April Smith - White Shotgun

“Often it is to make an example for others. Witnesses. Informants. Anyone who resists.” “We are talking about the mafias?” “I am afraid that is a foregone conclusion,” she says soberly.

“Not necessarily,” I say, and tell her about the confrontation that I witnessed by the pool with members of Oca.

“Why would they be angry with Nicosa?” Inspector Martini shrugs. “I don’t know. He is well respected. Director of the contrada. His son is alfiere, the flag bearer—” “Yes, that’s the word they were shouting. They seemed to be upset for some reason about Giovanni carrying the flag. Could they have been angry enough to teach him a lesson?” “No. Never. No way. The contrada protects its own children. Everyone looks out for everyone else; that’s why in general we don’t have crime in Siena.” Still, how humiliating it must have been for Nicosa — the coffee king, whose son was alfiere — to be called into account on his own property by his own contrada.

I check the door. We are still alone.

“Is it possible Giovanni brought this on himself? Is he the type who gets into fights in school?” “He is liked by everyone.” “Does he do drugs?” “I would be surprised if he’s never tried them. Marijuana and cocaine are everywhere. But he is not an addict, no.” She brushes aside her bangs, damp from the night. “I am of Oca. I want to know who did this to Giovanni, and then I will hang that person by his balls from a tree. But I have to be careful. It is possible that the bloodstains near the car will never be on the report. My boss, Il Commissario, may not allow it.” “Because he is of your enemy, Torre?” I ask incredulously.

“He doesn’t want a crime investigation. It is Palio. The city is filled with tourists — you can see how the press is stalking him — and so at this time, simple answers are best. A fight occurred between the young men of two traditional rivals. Perfetto. ” The door swings open and I almost have a heart attack. It is Nicosa! What the hell is he doing in the ladies’ room?

“Ana, we have to go,” he says, matter-of-fact.

In the Bureau, the sanctum sanctorum for female agents, the only place where two women can talk in privacy, is the ladies’ room. If two females close the office door they are accused of having a “knitting party.” Men, of course, have “meetings.” Italians don’t make that distinction, at least when it comes to personal hygiene. Their public bathrooms are gender-neutral, where men and women share the sinks.

Nicoli Nicosa has every right to be staring at us impatiently with the door wide open.

“I am afraid I have no more information,” Inspector Martini says, covering briskly. “Best wishes to your family.” She offers a comradely handshake. In her palm is a scrap of paper, upon which is written an address.

On the ride back to the abbey Nicosa says little, but I can see his fingers tight on the wheel, and I imagine he must be scared to death — not only about Giovanni’s survival, but also about the motive for the attack. He must understand that since two people close to him have been targeted so far, nobody in his family is safe.

“What do you think they want?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The people who attacked Giovanni.” “I couldn’t possibly answer that question.” “Do you think they are the same criminals who took your friend Lucia Vincenzo?” He gives me an accusatory stare.

“Why do you bring that up?” “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s all over the Internet.” “They are not the same. One is a fight between boys. The other — we may never know.” We drive in silence, then finally he asks, “Do you pray?” “No. Do you?”

“Of course. I will open up the chapel later.” If he meant that as an invitation, it is declined. That night, unable to sleep, I walk out to the corridor, breathing in the scents of pine and cold. The chapel is dark, but by the light of the electric torches in the courtyard below I see Nicosa, alone, playing with the flag, a square of silk about a meter wide attached to a pole: white and green with bands of red, emblazoned with the symbol of Oca, a crowned white goose with the Cross of Savoy flying from a blue ribbon around its neck.

His starched shirt is open, his chest shining with sweat. His moves are worthy of an acrobat. Like a flag attached to a fencing foil, the banner of Oca follows a split-second pattern, first clockwise at Nicosa’s waist, then tightly furled and thrown straight up, high enough to float by me on the second-story balcony, and then caught on one knee, behind his back. Unbound, it makes a figure eight, a butterfly of silk opening to glory — and then, unbelievably, it becomes a flashing green-and-white knot in the air, passes close to earth, and Nicosa leaps right over it, tossing it straight up again like a thunderbolt.

What is this? A private meditation? The rite of a man preparing for combat? Is he doing this practice for himself? For his youth? For his grievously wounded son? Does he see the visitor above the torchlight, watching breathlessly?

The following day, thunderstorms are expected. The hammocks and laundry have to be taken in. There are predictions of powerful lightning strikes. In the morning the wind bucks and swirls, the unstable atmosphere trying to rid itself of electric charge. Then it rains, hard, like winter rain in Los Angeles. Alone in the abbey, the kitchen feels cavernous and damp.

Someone made coffee and left the espresso pot on the stove. Someone cut bread and left the crumbs on the board. Pieces of a meal have been left for me to put together: plums in a bowl, muesli in a cupboard, a wedge of local pecorino cheese wrapped in white paper in the refrigerator. Irish tea in a canister. I put on a kettle of water.

I zip my sweatshirt over my pj’s and put up the hood — not so much from cold as unease. Cecilia came home at four o’clock that morning and said Giovanni’s condition had become critical. They fixed the artery and gave him transfusions, but the blood pressure in the leg had not come up, and they couldn’t figure out why. Today they will decide if it is necessary to amputate.

We spoke in the frank way of professionals, skipping the soft touch you’d use with a civilian, minimizing nothing.

“Is the medical information accurate?” “You mean, do I want another opinion? It is straightforward, my colleagues agree. If the circulation in the leg is insufficient, the tissue dies, gangrene sets in, and you risk an overwhelming bacterial infection. I would rather have him alive in a wheelchair than dead of sepsis.” We were in her bedroom. She had torn off her dress and thrown it on the bed, done an efficient thirty-second sweep with a washcloth that covered all the bases.

“This is how we did it in medical school. Never enough time.” She disappeared into the cavernous closet. A moment later she was wearing a navy blue chemise.

I zipped it up for her. “They have good prosthetics now, don’t they?” “Yes, they do,” she answered shortly.

She adjusted the straps on her black sling-backs, remembered earrings, grabbed the stethoscope, black doctor’s bag, and purse off the bed, and then I followed down the stairs. Rain was already resounding loudly when she pulled the double-thick wooden door open. Outside it was cold and still dark. I held her stuff as she struggled into a raincoat. At the very last minute she spun around and gave me a quick hug.

“I am glad you’re here,” she said, and her heels dug into the gravel Soon I could hear the engine catch.

But the professional talk is a ruse, just like my reason for being here in the first place. The moment Cecilia leaves I feel that I am losing traction, on the case as well as on my feelings. I can’t let the attack on his son color the search for Nicosa’s alleged connection with the mafias.