‘Serafino, stop!’ the girl shouted in Italian. ‘You mustn’t shoot him-you mustn’t!’
He was wearing an old corduroy suit, leather leg-gings to his knees and the face beneath the cloth cap was recklessly handsome in spite of the week-old stubble of beard and the dirty black patch over the right eye. A gay lad, this, a bravo straight out of the sixteenth century. I could almost see him in doublet and hose. A kiss for a woman, a blow for a man. I smiled, remembering the old joke. Very funny, except that with this boy you’d probably get a knife in the gut if you got in his way.
The two men behind him were just a blur, it was his face that loomed large for me in all the world at that moment. He grinned wolfishly and pushed off the safety.
‘Careful,’ I said. ‘Cursed is the man who spills the blood of his own.’
The old Sicilian proverb had about the same effect as a good stiff hook to the chin. His eye, that one good eye of his, seemed to widen, but most important of all, the barrel of the M.I. was removed from my neck.
‘Quick,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Barbaccia’s grandson. We’re kin through my grand-mother’s family.’
‘Mother of God, but I remember you as a boy.’ The safety catch clicked on again, the most reassuring thing to happen for some time. ‘Once when I was fourteen, my old man went to see the capo on family business. I had to wait at the gate. I saw you walking in the garden playing with a dog. All white with black spots. I forget what they call them.’
‘Dalmatians,’ I said and remembered old Trudi for the first time in years.
‘The capo’s American grandson in his pretty clothes. God, how I hated you that day. I wanted to rub mud in your hair.’ He produced a stub of cigar from one pocket, lit it and squatted in front of me. ‘I heard you and the capo didn’t get on after they got your mother that way.’ He spat. ‘Mafia pigs. Still, from what I hear, he’s almost swept the board clean.’
I wanted to ask him what he meant, but the occasion didn’t seem appropriate. He reached over and fingered my jump suit.
‘What’s all this? When I first saw you through the trees I thought they’d brought the troops in again.’
By now I had everything in focus including the girl and the two specimens who were examining the assault rifle with interest. They were in the same unshaven condition as Serafino, the same ragged state. Each of them had a shotgun slung from the shoulder.
I sat up wearily. ‘I can’t go through all that again. Ask her.’
He didn’t argue, simply turned and went to Joanna Truscott. They moved away a little, talking in low tones, and I got my cigarettes out. As I lit one, the man who was taking a sight along the barrel of the A.K. lowered it and snapped a finger.
I tossed the packet across. There was a definite physical resemblance between them and I said, ‘You’re the Vivaldi boys, I suppose.’
The one with the rifle nodded. ‘That’s right. I’m August-he’s Pietro. Don’t expect much from him, though.’ He tapped his head. ‘He has his difficulties and he can’t speak.’
Pietro did a semblance of a jig and his mouth opened, exposing half a dozen black stubs and nothing else. He had a great foolish grin that reminded me strongly of the Cheshire cat. I suppose he had exactly the same smile on his face as he blew someone’s head off.
In fact the head might very well be mine, which was a cheering thought and then Serafino came back and I could tell from the look on his face that everything was going to be all right.
‘It’s ironic,’ he said. ‘When I remember how often old Barbaccia has tried to have me put down. But then, we are not of the blood.’
A nice distinction, but sufficient.
‘Can I have my weapons back?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know about that, we could do with them ourselves.’ He was obviously unwilling, but decided to make a gesture. ‘Give him the pop-gun back. Hang on to the others.’