic with finality. “What’s next, Papa?”
Ettore could barely speak. “We will now decide what to do with Bonazzi.”
“Vito won’t be back for another hour or two, Papa,” said Rose.
“Vito will go along with whatever we decide,” he replied. “All right, Vince, you look like you’re about to bust your breeches. What do you want to say?”
Vincent grinned wryly at the way his father had phrased it, for he had been about to do so to get in a word before Ettore stole the show. “I suggest we all think about this latest information for a few days before making any hard decisions.”
“Vince!” snapped Dominic. “That’s it. Don’t you understand?”
“Well, Dom,” said Vincent slowly, “all of life is a matter of “that’s it”. It never hurts to sleep on a problem before making an important decision.”
Dominic eyed his brother carefully. “I guess you’re right. We should take a couple of days to decide how we are going to kill Bonazzi.”
Michael stood up. “Hey, boy, let’s not go off half-cocked.”
“What’s half-cocked about destroying the murderer of our sister?” retorted Dominic.
“There are several things wrong,” interjected Vincent. “First, there’s the law of God. What you suggest we do is a mortal sin. Second, there’s the law of the land. We can be sentenced to prison for even discussing such an action, and be incarcerated for a long, long time if we attempt it - or do it. Third, there’s a set of moral principles we would stigmatize.”
“I heard that record playing the last time we discussed it,” said Dominic, downing half a glass of brandy in one draught. “Look, Vince,” he continued, wiping his mouth, his eyes hard and distant. “Let’s think of Maria for a moment. Think of how she used to meet us at the door, always smiling, trying so hard to find a way to please us. Of the love she had for every single one of us, how sweet and beautiful she was. There wasn’t a cleaner, more perfect girl in this world. Some guy soiled her to a point that blows the mind. Our love could have supported her through any horrible experience, such as rape.” He slammed down his glass on the side table. “But this monster didn’t stop there. He destroyed our beloved Maria. Imagine her terror and her pain while she was slowly being choked to death.” He held out his trembling hands. “I can feel her agony as if it was me who died. But it’s not a monster any longer, it’s a man, with a name and a face. Do you have one shred of doubt that Bonazzi raped and murdered Maria?”
Each word of Dominic had thundered upon all in the room. Thinking of Maria, Vincent felt the flow of blood in his veins grow hot with anger. He set his jaw and breathed slowly for a moment or two to retain his control. “I do have a shred of doubt, Dom. It’s a very thin, feeble shred, but it’s there. I have seen cases where indications of guilt were much stronger than that against Bonazzi, and learned to my everlasting fear not to judge too quickly.”
Anthony spoke from his chair. “Vince is right, Dom. Sometimes two and two don’t make four. I suggest we turn this information over to Lieutenant McPherson. It could help them enormously in their case.”
“Case!” shouted Dominic. “Mother of God, didn’t any of you visit Maria at the funeral parlor? Didn’t any of you go to that coffin and see what your sister looked like? You know damned well in your hearts that Bonazzi will beat this.” Tears glistened in his eyes. He took hold of himself and spoke more normally. “We can talk here until doomsday, but it will not change the fact that I am going to give Bonazzi what he gave Maria. I don’t need your help, nor do I want it. But I’m ashamed to call you my brothers and sister.”
Ettore let out a great sigh. “Dom, pour yourself another drink.” In the quiet of the room, he walked slowly to the window and looked out at the lake. He stood there until the silence became oppressive, then he turned. “Dom’s right, you know,” he said softly. “I was born a contadino, a peasant. I came from people who knew very little except poverty and brutal work and being exploited by landlords and functionaries and opportunists. That was not really unbearable, because we had something so much more valuable, so important, that it made everything else endurable. We had the family. We knew that whenever we were hurt, the family would gather around and relieve the pain. That whenever we had good fortune, the family rejoiced. That when we died, those we left behind would be taken care of, even at the expense of someone else’s stomach. We had no fear, because we knew the family would shelter us from the evil ones. And we had one more thing - the knowledge that we would be revenged. If ten had to die to avenge one, we accepted that, for it served warning on those who would destroy any of the family that it didn’t end there. Revenge became our defense and our protection. I love every last one of you more than my own life, but you are not family if you turn your backs on Maria.”
Ettore had never once said in the lives of the people seated there that he loved them. They knew it, but he had never found the words.
Michael stood up, tall and straight, his hard looking face full of emotion. He walked to his father and placed his arms around him. He kissed his cheek. “I’m here, Papa,” he said softly.
Ettore nodded, but there was sadness in his eyes.
Vincent sat as if turned to stone, then he rose heavily to his feet and walked to Ettore. He put his arms around his father’s shoulders and kissed his cheek. “I’m also here, Papa.”
Ettore embraced him as Rose, Carol and the children stood to kiss him and pledge their help. Dominic watched, a smile of pride on his lips.
Anthony waited until the last one, Eleanor, kissed her grandfather, then he stood up. “Papa, you are wrong. You don’t know how horribly wrong you are. You will bring a calamity on the ones you love and who have looked to you for guidance.” He turned to Dominic. “And you will share his guilt.” He stared each one in the eye. “God will never forgive you for what you plan to do.” He turned back to Ettore. “I intend to tell Lieutenant McPherson what you learned today.”
“Go ahead, Tony. I understand your position. But we have work to do here, so I think you’d better leave tonight for the university.”
Without a further word, Anthony spun on his heel and walked upstairs to pack his bag.
The moment he was out of sight, Dominic said, “How do you want us to handle this, Papa?”
“I don’t know yet, Dom. I’ll need a day or two to think it over.”
“Papa,” said Vincent. “I have one last suggestion.”
“Okay, Vince, shoot.”
“We’re ninety-nine percent certain that Bonazzi killed Maria. Why don’t we try for one hundred percent before going all the way? It shouldn’t take long.” He held up his hand to Dominic. “I’m not stalling, Dom. We all have given our word. Let’s just clean up the loose ends first.”
Ettore nodded. “All right, Vince, we’ll give it - say - two weeks.” A wry expression crossed his face. “But we’ll check on Bonazzi’s whereabouts in the interim.”
“I’ll take care of that, Papa,” said Dominic.
“All right, but remember what we agreed upon - we won’t take any action for two weeks. Do you understand?”
Dominic nodded.
Anthony stood outside the police station with a heart as heavy and leaden as when he decided to give up parish work for that of teaching. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that his father and youngest brother were going to murder a man. It was reasonable to assume that other members of the family would be brought into the crime by hook, crook, or being of the blood. The fact that the ruination of their careers, their horrendous payment to society, and certain scandal would result from this action concerned Anthony only in the slightest degree. Each of them had enough money to get by regardless of the new field he must enter, since Vincent would be debarred and Michael would lose his license. But then, Vito could hire both as consultants at five times their present income without turning a hair. Vito would escape unscathed, regardless of the degree of his participation in the crime. Men with his financial power never saw the inside of a prison. But Dominic was doomed, and Anthony’s heart ached doubly at the thought. He was doomed here and in the hereafter because his finger would pull the trigger.
Anthony started walking slowly up the block, his mind blanking out the movement of people passing by, the stores doing a rushing summer night business, the calls and cries of neighbors conversing with one another. Ettore was now in his thoughts. He felt no sympathy for his father. Were Anthony not a man of God, he would find it quite easy to wash his hands of the matter. Like Pontius Pilate. For Papa placed himself above the reach of man, and, come to think of it, also of God. He kept the Lord bottled up in a special compartment, as if they were equals who trod carefully around each other. And although he led his family to church and insisted that each one make obeisance, he remained on the sidelines, so to speak. Yet he was scrupulously fair to God, though, and gave the Lord every opportunity to do His bit.
Actually, Ettore was the same with his fellow man. He neither demonstrated superiority nor inferiority, and nobody in the house ever heard Papa say this fellow was a Jew or Irishman or Swede. But all the children sensed that Papa believed in one group only - the Italians. There was never Protestant cooking in the house, nor Protestant manner of dress, nor bland, sugary Protestant conversation at the table. The house was full of rich, stomach tingling odors, of saddle shoes and plaid skirts only after the Italian community as a whole accepted them, and constant commotion and laughter at the table. Only Anthony knew how terribly upset Papa had been with the marriage of Michael to Carol. He explained it by saying her blood was too thin to fit at the table. He went out of his way to be extra polite to Carol, and hid his true feelings so well that none but Anthony had the least suspicion of Papa’s inner aloofness. Papa was much closer to Bernice, Vincent’s wife. She was a rare one in his world - a sixth generation Italian-American, a pillar in the Daughters of the American Revolution, with customs as American as apple pie. Her family were middle income professionals; dentists, accountants, engineers, and when Papa first visited her parents’ house, he was stunned at its Americanization. There was not a crucifix in sight, nor a painting of our Blessed Mother, the dining room could seat only eight, the furniture was modern Danish, they were served pâté on crackers with their martinis before sitting down to shrimp cocktail with hot sauce, roast lamb flavored by chopped mint, boiled potatoes and asparagus. It had all been well prepared, tasty, and served properly, but it was as Italian as Mulligan Stew. Papa could not understand how six generations of Italians could marry amid other Italians of equal background and breed this pale imitation of ethnic steadfastness. It was surely not snobbery, for they had held on to the name Bonifonte. But Papa took great pains to hide his disappointment, especially since Vincent might be the first to present him with grandchildren.
It was only when they assembled in the living room to have French pastry and coffee that one of Bernice’s younger sisters said something which could be construed as being fresh, a comment that in Papa’s house would receive merely a questioning look, but Bernice’s father cleared his throat in a fashion that quieted the girl in an instant, and Papa breathed easier with the knowledge that it was still there, that if you peeled away enough layers of customs, you would find those of the blood.
Anthony turned back towards the police station. He was on the horns of a dilemma. Having been proven unable to influence the terrible course of vendetta, he could not just walk away. He was as equally guilty in the eye of the Lord unless he left no stone unturned to stop this coming act of murder. By reporting it to the police, perhaps they could intercede. He could bring charges against his father and Dominic, but he shrank away from such a scandal. Papa would probably respond by saying that his priest-son was overworked and, being quite capable of striking back, had lost some of his marbles. Knowing his father as he did, Anthony realized all the sordid publicity wouldn’t stop him one iota, that while calmly professing for fifty-nine minutes of each hour that his priest-son was blowing bubbles, he would continue plotting and would pull the trigger during the sixtieth. Dominic was the dangerous one, though. Even if the police had complete evidence of the plot, that would not deter his brown-haired brother. It would be characteristic of him to go underground to prepare his murder, and to strike without thought of the consequences.
Anthony walked into the police station and up to the desk sergeant. “I would like to speak with Lieutenant McPherson, please.”
“I’ll call his office, Father,” said the Sergeant. He asked Anthony’s name, gave it to McPherson, then hung up. “Up the stairs, Father, and straight through the interrogation room to the rear. The Lieutenant’s office will be on the left.”
Business was good in the interrogation room. Half of the dozen or so desks were occupied by officers questioning people and laboriously typing information.
McPherson came through a door at the far end as Anthony was halfway across the room, greeted him amicably, then led him to his cubicle-sized office. Motioning Anthony to a chair, he took his seat and leaned back, waiting. Anthony smiled to himself at McPherson’s tactic, not asking what he wanted. But then, he had come here to do the talking. McPherson had not called for him.
“Lieutenant, we have learned some important news about Caesar Bonazzi which may have some bearing on the search for my sister’s murderer.”
McPherson hid his surprise well. “I will be glad to hear whatever you want to say.”
“Thank you. Ten years ago Caesar sexually assaulted a girl. She has recently been contacted and claims that he began choking her when she resisted his advances. He stopped only when she acceded to his demands.”
McPherson sat bolt upright. “What is the name of the girl?”
“I’m sorry, I am not at liberty to divulge her name at this time. However, I can assure you that it is substantially correct.”
“I see, Monsignor. But I want you to understand that your information has absolutely no value in our investigation unless we have a statement from the girl.”
“I realize that, but surely the knowledge that Caesar reacted in such a manner should influence your investigation considerably.”
McPherson relaxed in his chair, picked up a short fat cigar from a humidor, and lit it. “What is your father going to do with that information?” he asked casually.
Anthony did not equivocate. “I think you should speak with him immediately.”
The police officer puffed away before replying. His voice was still casual. “So he’s made his decision that Bonazzi is your sister’s murderer.”
“From the latest information, it would be quite logical to make that assumption.”
“I’d be convinced,” grunted McPherson sourly. “But you’re not here to convince me. I take it your father is about to point himself and that firecracker brother of yours, Dominic, at Bonazzi.” He drew in a lung full of smoke and let it dribble out of his nostrils. When Anthony did not react to his comment, he said, “And you are not perfectly in agreement with his intentions.” Anthony remained quiet, certain that his silence would be taken as an affirmative. “Okay, Monsignor,” said McPherson, sitting forward in his chair and knocking off some ash. “I can tell what you want me to do. I’ll try, but your father has the reputation of being the kind of person who doesn’t accept advice once he’s made up his mind. I gather that you’re here because you’ve done all you can, so you must realize that I may not be able to do any better. Does he know we’ll be down on him like a ton of bricks if he goes wild?”
“You’ll have to make that judgment yourself.”
McPherson chuckled. “I guess there’s no sense asking how the Judge and the rest of the family feel about it, is there?”
The grim face of Anthony relaxed long enough for him to reply. “No, I guess there is no sense asking.” He rose to his feet. “I am returning to the university now. I urge you to make your visit as soon as possible.”
With a nod of his head, he walked out.
While their Uncle Anthony was talking with Lieutenant McPherson, Junior, his sister Eleanor, Bob and Bert walked into a pizza shop in downtown Chicago. Vito had bought Bert back from his dental appointment in Boston only minutes after Anthony left the house with his bag. It had taken a good half hour to acquaint Vito with the startling news about Bonazzi and to rewarm the hash that Ettore had placed before the family. Vito’s usual calm, mild manner had been transformed into a rage so great that even Rose had gone aghast. Vito was a tall, spare man, his face as smooth as when he had courted Rose, but sparks had flashed from his eyes and his body had swelled with fury when suspicions finally became certainty. He had disagreed with Ettore on only one point; he said an executioner should be hired to kill Bonazzi, and the quicker the better. Ettore had shaken his head.
All this talk had filled the youngsters with an excitement bordering on frenzy. When the discussion among the adults died away to a prolonged silence, as each reflected on what they proposed to do jointly, the young people said they were going out for a snack. They piled into one of the many cars and rode without speaking to the pizza shop frequented over the years. Around a table in a booth, Bert expressed his feelings.
“Wow!” he remarked, blowing out his breath in a gust.
“Wow! again,” said Eleanor.
“This is just crazy,” said Bob, oldest of the four. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe that Mom and Dad would go along.”
“Why not?” said Eleanor. “That Chet Bonazzi deserves everything he gets.”
“Yeah, sure,” replied Bob, looking about and lowering his voice. “But this is murder.”
“Not to me it isn’t,” said Junior harshly. “It’s like putting a mad dog to sleep.”
“I’ll buy that,” said Bob. “I would pull the switch on him in an instant, but we have to understand that out there they call this murder. People used to be executed for that.”
“No jury would convict the person who killed that horrible man,” said Eleanor. “They should give him a medal.”
“Well, they won’t,” said Bob. “But what grabs me is the way the old ones took it. Uncle Vincent, of all people. And your mom, Junior.”
“Mom loved Maria almost as much as she did us,” said Junior. He broke off as a waitress came to their table and took the order. “I can understand what you mean, though. Mom shies clear of violence. In fact, she’s pulled the plug on bloody television programs many times.”
“How would you feel if you killed a man?” asked Bert of Junior.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I could kill just anybody, but I would sure enjoy getting him.”
“You’ll have to stand in line behind Uncle Dom,” said Eleanor.
“Yeah,” said Junior eagerly. “Did you see the way he looked when he said he was going to give Bonazzi what he gave Maria? I wouldn’t give two shakes for Bonazzi’s life when Uncle Dom starts off.”
“Listen, everyone,” said Bob. “If any of you are ever picked up for questioning - you know what I mean - in case Uncle Dom does it, don’t say a word. No matter if the fuzz are positive you know something, don’t say a word. Ask for an attorney, then tell the lawyer to contact the family. Don’t even tell him anything.”
“I heard Grandpa mention to Uncle Vincent to select a couple of attorneys in case we needed them,” said Eleanor.
“That makes no difference,” cautioned Bob. “Wait until you get the word from the family.”
The pizzas came, and the young people ate them with gusto.