For many years, because of the constant state of anarchy and banditry in rural Sicily, the people have tended to congregate in villages much larger than are found elsewhere in Europe. Bellona was smaller than most, although that was probably to be expected in the sparsely populated high country.
Several streets slanted down to a square, mostly open sewers if the stench of urine was anything to go by, and thin children played listlessly in the dirt.
I pulled up outside the wineshop. There were three wooden tables with benches placed in the shade and two men sat drinking red wine. One of them was old, a typical peasant in shiny dark suit. His companion was a different breed, a short, thick-set man of forty or so with the kind of face that doesn’t tan and dark, deep-set eyes.
Something makes a mafioso, the peculiar stare, the air of authority, a kind of detachment from other men. This man was Cerda, I was certain of that as he got to his feet and moved to the car.
‘What can I do for you, signor?’ he asked as I got out to meet him.
Burke was by now looking really ill. Great beads of sweat oozed from his face and he had a hand screwed tightly into his stomach.
‘We’re on our way to Agrigento,’ I said. ‘One of my passengers has been taken ill.’ He leaned down and looked at Burke and then Rosa and I added, ‘Are you the proprietor?’
He nodded. ‘What is he, American?’
‘Irish. He put away a bottle of passito at the last stop. Wouldn’t be told.’
‘Tourists.’ He shook his head. ‘We’ll get him inside.’
I said to Rosa, ‘Better to wait out here, signorina. Can I get you anything?’
She hesitated, then smiled slightly. ‘Coffee and make certain they boil the water.’
‘I’ll send my wife out at once, signorina,’ Cerda said. ‘Perhaps you would care to sit at one of the tables?’
She got out of the car as we took Burke in between us. There was a cracked marble bar, half a dozen tables and a passage beyond. Cerda kicked open a door and we went into a small, cluttered bedroom, obviously his own. We eased Burke on to the bed and loosened his tie.
‘A couple of hours and he’ll be over the worst,’ Cerda said. ‘A hell of a hangover, but he’ll be able to travel. I’ll be back in a minute.’
He left, presumably to arrange about the coffee and I lit a cigarette and went to the window. A minute or so later, the door clicked open again and when I turned, he was leaning against it, a hand behind his back.
‘And now we talk. Who are you?’
‘You’re quick,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘No one in his right mind on the way to Agrigento turns off to drive ten miles over the worst road in Sicily for fun.’
‘You’re right, of course. I’m going to take some-thing out of my right-hand pocket so don’t shoot me. It isn’t a gun.’
The handkerchief had roughly the same effect as a holy relic. I thought, for a moment, that he was going to kiss it. He took an old Colt.45 automatic from be-hind his back, probably a relic of the war, and put it down on top of a chest of drawers.
‘So, you are from the capo? I felt sure you were of the Society from the moment I saw you, but one can always be wrong. Strange that we have not met before. I’m in Palermo every month on business for the Society.’
‘I’ve been away for a few years. Just returned.’ I decided to give him all guns. ‘I’m the capo’s grandson.’
His eyes widened and for a moment, I honestly thought he might genuflect. ‘But of course, I remember your mother, God rest her.’ He crossed himself. ‘An American father, that was it. I thought there was some-thing not quite Sicilian about you. What about your friend?’
‘He’s working with me, but the story about the passito was true enough.’
He grinned. ‘Well leave him to it. Cooler in the kitchen, anyway.’