“Because he can. He can go places some of our pagliacci can’t get near, you know what I mean? Also, I happen to let our people in New York know who our clients were, especially one, capisce? The dons all the way from Manhattan to the estates south of Palermo have a language they use exclusively between themselves, did you know that, cugino? … It comes down to a couple of orders: ‘Do it’ and ‘Don’t do it.’ ”
“I think I understand, Lou. We render respect.”
“Respect, yes, my fancy rendering cousin, but not no weakness, capisce? No weakness! The word’s got to go up and down the line that this is an operation Lou DeFazio took control of and ran from beginning to end. You got that?”
“If that’s the case, maybe I can go home to Angie and the kids,” said Mario, grinning.
“What? … You shut up, cugino! With this one job you got annuities for your whole passel of bambinos.”
“Not a passel, Lou, just five.”
“Let’s go. Remember, respect, but we don’t take no shit.”
The small private dining room was a miniature version of Tetrazzini’s decor. The ambience was Italian in all things. The walls were papered with dated, now faded murals of Venice, Rome and Florence; the softly piped-in music was predominantly operatic arias and tarantellas, and the lighting indirect with pockets of shadows. If a patron did not know he was in Paris, he might think he was dining on Rome’s Via Frascati, at one of the many commercialized family ristoranti lining that ancient street.
There was a large round table in the center covered by a deep red tablecloth, with a generous overhang, and four chairs equidistant from one another. Additional chairs were against the walls, allowing for an expanded conference of principals or for the proper location of secondary subalterns, usually armed. Seated at the far end of the table was a distinguished-looking olive-skinned man with wavy dark hair; on his left was a fashionably dressed, well-coiffed middle-aged woman. A bottle of Chianti Classico was between them, the crude thick-stemmed wineglasses in front of them not the sort one would associate with such aristocratic diners. On a chair behind the diplomatico was a black leather suitcase.
“I’m DeFazio,” said the capo supremo from New York, closing the door. “This is my cousin Mario, of who you may have heard of—a very talented man who takes precious time away from his family to be with us.”
“Yes, of course,” said the aristocratic mafioso. “Mario, il bola, esecuzione garantito—deadly with any weapon. Sit down, gentlemen.”
“I find such descriptions meaningless,” responded Mario, approaching a chair. “I’m skilled in my craft, that’s all.”
“Spoken like a professional, signore,” added the woman as DeFazio and his cousin sat down. “May I order you wine, drinks?” she continued.
“Not yet,” replied Louis. “Maybe later—maybe. … My talented relative on my mother’s side, may she rest in the arms of Christ, asked a good question outside. What do we call you, Mr. and Mrs. Paris, France? Which is by way of saying I don’t need no real names.”
“Conte and Contessa is what we’re known by,” answered the husband, smiling, the tight smile more appropriate to a mask than a human face.
“See what I mean, cugino? These are people of high regard. … So, Mr. Count, bring us up to date, how about it?”
“There’s no question about it, Signor DeFazio,” replied the Roman, his voice as tight as his previous smile, which had completely disappeared. “I will bring you up to date, and were it in my powers I would leave you in the far distant past.”
“Hey, what kind of fuckin’ talk is that?”
“Lou, please!” intruded Mario, quietly but firmly. “Watch your language.”
“What about his language? What kind of language is that? He wants to leave me in some kind of dirt?”
“You asked me what has happened, Signor DeFazio, and I’m telling you,” said the count, his voice as strained as before. “Yesterday at noon my wife and I were nearly killed—killed, Signor DeFazio. It’s not the sort of experience we’re used to or can tolerate. Have you any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?”
“You … ? They marked you?”
“If you mean by that, did they know who we were, happily they did not. Had they known, it’s doubtful we’d be sitting at this table!”
“Signor DeFazio,” interrupted the contessa, glancing at her husband, her look telling him to calm down. “The word we received over here is that you have a contract on this cripple and his friend the doctor. Is that true?”
“Yeah,” confirmed the capo supremo cautiously. “As far as that goes, but it goes further, you know what I mean?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” replied the count icily.
“I tell you this because it’s possible I could use your help, for which, like I told you, you’ll be paid good, real good.”
“How does the contract go ‘further’?” asked the wife, again interrupting.
“There’s someone else we have to hit. A third party these two came over here to meet.”
The count and his countess instantly looked at each other. “A ‘third party,’ ” repeated the man from Rome, raising the wineglass to his lips. “I see. … A three-target contract is generally quite profitable. How profitable, Signor DeFazio?”
“Hey, come on, do I ask you what you make a week in Paris, France? Let’s just say it’s a lot and you two personally can count on six figures, if everything goes according to the book.”
“Six figures encompass a wide spectrum,” observed the countess. “It also indicates that the contract is worth over seven figures.”
“Seven … ?” DeFazio looked at the woman, his breathing on hold.
“Over a million dollars,” concluded the countess.
“Yeah, well, you see, it’s important to our clients that these people leave this world,” said Louis, breathing again as seven figures had not been equated with seven million. “We don’t ask why, we just do the job. In situations like this, our dons are generous; we keep most of the money and ‘our thing’ keeps its reputation for efficiency. Isn’t that right, Mario?”
“I’m sure it is, Lou, but I don’t involve myself in those matters.”
“You get paid, don’t you, cugino?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, Lou.”
“See what I mean?” said DeFazio, looking at the aristocrats of the European Mafia, who showed no reaction at all except to stare at the capo supremo. “Hey, what’s the matter? … Oh, this bad thing that happened yesterday, huh? What was it—they saw you, right? They spotted you, and some gorilla got off a couple of shots to scare you away, that’s it, isn’t it? I mean what else could it be, right? They didn’t know who you were but you were there—a couple of times too often, maybe—so a little muscle was used, okay? It’s an old scam: Scare the shit out of strangers you see more than once.”
“Lou, I asked you to temper your language.”
“Temper? I’m losing my temper. I want to deal!”
“In plain words,” said the count, disregarding DeFazio’s words with a soft voice and arched brows, “you say you must kill this cripple and his friend the doctor, as well as a third party, is that correct?”
“In plain words, you got it right.”
“Do you know who this third party is—outside of a photograph or a detailed description?”
“Sure, he’s a government slime who was sent out years ago to make like he was a Mario here, an esecuzione, can you believe it? But these three individuals have injured our clients, I mean really hurt them. That’s why the contract, what else can I tell you?”
“We’re not sure,” said the countess, gracefully sipping her wine. “Perhaps you don’t really know.”
“Know what?”
“Know that there is someone else who wants this third party dead far more than you do,” explained the count. “Yesterday noon he assaulted a small café in the countryside with murderous gunfire, killing a number of people, because your third party was inside. So were we. … We saw them—him—warned by a guard and race outside. Certain emergencies are communicated. We left immediately, only minutes before the massacre.”
“Condannare!” choked DeFazio. “Who is this bastard who wants the kill? Tell me!”
“We’ve spent yesterday afternoon and all day today trying to find out,” began the woman, leaning forward, delicately fingering the indelicate glass as though it were an affront to her sensibilities. “Your targets are never alone. There are always men around them, armed guards, and at first we didn’t know where they came from. Then on the avenue Montaigne we saw a Soviet limousine come for them, and your third man in the company of a well-known KGB officer, and now we think we do know.”
“Only you, however,” broke in the count, “can confirm it for us. What is the name of this third man on your contract? Surely we have a right to know.”