The Mammoth Book Of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits Part 55

Rossi started to say something, but Papa didn't hear him as he stepped from the confessional, without having taken time to receive forgiveness for the worst sin he'd ever brought to The Confessor, not noticing the pebble he crushed under his heel.

The bell in the steeple was ringing, calling the parishioners to worship. The Good Friday service, the Celebration of the Lord's Pa.s.sion, was one of Papa Ghilini's favorites. As Papa and his family made his way into the sanctuary, he crossed himself. He looked at the shrouded cross above the altar, then glanced around the congregation as he moved toward the front of the church. Toshiro was sitting with Beatrice in the back row. Papa gave his grandson a curt nod and continued down the aisle. He smiled to himself. They were a handsome couple. A few rows in front of Toshiro sat Police Chief Harry Hammons and his family. The chief glared at Papa who nodded back, forgiving the copper his sins, if only for tonight.

Papa, Mama, and the rest of the Ghilini family made their way to the front of the sanctuary. Papa and Mama sat in the front row while the others took up most of the next four rows.

Papa felt the warmth of Mama's hand as her fingers entwined in his.

Monsignor Rossi stepped forward to deliver the Liturgy of the Word. As the priest read the words, Papa's mind turned back to his meeting with Vito earlier in the day. Papa and Vito lunched together nearly every day. Today had been no different except they hadn't eaten. Both men were fasting in commemoration of Good Friday, so they had sat down over coffee in the back room of Papa's Ristorante.

"You look pale, Papa. Are you still worried about O'Hara?"

Papa shook his head. "Just tired, my son. O'Hara concerns me, but I am not worried."

Vito's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

Papa's smile was sad, exhausted. There was still so much for Vito to learn. "Women worry, Vito. Men may be concerned about a problem, but it is our job to solve it. Worrying is wasted energy."

His son nodded.

"We are correct to be concerned about O'Hara and his cronies. They are dangerous people."

Again, Vito nodded.

"With the plan I am about to outline for you, you will defeat them. After that, the Ghilini family's position will be a.s.sured."

Papa had outlined his strategy for Vito who grasped the subtlety of it even faster than Papa thought he would.

Glancing down the pew, Papa studied his son for a moment and permitted himself a private smile. Vito was going to be just fine. Papa could step down now, knowing that the empire he had spent his whole life shaping would live on for years after he was gone, in good Ghilini hands.

Cardinal Vincenzo Micelli stepped forward to lead the Veneration of the Cross. Though Papa usually paid close attention to the sacraments of his faith, again he found his mind wandering.

Vito had been astonished to find out that Toshiro was his nephew. Losing both his brothers had been difficult for Vito to endure. To find out now that he had family he was unaware of invigorated his son like nothing Papa had witnessed before. But it also seemed to knock him off balance.

"And you never told anyone he was your grandson?" Vito had asked.

"To tell anyone that Toshiro was family would have put him in danger. Don't you see that?"

Vito shook his head. "I'm your son. If you can't trust me, who can you trust?"

"It's not a matter of trust, Vito. If I had told you about Toshiro before this moment, your behavior, no matter how minutely, would have changed toward him. Someone might have been able to figure out why, and that would have placed Toshiro in mortal danger."

"I would have protected him."

Papa did not argue. "And now you will. Until today it has been my job to protect Toshiro, and the rest of our family as well. Now, my son, that job will fall to you. I'm stepping aside. You will oversee everything from now on."

Vito had been as shocked by that p.r.o.nouncement as he had of learning of his new nephew. Papa had only smiled at his son's surprise.

"Don't be concerned, Vito. You are ready."

The words still rang in Papa's ears. He believed what he had said to his son this afternoon. Vito was ready to take over the family.

Cardinal Micelli stepped to the altar. His voice carried to the far reaches of the church, even though it seemed, to Papa at least, that His Eminence was speaking in a conversational tone. "We are gathered here today to give thanks to our Holy Father for his gift to man. The Lord so loved his creation that he gave his only begotten son to sacrifice himself for our sins."

Papa glanced at Monsignor Rossi who stood to the Cardinal's left. The priest was listening patiently. That talent was, Papa decided, Monsignor Rossi's greatest gift.

"It was on this holy day," the Cardinal continued, "that Pilate washed his hands, leaving the mob to decide the fate of Jesus."

Papa bowed his head.

"The soldiers stripped Jesus, put upon him the scarlet robe, then placed upon his head the crown of thorns."

Unconsciously, Papa ran a hand through his hair.

"They placed a reed in his right hand, bowed before him, and mocked him, saying, 'Hail, the King of the Jews.' Then they tore the reed from him, spit upon him and beat him."

Papa felt a single tear slide down his cheek.

"Then they tore off the robe and led Jesus into the streets. They bade him to bear his own cross, then marched him through the streets to the jeers of the mob. Then, along with the thieves, he was crucified. The soldiers cast lots for his garments. Above his head hung a sign that read, 'This is Jesus, King of the Jews.' Even the thieves tormented him, saying, 'If thou be the Son of G.o.d, come down from the cross.' But he did not."

As the Cardinal went on, Papa could feel himself shaking. No matter how many times he heard the story, it never failed to touch him. Papa turned to look at Vito again. His son's eyes bored into him as Papa heard the Cardinal say, "My G.o.d, my G.o.d, why hath thou forsaken me?"

Then Vito smiled at him and Papa felt a warm glow that had not coursed through him for a long time. Not since before Paulo died. Papa's plan was in place, and the threat of O'Hara seemed about to be neutralized. As Papa made his way to the steps of the altar to accept his communion, he realized that the radiance he felt was, of all things, happiness.

As the choir sang the hymn, Papa moved to the communion rail, eased himself to his knees, and clasped his hands in front of him. Father Rossi stood just across the rail. An altar boy placed the paten under Papa's chin and he accepted the host when the priest laid it upon his tongue. Praying silently as he heaved himself back to his feet, Papa made his way to the outside aisle and back to his seat.

He noticed the Cardinal was sitting in a straight back chair near the altar. The man appeared to be weary from the performance of the service. Papa turned his attention to the line of worshipers creeping up the aisle to the rail. As one group rose and moved away, others took their places and knelt. Papa noticed a thin, balding man in a dark suit. As the man rose and moved to Papa's left, Papa thought he saw the bulge of a gun under the man's jacket.

Papa watched the man make his way to the outside aisle on Papa's left. He was sure now that the man was wearing a shoulder holster. Papa studied the man's deep-set eyes, framed by high cheek bones; beak of a nose, what little hair he had left slicked down at the back of his skull. Papa watched from the corner of his eye as the man took an aisle seat in the smaller outside pew two rows behind Papa's.

Vito looked toward his father and Papa tilted his head toward the gunman. He watched as Vito turned to eyeball the guy, then glanced back at Papa and shrugged. His son had not seen what Papa had.

The bald man packing a gun was not one of their soldiers, nor was he anyone that Papa recognized from O'Hara's bunch.

As the Cardinal rose and moved to the front of the altar, Papa continued to watch the gunman from the corner of his eye. His stomach churned as he tried to decide what to do.

The Cardinal, hands folded across his stomach, said, "Lord, send down your abundant blessing upon your people who have devoutly recalled the death of your son in the sure hope of the resurrection."

Alarm bells clanged in Papa's head as he saw the bald man's hand easing under his jacket.

"Grant them pardon; bring them comfort."

The man was slowly rising now, and Papa wanted to yell but no sound would come out of his throat. His mind was screaming at him. It's a hit! It's a hit! But as Papa looked at the man's eyes, he realized he was not the target. The a.s.sa.s.sin's eyes were locked on the altar. Papa couldn't believe what he was seeing. Someone was going to whack the Cardinal!

"May their faith grow stronger and their eternal salvation be a.s.sured."

Papa was on his feet now as well. He felt Mama's hand on his arm, but he didn't look down at her. His eyes saw only the a.s.sa.s.sin and the gun coming out the hitman's jacket in what seemed to be slow motion. There was no way Papa could get to the a.s.sa.s.sin before the man could get off a shot. There was only one other course of action possible.

Hurdling the rail with an agility even he found surprising, Papa leapt toward the altar.

"We ask this through Christ our Lord . . ." The Cardinal's words trailed off as he saw Papa sprinting toward him.

"Amen," the congregation said as one.

"What are you . . ." the Cardinal bellowed, his eyes wide with fear.

Monsignor Rossi was moving to intercept Papa. The look on the priest's face told Papa that the man thought he had gone insane. The Cardinal took a step backward toward the cross as Papa shoved Rossi to the ground, a gunshot exploding from behind Papa as he knocked the Cardinal to the floor, echoing through the vast chamber.

Papa felt a tremendous jolt in his back. He'd been shot before and instantly knew that the a.s.sa.s.sin's bullet had found him instead of His Eminence. The impact drove him past the Cardinal and face first into the cross. He grabbed the shroud of the crucifix as he started to topple and the cross wobbled precariously. Realizing what was happening, Papa let go of the shroud but it was too late.

He heard the chorus of screams erupt as he fell backwards. Looking up, he saw the cross coming toward him and knew there was no way to avoid it. As the huge wooden crucifix tumbled, Papa turned his head and saw the Cardinal cowering on the floor, a look of utter disbelief etched on his face.

When the cross finally struck him, a whole world of color bloomed in Papa's eyes. There was a burst of pain, then suddenly no pain at all. His head lolled to one side and the blossom of color disintegrated as he watched the a.s.sa.s.sin retreating toward the door of the church. Papa's eyes fell shut. He was surprised at how much effort it took for him to open them again. As he did, he made out Police Chief Harry Hammons running toward the doors at the far end of the cathedral with his gun drawn.

"Help him," Papa heard someone whimper.

Forcing his eyes to stay open, he saw Monsignor Rossi bending over him. The priest was holding someone's hand, and though it looked a great deal like his own thick hand, Papa couldn't feel the cleric's touch.

Someone yelled, "Get the d.a.m.n cross off him!"

Papa could see that several men, Vito among them, were lifting the cross off his chest. He was unable to understand why there was no difference in feeling when the weight was removed from his body.

"Is it bad, old friend?" Rossi asked.

Papa shook his head. The warm, sweet taste of blood filled his mouth and he coughed it up.

Rossi didn't leave his side, but turned to the altar boy. "Get my sacraments," he commanded.

"No time," Papa said, his voice a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

Tears were running down the priest's face. "You should have the Last Rites," he said.

Papa tried to squeeze his friend's hand but could not. "It's all right, John. I'm at peace with myself and with my G.o.d."

Mama squeezed in on the other side and hugged him. Her cheek was wet and warm, but he felt no other part of her against him. That was all right, he told himself. He'd had the pleasure of her in his arms so many times before and that would be enough to carry him to whatever eternal judgment awaited him.

From outside the church came a sound that might have been a car backfiring, but wasn't.

His mouth was close to Mama's ear now. "I will always love you," he said.

Vito appeared above him. His son's face was clouded with anger and hate. "I'll get O'Hara for this, Papa. Don't worry."

"No. I was not the target. Don't forget your promise to me. That is what is important." Papa's body was wracked by another spasmodic cough and he felt more blood dribble onto his chin. When he could finally speak again, he said, "Only your promise. Remember, that is all that matters."

The edges of his vision were growing dark. From that blackness, Papa thought he saw Paulo moving toward him. His eyes fell closed and behind his lids Papa could clearly see Paulo coming toward him with his arms outstretched.

From that other place Papa heard Rossi say, "You saved the Cardinal, old friend. He is all right. You saved . . ."

Paulo embraced him.

"I'm sorry, my son."

"It is I who am sorry, Papa."

Papa kissed his son. "I love you, Paulo. I always loved you."

"I know," Paulo answered.

Then there was silence.

Thus did a man of violence die in peace, unaware of the masquerade his son Vito had arranged, involving a hitman who now lay dead in the street, shot by a Ghilini soldier . . . a son (a brother seeking vengeance for a slain brother) who would bask in the posthumous glory of his martyred father who had, so predictably, thrown himself between G.o.d and a bullet. A terrible gang war would simply not have to happen, because this great out-of-date figure had given his life for the Cardinal.

And in the great cathedral, toward the back, a mother was gathering her two children, to remove them from this scene of horror. She tugged hard at the hand of her youngest, a boy who had lagged to pick up a small stone.

Beyond the Call of Beauty WILL MURRAY.

Will Murray is an expert in the history of pulp magazines, and especially those hero pulps such as Doc Savage and The Shadow. He's been able to convert his pa.s.sion into his job as he has written over 50 books, including 40 Destroyer novels and eight Doc Savages based on Lester Dent's uncompleted stories. He has also contributed to the Executioner and Mars Attacks series, as well as numerous anthologies. His novel, Nick Fury Agent of Shield: Empyre (2000) predicted the operational details of the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks on America more than a year before they occurred. Most of Murray's fiction has been hidden behind various house names, so it's time he stood out for himself, in the following homage to Dashiell Hammett.

I heard her voice before I saw ever her face. She was murdering "Freddy the Freshman": Who's wrecks all the parties?

And turns them upside down?

f.a.n.n.y the Freshman

The freshest gal in town!

It was a smoky bas.e.m.e.nt speak on Washington Street. A grimey bar. A few tables. Sawdust on the floor. A three-piece band. The granite block wall wasn't enough to keep out the intermittent thunder of the Elevated trains shuttling in and out of Green Street Station, but they cut it down to a tolerable rattle.

As I took a corner table, the red-hot number on the stage kept belting out her inane ditty.

She plays the ukelele