Sue Grafton - V is for Vengeance

He drew back. “You can’t do that. I won’t have you meddling in her affairs. Audrey’s past is none of your business.”

“Sorry to disagree, but this is my job and I’m on it. Too bad you didn’t fire me when you had the chance.”

Dante counted laps as he swam, his mouth lifting to the left to take in a breath of air, turning into the water to release. There was little sound beyond the bubbles he breathed out. He was conscious of the strength of his arms as he moved through the water, hands slicing down, pulling through, propelling himself forward. He recited the numbers in his head with each stroke. Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen down the length of the pool. Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen on the return. It was easy to lose track of where he was and how far he’d come when the water was such a perfect temperature and there was nothing to interrupt the easy flow of energy. The noisy chatter in his head gave way to the simple repetition: arms, legs, inhale, exhale.

The day after his mother left, Pop had drained the pool at the house where they lived, leaving a great empty hole in the ground to remind them of the pleasures she’d taken with her. Rain and falling leaves had rotted together, filling the bottom with black sludge. Dante knew his father had done it out of spite, to deprive them of the solace she’d offered and the confidence she’d instilled. Whatever pain she’d inflicted on her husband, he’d doubled when he’d passed it on to his son. Dante hadn’t gone back into the water until he bought this house and had his own pool put in.

The last lap was the best. By then his body was relaxed and his mind was still. After the final few strokes, when he lifted himself out of the water and onto the concrete apron, his limbs felt rubbery and loose. He’d press a towel against his face, flush with the heat the exercise had generated. Where lifting weights pumped his muscles, the swimming stretched him out and kept him long and lean. He’d see Nora in the afternoon, if she decided to come.

By the time he reached the master suite, his body heat had dissipated and he needed a hot shower to offset the chill. Usually on Sunday mornings he didn’t shave, but he did so today. Because of Nora, of course. Since he’d first set eyes on her, everything was about Nora. He couldn’t identify the draw and he didn’t question it. It had never happened to him before and he had no explanation. What difference did it make why he was obsessed? In point of fact, he was.

He peered into the bedroom. Lola was still asleep, buried under the weight of the comforter. She had so little body fat she was cold all the time. During the night, if she snuggled up against him, her skin was as cold as Naugahyde. He eased the dressing room door shut and pulled on his clothes: light pants, a red silk shirt, loafers without socks.

Sophie had Sundays off, so he was alone when he wandered into the kitchen. The counters were gleaming and the stainless steel appliances gave off a silvery light. The coffeepot was preprogrammed and the insulated carafe was full. Sophie had made him a coffee cake that she’d covered in Saran Wrap. He cut a generous slice and ate it with one hand while he poured his coffee with the other. He added milk and carried the mug with him as he moved through the tunnel to his office in the Cottage.

Lola mocked his passion for underground passageways, but he found it satisfying to travel from place to place unseen. She claimed it was his way of returning to the womb, an assertion he found annoying. What did she know about anything? In his mind, it was about the ability to escape. He was a man who always had a way out.

From the Cottage, he crossed the lawn to the guesthouse. The nurse on duty had been looking after his uncle for the past five months. She was close to six feet tall and built like an athlete, all muscle and sinew. Strong features, short cropped blond hair. He’d dated her nine years before, though the relationship was short-lived. Cara was promiscuous by nature and thought nothing of taking up with any man who came along. A woman would do if a guy wasn’t available. When she applied for the job, he’d hesitated, wondering if it was wise to have her so close by. Lola’s neediness would surface and he’d have to shore her up with constant reassurances. He needn’t have worried. Nine years was nine years, and the physical attraction had faded. Cara was competent and she worked hard, and he knew his Uncle Alfredo liked looking at her.

She met him at the door. “He’s been waiting for you. He woke up at midnight and wanted company. We played gin rummy and watched television for most of the night. I don’t know where he gets the energy.”

Dante followed her into the living room, where his Uncle Alfredo was seated by the fireplace, wrapped in a big puffy yellow comforter. April nights were still chilly and the mornings were not much warmer. Dante crossed to the fireplace, leaned down, and kissed the top of his uncle’s head. Alfredo grabbed his hand and clung to it laying it up against his cheek.

“You’re a good boy, Dante. Let me say that while I have the opportunity.”

When he finally let go, Dante pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “How goes the battle?”

“About like you’d expect. This morning’s not so bad.”

“Cara says you were up half the night.”

“I’m afraid I’ll die in my sleep.”

“Don’t want the Grim Reaper catching you unawares?”

“I intend to put up a fight,” Alfredo said. “Your father came to see me yesterday. We had a long talk.”

“Let me guess. He thinks I’m too hard on Cappi. He wants me to hand over the bale and let him run the circuit.”

“That was the gist of it. Not that I’m siding with Lorenzo, but how’s the kid going to learn responsibility if he’s never given any? I’m not making a judgment here so don’t get on your high horse. I’m just asking.”

“The ‘kid’ as you so aptly refer to him is forty-six years old. I think he’s already demonstrated his capacity for growth and maturity,” Dante said. “Cappi takes advantage. He wheedles and whines and next thing you know, Pop thinks he’s come up with the idea himself.”

“No doubt about it. Cappi pays me a visit, I know he’s working an angle, maneuvering for support.”

“He’s not getting it from me. I may make a show of teaching him the system but I’m not going to cut him in on the profits from an operation worth millions. You think that’s a good idea, you’re nuts.”

Alfredo tilted his head, his tone mild. “Here’s another way of looking at it. How many years you been saying you want out of the business? This might be your opportunity.”

“Doesn’t work that way. I’m fifty-four years old. What would I do, go to medical school? Get a law degree? It’s too late. Pop expected me to do this and I’m doing it. Now he expects me to turn the biggest chunk of it over to Cappi, who fucks up everything he does. I won’t do it.”

“How are you going to get around it when he’s made up his mind?”

“He can make up his mind about anything he wants. I’m the one in control. Anyway, ask me, he’s losing it. He’s talking about Amo and Donatello like they’re in the next room.”

“He’s forgetful sometimes. Happens to all of us.”

“Not you,” Dante said.

“I’m a special case,” Alfredo said wryly. “Big problem you got is Lorenzo doesn’t always see what Cappi’s up to. You should put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.”

“How?”

His uncle’s face registered distress. “What’s the matter with you? You know better. That’s not a question you should ever have to ask.” Alfredo studied him briefly. “You know what your problem is?”