David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

Neri waved him over. They stood together by the iron balcony. He put an arm around his son’s shoulder and looked over the edge. “You never liked heights, Mickey. Why’s that?”

Mickey shot a fleeting glance down at the street and tried to take one step back. His father’s huge arm stopped him. “Dunno.”

“You remember what happened to Wallis’s wife? When she couldn’t handle it anymore—at least I guess that’s what happened—she walked straight out of some apartment block in New York, fifty floors up. One minute she’s weeping at the window. Next they’re scraping her off the street. You wonder what could make someone do that. Guilt maybe? Or just plain stupidity?”

Neri’s arm propelled Mickey straight onto the iron railing. Hard. The kid tried to push back but Neri had him trapped.

“You know,” Neri said, “sometimes just one simple thing clears up so many problems. The cops get a body. They look at that mess down there on the pavement and come up with a story to fit. It can work out for everyone.”

“Pop—” Mickey gasped, struggling in vain to get free.

“Shut up. You want to know why you hate heights? I’ll tell you. One day when you were real young you and your mamma were pissing me off no end. It was summer. We were up here on the terrace. I didn’t allow no servants in the house in those days. That was all Adele’s idea. Adele gets lots of ideas but I guess you know that. So there’s you and your mamma, and you no more than three or four and you’re shouting and screaming at her ”cos she ain’t got the right toy or something. And I’m lying there on the old wicker sofa we used to have before all this fancy stuff got bought. And I’m thinking: fuck this. I work all day. I keep you parasites alive. And all you can do in return is shout and scream and moan.“

Neri squeezed Mickey’s shoulder. The old man stared his son straight in the eye. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“N-n-no—” Mickey stuttered.

“Except you do. A part of you does anyway. It’s just stuck deep…” He took his arm away for a moment and prodded Mickey in the right temple with a finger, “… in there, along with all the other shit you’ve got.”

“I don’t—” Mickey was saying, and then the old man moved. Two big strong hands took Mickey by the scruff of his neck, bounced him painfully against the railing, propelling him half over the edge, balanced over the tiny cobblestones that, from this height, looked like the pattern on a dead butterfly’s wing.

Emilio Neri upended Mickey’s legs with a brutal jerk of the knee, dangling his son over the street, letting the kid cling to his arm just as he’d done more than a quarter of a century before. The old man felt just as strong as he had back then, more so maybe. And just as in control. His face was up close to Mickey’s this time round though and both of them were starting to sweat like pigs.

“You remember now?” the old man demanded.

Tears were starting to fill Mickey’s eyes, his feet kept scrambling against nothing, looking for some kind of hold. Neri could smell fresh piss coming from the crotch of the flared jeans. “Please—” he croaked.

“I heard a story, Mickey. Just a little fairy tale running up and down the stairs, in and out of the bedrooms of this stinking place. I heard you’ve been fucking Adele behind my back. People have seen you. People have heard you. Plus there’s all manner of other stuff you think I don’t know about. Don’t you see this from my point of view? Don’t you see how nice and easy it would be for me to let you go wipe your face on the cobblestones down there and bite down the blame with your broken teeth?”

Mickey made an unintelligible squeak. Nothing more.

“You’re not saying anything, son. You’re not telling me I got it wrong.”

The kid scrunched his eyes shut then opened them again, blinking as if he hoped this were all some dream. “You got—”

Neri pushed down with his arm just for a second. Mickey’s head bobbed down on the wrong side of the railing. The kid let out a terrified screech and went quiet: his father was holding him again.

“You mustn’t lie to me, Mickey. If I think you’re doing that I just let go. What use is a son I can’t trust?”

Mickey sobbed and said nothing.

“So tell me,” Neri said calmly. “Think about what you’re going to say. This story about you and Adele. Is it true?”

The kid’s head went from side to side.

“Say something,” Neri ordered.

“It’s a lie. It’s a lie .”

Neri gazed into his son’s terrified face, thinking. Then heaved him back over the railing. Mickey sent a couple of plant pots tumbling down to the street as he scrambled back to safety. Neri watched them shatter on the cobblestones. Down the road a man in a dark suit jumped at the noise and looked up at the rooftops.

“You should be more careful,” Neri said and offered his son a handkerchief. “People could get hurt that way.”

Tears were streaming down Mickey’s face. His breath was coming in short sobs. He looked at his father and asked, “Why? Why’d you do that?”

Neri shrugged. “A father deserves the truth. If you’d told me different you’d be down there now. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, and Emilio Neri had to fight to stop himself laughing. The kid really did think he’d got away with it.

“I’ve been a bad father,” he said. “I tried to protect you instead of letting you get tough from all the shit that people like us have to deal with. I hear you want in on the action.”

“Yeah,” Mickey mumbled uncertainly. Even through the tears he still had the teenage pout. Got that straight from his mother, Neri thought.

“Good. It’s time.” Neri opened his jacket and took out a gun. It was a small, black Beretta. Mickey just looked at it, wide-eyed, speechless. Neri pushed it into his hands.

“Take it. The thing won’t bite. It’s one of mine. I know it works.”

“W-w-what—?” Mickey asked.

“You know the rules. You only go so far in these circles without whacking someone. You never did that, son. You just beat up a few people from time to time. It’s not the same, is it? Be honest with me.”

“No,” Mickey moaned.

Neri patted him on the back. “So look happy. It’s whacking time. Nothing complicated. All nice and simple. You walk in, you don’t say nothing, you put the gun to his head and you pull the trigger. You can manage that?”

“On my own?”

“That a problem?”

“No,” he stuttered. “Who?”

Neri looked at his watch. His mind was already elsewhere. “Just some cop. Sorry. That’s the best I can do right now. Next time round I’ll try to find you a real human being.”

VERGIL WALLIS WORE a black suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie. He looked ready for a funeral.

“I’d like to see Eleanor’s body.”

“You’re in mourning,” Falcone replied. “Who for? Yesterday you seemed to think there wasn’t much point.”

D’Amato glowered at him. Maybe it was rude to talk to retired mobsters like this. Falcone wasn’t sure he cared anymore.

“You took me by surprise yesterday. I wasn’t thinking straight. I hope you never know what it’s like, Inspector. You spend all those years praying you’ll discover the truth. Then, when you do, you wish you’d never wanted it so badly. You wonder if you somehow brought it down on your own head.”

“We don’t know the truth,” Falcone observed. “We’re not even halfway there. There aren’t many people helping us either.”

Wallis nodded, conceding the point, and said nothing.

“If we agree to let you see the body, we get to talk afterwards,” D’Amato demanded. “ Both of us .” The impassive black head nodded. “Not that I think you’re in much of a position to bargain. Do you want me to call a lawyer?”