David Hewson - The Villa of Mysteries

“Maybe he’ll take a cab,” Peroni suggested. “That guy is as cool as they come. You know what I think? He intended to make that drop all along. And on his own. He just came to us to make sure we got that camera with Mickey on it. Make sure the Neris wind up in the shit whatever.”

Falcone picked up the mike and ordered every man he had to cruise around Cerchi; he told his own driver to get there too. It was the last place Costa had been seen. If they got lucky…

It was hard thinking straight. Then his phone went and it got even harder.

“Not now,” he said instantly.

“Yes now,” she yelled at him, and Falcone wondered for a moment why he and Teresa Lupo so seldom had a conversation at normal volume. “Listen to me. I’ve just been through Kirk’s belongings again. I’ve found some phone numbers. One in particular. The most recent. Maybe the one he called before he died.”

“Maybe?” Falcone roared. “What the hell use to me is ”maybe“?”

“He called Miranda Julius,” she said simply. “At least that’s the number on his snotty little handkerchief, as bright and clear as day. She gave me the number when we were in that apartment of hers. Doesn’t that sound more than a little interesting? Sometime before he died, Randolph Kirk called the mother of the kid we’re supposed to think he snatched in the first place.”

Falcone shook his head, trying to clear some space for thought then ordered the car to pull to the side of the road. “What?”

“Her mobile number was there on Kirk’s person. There is no mistake about this. And given how disorganized that particular man was I can only think it was there for a very recent reason. You tell me.”

Leo Falcone leaned back into the soft seats of the Alfa Saloon and stared out the window, out at the tourist crowds mingling near the mouth of the tunnel, making their way at a snail’s pace to the little square and its over-blown fountain. Miranda Julius had given them a picture of Randolph Kirk near the Trevi, staring myopically at her daughter. Or so it appeared.

“Meet me at her apartment,” he said, making a particular effort to keep the volume down. “I’ll send a car.”

“Hey,” said the surprised voice on the other end of the line. “I’m just a pathologist. I don’t want to tread—”

“Be there,” he yelled and cut the call.

MICKEY NERI STOOD with Adele in the shadows, watching his father walk into the big, brightly lit chamber. The old man was grinning at the pictures on the walls, happy as could be, as if they brought back good memories, which was, Mickey knew, ridiculous. Something else must have been making the old man feel this way.

The shadows in this stupid place had such substance. They were places you could hide and feel you didn’t really exist as you watched what went on in the light. Mickey Neri knew he would be happy to stay in shadows like this, all the way to one of the several exits she’d talked about and out into the bright new day. Then Adele gave him a short, damp kiss on the cheek, whispered “Ciao” and propelled him out into the yellow light.

Neri opened his arms in a welcoming, paternal gesture. “Son, son—”

Mickey didn’t move. Neri took two steps towards him. “Mickey… Why the long face? Are we going to argue about this forever?”

He stood his ground, fearing the presence of the old man.

“I gave you a test, Mickey. What do you do? Not just kill that talkative bastard Martelli but come up with a present for me too? So you’ve been screwing Adele. What the fuck? If it’s gonna happen best it’s kept in the family. I don’t care. Screwing around’s such a little thing for a man of my age.”

He looked around the chamber. “Jesus, we had some times in here. Where is Adele exactly?”

“Dunno,” Mickey mumbled. “She said she’d leave us two alone. Catch up with you later.”

The old man gave him a cold smile. “Yeah. I guess that will happen sometime. Except I won’t be in Italy much longer so maybe she knows I won’t be fixing social appointments for a while. It’s always the same with that woman. Adele’s in it for herself. Forget that and things just might get dangerous.”

Mickey wanted to kick and scream and yell at the fat, grinning figure in front of him. Neri was behaving as if what happened the previous night was just one of those things. “Fuck her! You nearly got me killed! Like you wanted it or something.”

Neri took one more step towards him, opened his arms wider, embraced his son, overwhelmed him with his strong, commanding presence. Mickey couldn’t remember when they’d last touched like this but he knew that had been a bad time too.

“Don’t make so much noise,” the old man whispered. “You could wake the dead screaming like that.”

“You—”

The big arms enfolded him, buried him in Neri’s bulk. “I’ve been a lousy father. I know. You’ve every reason to feel mad at me.”

“Yeah—”

“Quiet,” Neri said. “I’m talking. I brought you up bad, Mickey. I left you with that bitch of a mother for too long. When you weren’t with her I didn’t spend the time with you I should.”

“Yeah, right—”

“Shhhhh.” Neri put a fat forefinger to his son’s lips. “Listen.”

Mickey pouted and the kid could have been ten years old again. Emilio Neri wanted to laugh out loud.

“There are so many things I never taught you. When it’s time for a little honesty for one. People like us need to know that. Sometimes it’s the most important thing of all.”

He looked at the photos on the walls, holding on tight to Mickey, turning his head to see. “She was a good-looking girl, his stepdaughter. Anything you want to tell your old man about her now, huh? And this other one too. All these games on the side. Jesus—”

Mickey’s head shook from side to side. “No. I got nothing to tell you.”

“You think that’s what Vergil Wallis is coming all this way to hear? He’s not falling for this ransom shit, Mickey. He don’t give a damn who you’ve been messing with now or what you wind up doing with them. He’s coming to find out why we lied to him all those years ago. He’s looking for answers. When I think about it I got to be honest with myself. Maybe he deserves some.”

His rank, old man’s mouth came close to Mickey Neri’s face. “You gonna tell him, son?”

“I didn’t do nothing!”

“Mickey, Mickey.” Neri was smiling all the while, loving this. “You were banging her in Sicily. I may have been a lousy father but I knew that. You banged her so well she was carrying some little bastard for you by the time we came back here. You told me so yourself once I beat it out of you. Remember?”

Mickey didn’t look his father in the eye. He thought this was all dead and would stay that way.

Neri kept staring at her photo. “That kid. Lovely as an angel but she was so damn stupid. Stupid as you in a different way. I mean, I know why you wouldn’t bother with a rubber. I wonder if you use them now with those African whores of yours. But her… I guess she just didn’t know any better. Tell me now. In Sicily. It was the first time for her, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Mickey mumbled.

“So it makes sense. When she told you there was something on the way that made you real worried, I guess. I mean, Vergil… he’s not a man to cross now.”

“I told you years ago. I didn’t k… k… k…”

It was just like when he was a kid. Even down to the stammer. “You didn’t k… k… k… ?”

“K… kill her.”

The old man withdrew his arms and looked sternly at his son. “Maybe not. But you know something? After all these years I’m not even sure it matters.”

Emilio Neri put his hand gently to the back of his son’s head and stroked his soft hair, wishing it wasn’t that stupid blonde colour. There were tears in Mickey’s eyes.