John Lescroart - The Vig

Angelo's legs were as good as any man's, but he enjoyed putting out the message that he was somehow getting frail. It might keep his enemies off guard should he ever need that. But he had found it also served to slow down all his rhythms-to give his words a weight, his judgments a finality that they had lacked when he was young and fast. A quiet voice, whispering, helped, too. When you didn't raise your voice, people had to come to you, to concentrate on every syllable. It was power.

Franco ran ahead and opened the gate in the white wall in front of his house. They turned into the small front yard, waiting on the walk for Franco to bound up the nine steps and open the front door.

It pleased Angelo that his boys took care of this security, without any supervision, to the steady hum of Carmen's voice. She was not a gossip, a scold or a shrew, but she liked to take her after-Mass Sunday walk and feel she was catching up on all the news with her husband, who didn't respond much except to nod or pat her hand. Yet it made her feel they were sharing things in their daily life, although Tortoni knew that nothing could be further from the truth. Carmen knew almost nothing about his daily life, other than that he was a counselor to troubled people, a philanthropist to those in need, an elder in the Knights of Columbus.

The foyer basked in sunlight colored by the stained glass above the doorway. Angelo breathed in the smell of lamb roasting in the kitchen. Garlic and rosemary. He helped Carmen with her coat, kissing the back of her neck before he handed the coat to one of the men. Only then did he notice Pia, the maid, standing by the entrance to the living room, wringing her hands. Carmen patted Angelo's arm and crossed over to talk to her quietly in Italian. It was probably something about lunch, something they'd burned or forgotten to buy. Well, it was all right, whatever it was.

"There is a woman to see you," Carmen said, "in the study."

Tortoni made a face. "Now?" He turned a hard glance on Pia. He didn't know any women, certainly none who would dare come to his own house on a Sunday before noon. "Do we know her?"

Carmen spoke in Italian. "Pia could not send her away. Don't be angry with her. The woman looks as though she's been beaten. She begged for your help."

Tortoni told Pia she had done the right thing. He would see the woman, find out what this was about.

He nodded to Matteo. He would go into the study and see that the woman was not carrying a gun or a knife in her purse or anywhere else. Tortoni asked Pia if she would bring him two glasses and his bottle of Lachryma Christi, the sweet yellow wine he drank after Mass every Sunday. He took off his coat, placed his cane in the umbrella stand by the door, turned around and gave Carmen a kiss on both cheeks. "Ti amo," he said. Then, back to English, "I won't be long."

The study was dark, but even in the dimness he could tell at a glance that this was a stunning woman. Makeup had tried to cover the welt on her cheek, but an eye was swollen and her full red lips looked bruised. They made you want to kiss them and make them better.

She wore a light tan skirt that now, as she was sitting, came to just over her knees. Her hair was pulled back, held to one side with a mother-of-pearl comb. She reminded Angelo Tortoni of his wife on the day he married her. He dismissed Matteo and the door closed on the two of them.

He walked in his regular gait to the couch. He had planned to sit behind his desk, but after seeing her, he did not want any artificial separation between himself and this woman.

The room was kept dark by slatted wooden shades over all the windows. He reached up and opened one column of slats, and horizontal shafts of light painted the rug on the floor like some luminous ladder. Motes of dust twinkled through the rays. He raised his hand and motioned for the woman to approach.

She got up and knelt on one knee before him, picking up his hand and kissing the back of it. She had clearly been well brought up.

They spoke in Italian.

"What is your name?"

"Doreen Biaggi."

He patted the couch next to him and she sat and arranged herself, half-turned to him. The light missed her, slicing the air between them. Tortoni reached up a hand and ran a finger along her face from her chin to her eyebrow.

"Who did this to you?"

There was a knock on the study door. Angelo sat back. "Vieni."

Pia entered with a bottle and two glasses. He let her set the bottle onto a silver-ridged coaster on his desk. She, correctly, poured only one glass, offering it to him, but he gestured with his left hand and she handed the glass to Doreen. After pouring his, she was gone, closing the door quietly behind her.

Angelo held his glass out between them, and she raised hers to touch his. Prisms from the cut crystal danced around the room. They each took a small sip. He noticed the way she held the glass on her lap, one hand on the stem, the other on the bowl. She did not look down at it.

"I ask you to forgive me for bothering you on the Lord's day."

Angelo waved that away. "How can I help you?"

"I owe you money, and I owe you my gratitude."

He nodded. It was a good start. She wasn't just coming here to whine about her vig.

"I am also very afraid."

Angelo sipped his wine. He saw her lower lip begin to tremble, but she got control of herself quickly, taking a deep breath.

"There is nothing to be afraid of here," he said.

She looked down at her lap. As though surprised to find the wineglass there, she raised it to her lips. "I want to pay you"-she hesitated-"but I must ask for, for arrangements to be different."

Angelo was confused. After he had spoken to Johnny he had been confident things would get straightened out. "The vig is too much?"

She shook her head, sitting now in silence. A tear formed in her swollen eye. "It is not the vig. I could pay a hundred a week for a few weeks. After that"-she paused, collecting herself-"I haven't paid any vig. Johnny LaGuardia"-she looked up, her large brown eyes now liquid-"Johnny…" She broke, crying aloud.

Angelo took a spotless white cotton handkerchief from his shirt pocket and touched it to her face. As he watched her try to collect herself, he was putting it together, feeling his rage. Johnny had been scamming other clients to cover Doreen's short. When she couldn't make the hundred he upped somebody else on his own-maybe the mysteriously disappeared Rusty Ingraham-and started taking Doreen's vig out of her ass.

Doreen was sniffling now, wiping away the tears. "Mi scusa, Don Tortoni."

Worst of all, Johnny had been keeping Doreen Biaggi a secret. A woman like this, in her situation, she could be priceless to Angelo. Not directly, perhaps, she might be too classy for that. But certainly a woman of her grace and breeding, her looks and substance, could be used somewhere-to bind an allegiance, to weaken an enemy, to blind a competitor in legitimate business. Perhaps even to marry a son.

Angelo moved closer to her on the couch. He knew the sunlight was now falling across his face. Doreen, embarrassed, looked down into her lap, his handkerchief clutched around the stem of the wineglass. Closer, he inspected the face, which now, even bruised, could, he thought, make the angels sing. The loyalty and love of a woman such as this was a gift from God. And he knew he could get it for nothing. Johnny had already paid enough of her vig to cover her principal-he would hardly even lose any money.

He lifted her chin and drew her face to his. He kissed both sides of her bruised lips, then both cheeks. Gently, with his thumb, he rubbed a trace of a tear away from under her eye.

"Look at me," he said.

She raised her eyes. Johnny had nearly broken her. Angelo smiled. "Will you eat with my family today?" He moved his hand down over her neck, her shoulder, coming to rest under her arm, feeling the full curve of the side of her breast as he moved her back away from him as though trying to get her into focus. "As of this moment," he said, "you owe me nothing except a smile from your beautiful face."