Aaron Elkins - Good Blood

“Who’s this?” Gideon whispered. “He looks like a leftover extra from The Godfather. ”

“You’re closer than you think,” Phil told him.

The dark man reached the head of the steps as the captain leaned over the boat’s prow with a boat hook, making ready to tie up. “Proprieta privata,” he said without expression. “Non entrate.”

“Cesare, how’re you doing?” Phil asked in Italian.

The man pushed his sunglasses an inch down his nose and peered mistrustfully over them. Then, abruptly, he smiled, like a piano lid opening to show the keyboard. “Fili? Hey, nobody told me you were coming.”

“Nobody knew. I thought I’d give everybody a nice surprise. So is it all right if we tie up?”

The man jogged down the steps, inspecting Julie and Gideon. “Who are your friends?”

“Old pals. Americans. Known them for years and years.”

Cesare nodded. “All right, go ahead and tie up,” he said to the captain, who’d been waiting with the rope in her hands. And to Phil: “The guy, I’ll have to pat down. Better tell him.”

“I understand Italian,” Gideon said.

“That’s nice. Climb out and lean your hands against the wall here. No offense, I hope.”

“Help yourself,” Gideon said, following instructions, while Julie looked on with wide eyes.

“I should have mentioned it,” Phil said to her in English. “They have to do it with strangers.”

“Not to me, I hope.”

“I don’t think so.”

The pat-down was quick and professional. Cesare was lighting another cigarette and Gideon was zipping up his windbreaker when Cesare uttered a soft curse. “I knew it, damn it, here comes the old man. He sees everything.”

Gideon looked up to see a tall, elderly, goateed man in a too-small, old-fashioned suit, starched white shirt, and tie standing at the head of the stairs and peering down at the scene below him with obvious displeasure. Gaunt and frail-looking, he leaned on a silver-headed, metal-tipped cane but stood extraordinarily upright. Gideon thought he might be wearing a corset to keep him so straight. He was accompanied by an ancient dog, as old in dog years as the man was in human years; a fat, panting, waddling Corgi on a leather leash.

“In my brother Domenico’s time,” the old man said in a thin but steady voice, “all who wished to come were welcome on Isola de Grazia. The stranger was trusted no less than the relative.” He spoke more in sadness than in accusation, in a flowery textbook Italian that Gideon had seen in books but had never before heard spoken. It sounded beautiful.

Cesare hung his head respectfully. “I’m sorry, signore, I’m only following orders.”

The old man sniffed. “Vincenzo’s orders.”

“These are dangerous times, signore.”

“Terrible times,” said the old man, shaking his head.

“Hello, Grandfather,” Phil said, “it’s wonderful to see you looking well.”

The old man started. “No…” He peered hard at Phil. “Fili, is it you?”

Laughing, Phil ran up the steps. The old man opened his arms, letting the cane and the leash drop. He was trembling as Phil gently embraced him and they exchanged happy greetings.

Coming up the steps with Julie, Gideon picked up the cane, noticing that the silver knob atop it was a beautifully wrought feline paw “holding” what appeared to be a flower bud on a stem, some of the features worn blunt from years of use. When the old man let go of Phil, Gideon handed it to him.

“I thank you, signore,” de Grazia said, then looked eloquently at Phil.

Phil looked back at him for a couple of seconds before he got the message. “Oh. Right. Uh… Grandfather, may I present my good friends Dr. Professor Oliver and Mrs. Dr. Professor Oliver. Gideon and Julie, my respected grandfather, Signor Cosimo Giustiniano de Grazia.”

De Grazia bent his head to kiss Julie’s hand, then shook Gideon’s. “I’m very pleased to know you.”

“They’re Americans, Grandfather,” Phil said.

“Americans!” the old man cried. He gathered himself together, and in halting, heavily accented English, said: “You are here most welcome.”

“Molte grazie, signor de Grazia,” Julie said in equally deliberate Italian, and the old man mimed good-natured applause, and everyone laughed pleasantly.

“Ah,” said Cosimo. “Well. So.” Suddenly sobering, he grasped his grandson’s wrist. “Thank you for coming in this time of crisis.”

“I felt it was my duty to come, Grandfather,” Phil said. The old man nodded his approval, then turned his attention to the dog, which now had its leash in its mouth and was uttering plaintive whimpers.

“Yes, Bacco, we’ll go now,” he said, taking the leash and smiling once again. “My dog,” he told Gideon, “is a de Grazia through and through, a follower of tradition. At ten o’clock I am required to accompany him on his morning constitutional-twice around the villa, out to the swan fountain, and back. This I must do rain or shine, crisis or no crisis, visitors or no visitors. No variation is permitted.”

Another round of shaking hands, another graceful hand kiss for Julie, and a few more words in delightfully accented English for Julie-“Forgive, signora, I regret I no’ speak so well English.”-and man and dog shuffled slowly off.

“What an old charmer!” Julie said.

Phil laughed. “He is that, and I love the guy dearly. He pretty well raised me after my mom brought me here. That’s the one thing I thank my lousy father for-if he hadn’t walked out on us, I’d never have gotten to really know that great old man. Come on, let’s go meet the rest of the clan.” He rolled his eyes. “Might as well get it over with.”

They began walking toward the house. The entire courtyard, Gideon saw, was paved with smooth black, white, and rose-colored pebbles embedded in concrete in floral patterns. In the center was a circular mosaic of the same materials, sun-faded and very old, arranged into a larger version of the same feline paw and bud that was on Cosimo’s cane, plus a six-pointed star on either side.

“Family crest?” Gideon asked.

Phil nodded. “Lion’s paw holding a tea bud. The de Grazias are supposed to have brought tea to Italy. I forget what the lion has to do with it. Nobody takes that heraldic crap too seriously anymore. Well, except for my grandfather, of course, God bless him.”

“What was that he said about a crisis? Did we come at a bad time?”

Phil shrugged. “I doubt it. Nonno Cosimo isn’t always… well, he kind of lives in his own world-namely the pre-1946 world, before the dissolution of the aristocracy. Anyway, he’s well into his eighties, and sometimes, you know, the skylight leaks a little? In a charming way, of course. ‘Time of crisis’ probably means Bacco didn’t take his morning dump.”

“Fili, welcome to the island, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

It was spoken in Italian, with impatience-if not irritation-and it didn’t sound like much of a welcome. They turned to see a trim, wiry, gray-headed man dressed in a perfectly tailored cashmere sport coat; tie; pale, flawlessly pressed trousers; and tasseled loafers striding, with every appearance of authority, toward them. Ah, the boss man, Gideon thought. Vincenzo de Grazia, il padrone.

The corners of Phil’s mouth turned down just a little. “Hello, Vincenzo. When have I ever told you I was coming?”

Vincenzo uttered a flat, one-note laugh. “That’s true enough. But at a time like this? You might have let me know.” Gideon noticed that the usual Mediterranean embrace wasn’t in evidence.

“At a time like what? Is something the matter?”

“Are you serious? You didn’t know? Achille-” He stopped and peered at Gideon. “Who are these?” he said to Phil.