John Domini - Earthquake I.D.

“There,” declared the Consulate woman. “Isn’t that a piece of better news.”

Barb had come downtown with some idea of what to expect — she and Jay had talked — but neither of them had thought of this. Bending over the skinny blue booklets, she lingered over the kids’. Those were the faces she remembered, yes. They refused to budge under the lamination no matter how often she ran her fingers over the photo. In time Barbara fanned them out before her, a poker hand she needed to think about.

“It can be an emotional moment,” Roebuck was saying, more quietly. “For an American, certainly. Emotional.”

Jay’s chin was in his chest. Wetly he caught his breath, trembling, squeaking. Barbara blinked up at the big man, slow about it, her mind’s eye full of passport photos. Jay was supposed to the one with self-control. He’d worked out a strategy five minutes after the call from the Consulate. Barb touched the man’s hip again, his hefty and shuddering trunk.

“Then there’s Silky,” Jay croaked. “Hey. Never. Never so close like that.”

Barb took her hand off him.

“Never had it happen to anyone so close. Never anything like that . Jesus. All I ever did was sell pasta.”

Barbara wondered if her husband would’ve broken down like this before his mother had arrived. “Sorry,” he snuffled, “I’m sorry.” The rep from UN tugged at the tops of his vest, his British disdain showing as clearly it had that first night. Roebuck, though she kept a hand on her laptop, looked a bit dewy.

“I feel your pain,” the woman said.

“Oh, give me a break.” Her Jaybird was sitting there crying, and the rep had his lip curled. “Officer Roebuck, officer or whatever you are. Give me a goddamn break. What do you know about pain?”

Jay shifted her way, his fingers starting at her ribcage.

“I’m saying, the pain Jay and I have to deal with, what do you know about it?” Around the Alpha Moms, Barbara had never allowed herself an outburst like this. “You and this messenger boy here, both.” She faced the UN man, giving him sneer for sneer.

“I’ll tell you what you two know about,” she went on, “you know about Silky and Jay . I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the guys who signed off on the arrangement.” She leaned away from her husband, another grownup who hadn’t bothered to control himself “You put us in danger, you put my kids in danger.”

“Mrs. Lulucita.” Roebuck stabbed at the keyboard. “Really, well. Where do I begin? Do I even dignify your allegations with—”

“Allegations? I know everything.”

“Barbara.” Jay was sober again. “We talked about this.”

“What we talked about was, no more secrets. No more lying.” The machinery of Barbara’s anger included a ticking clock: hardly twenty-five hours since the shooting. “With your mother standing there, we said, no more.”

Jay scrubbed his face and looked to Roebuck. “Barbara knows everything,” he said. “Whatever arrangement we make today, I mean. Got to be on a different basis.”

The rep was sitting at attention, his eyes on the wall. The Consulate woman tapped the keyboard. You noticed her nails, a sticky red, surprisingly flashy. “You must understand,” she said finally. “No one on our end expected anything like this.”

Why shouldn’t Barbara grin at that? Why shouldn’t she feel proud of her counterespionage?

“No one expected gunplay and a media circus. Certainly.”

In fact, since yesterday people like Roebuck had been getting more attention than the family. Naturally a knot of media types had continued to come and go under Barb’s and Jay’s Vomero balcony, even with the sawhorses in place. But the press wasn’t wasting time trying to turn up a murderer among the Lulucitas. The mother had managed only a distracted sampling of the TV and the morning paper, distracted and second-hand, but she could understand that much. The press was looking elsewhere, for the dishy angle. They were far more interested in Tenente Kahlberg and whatever he’d had going.

“Honestly,” the Attaché was saying. “In every other instance I can think of, when one of our people was asked to gather information, well.”

But when it came to the late Lieutenant Major, Barbara knew more than any of the talking heads on Berlusconi’s news shows. She knew more than anyone writing for the Mattino as well. Now why shouldn’t she grin about that?

“They gathered information, thank you. Thank you, and goodbye.”

Basking a bit seemed a much better use for Barbara’s energy than shouting at these two bureaucrats. She recalled the way JJ and Romy used to strut and preen, after a kiss and a cuddle. Why shouldn’t Barbara enjoy a little of that, and take hold of her husband’s hand while she was at it? She and the Jaybird twined their fingers so easily, you would think the two of them did it in front of strangers every day.

Roebuck never stopped talking… heightened potential for terrorist activity…American interests have a right… . “But you do realize, both of you, that our country has a considerable presence in Naples? A considerable strategic stake, yes indeed. So you mustn’t think that everyone in NATO, the Consulate and the UN relief agencies, are tarred by the same brush as our late colleague in Public Relations.”

When Jay squeezed Barbara’s hand, it wasn’t about romance. Rather he had a question: are you hearing what I’m hearing?

“Myself,” the Attaché went on, “well, I knew Louis Kahlberg. Certainly. And I knew that some people thought very highly of him. Some people thought of him as one of the rising stars in our community. But what we do—” she waved her nails at the suit from the UN—“and what he did, it’s entirely separate. Two very different operations.”

Jay’s squeeze was sign language: These people are frightened. When Barbara met the older woman’s eyes, again she found her own reflection, and at this angle she looked, in fact, like an owl. A carnivore, Barb recalled, a bird of prey.

“So,” she said, “you knew old Silky.”

“I did.” Tap, tap. “I did, and I don’t mind admitting that I liked the man. I felt as though he spoke my language.”

Jay had changed the sign: Stay cool, honey.

“But Mrs. Lulucita, do calm yourself You mustn’t go seeing wrack and ruin everywhere. That’s the reason we invited you here today, or one of them. We wanted to reassure you, we are your Consulate, your countrymen. We’re not the Camorra.”

Jay gave it moment. “And on our side, Roebuck, I mean. Let’s put it this way. Barb and me, we’re not about to join the Shell of the Hermit Crab.”

Roebuck dismissed the idea with an Italian gesture, waggling thumb and index finger. “We never had you two under surveillance, certainly.” She went on to promise that the murder would get a thorough investigation. “You have my word, you two. Full cooperation, absolutely, between this community and the local authorities.”

“Okay.” The husband gave a dismissive wave himself, letting go of Barbara. “One time or another, we all saw Silky with his gun out. A guy like that, we all saw it coming. Sooner or later, you’re talking the last scene in Scarface.”

The Attaché worked up a regretful smile. Barbara tried not to grind her back teeth.

“But that’s in the past,” Jay said. “That’s, we’re all to blame, there. Whatever. But the problem now isn’t that Silky was dirty. That’s not what Barb and I need to know now.” As if he did it all the time, he retook his wife’s hand. “What we need to know is, what was the man into?”

This, she’d been expecting. “That’s what we need to know,” Barbara said. “Why did someone have to shoot him?”