Sweetheart Read online

  “You didn’t bust it up. You made it difficult for a day.”

  Wade smiled pleasantly. “You’re probably right.”

  Scandura removed his glasses, diminishing his eyes to specks, and breathed on the lenses. He polished them with a silk handkerchief. The waitress brought him coffee. It was all he wanted, as if the thought of food so early sickened him.

  “Ulcer?” Wade asked.

  “If I had an ulcer I wouldn’t take the coffee.” He returned the glasses to his face, carefully fitting them on. “I’m here on behalf of Anthony Gardella.”

  “I figured.”

  “You can understand what he’s going through. His mother and father were wonderful people. Twenty-five years ago he bought the farmhouse for them. They wanted the country, he gave it to them. He wanted them to have a mansion, but the little house was all they wanted. The old man, you know, was never involved in anything. A straight arrow. Look where it got him.”

  Wade drew on his cigarette. The waitress freshened his coffee. “What can I tell you?” he said with a shrug.

  Scandura spoke low. “How close are you to grabbing the bastards who did this thing? Anthony wants to know.”

  “You want an honest answer, I’ll give it to you. There are plenty of local yokels around here capable, but we’ve got no solid lead. Maybe something will develop.”

  “That’s not good. These yokels you talk about, there must be some in your mind stand out bigger than others. You must’ve picked up something.”

  “Nothing.” Wade sat back, his chin pulled in, his thoughts on his wife. The last time he had seen her, a hurried but sincere attempt at reconciliation, he had kissed her soundly, instantly, after which she had eased away from him with the words that there were no fresh starts in life, no erasures, no rolling back of a decade or even a year or two. All a person could do, she had said, was swerve. He said to Scandura, “The only thing I’ve got is an old guy who drove by the house in his pickup. You probably read his name in the paper. Maybe he’s telling God’s truth when he says he didn’t see much, I don’t know for sure. I’ve put as much pressure on him as I’m allowed … by law.”

  Victor Scandura instantly caught and read the inflection. “I like what you’re saying.”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Wade shot back. “You and Tony Gardella don’t interest me. I’m bothered that two homicidal morons are walking the streets.”

  “Not too many streets out here. This is another world. How the hell do you stand it?”

  “I’m trying to get back to Boston. Maybe it’ll happen.”

  “Maybe we can help,” Scandura said casually, and Wade looked at him severely.

  “You don’t do anything.”

  “I think we owe you something.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Wade said. He had snuffed his cigarette, but it still fumed in the ashtray.

  “How can you smoke those things?”

  “I don’t know. I hate ’em.”

  They left the coffee shop together, an icy wind stabbing them. Soiled snow that looked as hard as rock barricaded each side of the downtown street. Wade saw the long dark car that Scandura had driven up in. He saw two men sitting in the front.

  “You can scare the old guy, but you don’t lay a finger on him. Understood?”

  Scandura said, “You have my word.”

  • • •

  Victor Scandura, who would not go into any house with dogs in it, stayed in the car. The two men in front got out and trudged through the cold to the front door. They looked like bill collectors, the sort a finance company might send out. One was Ralph Roselli, whose large, baggy face reddened in the wind. His eyebrows were bushy, and his eyes seemed deceptively unalert. He was in his forties and burly. The other man was Sammy Ferlito’s young nephew, Augie, who was doing his first piece of work for Anthony Gardella, which made him a little nervous. He was angular and furtive and had little eyes and no chin. They rapped on the door, and when no one answered, Ralph Roselli put his shoulder to it.

  Victor Scandura hunched his shoulders as the wind gusted against the car and tried to get in. He hated winter. Thirty years ago in Korea he had nearly lost his feet to frostbite, and twenty years ago during the Boston gang wars his older brother had been garroted and the body dumped in the path of a snowplow, which had buried it. Narrowing his eyes, he peered out at boundless snowscape and naked trees, and then he consulted his watch. He had given them ten minutes, which he considered only slightly unreasonable.

  Inside the house Ralph Roselli wrenched the old rifle out of Silas Rogers’s hand and, looking at it bemusedly, asked, “What the hell were you going to do with this?” The dogs began to yap. “Shut ’em up,” he said, and Silas Rogers did. Roselli’s approach was oddly phlegmatic. After searching the depths of his coat, one inner pocket and then another, he produced a nickel-plated .32-caliber revolver and pushed the tip of the barrel against Silas Rogers’s forehead. Then abruptly he wrinkled his nose. “He’s unloading.”

  Augie nodded. “I’m used to it. We get bodies do it all the time.”

  Lowering the revolver, Ralph Roselli grimaced with disgust and purposely hooded his eyes as if the old man were no longer worth looking at. “I’m going to ask you some questions. I don’t get the right answers, I’ll shoot a dog. That doesn’t work, I’ll shoot you.”

  The questions were asked.

  Silas Rogers spoke with his whole face, everything moving, lines jiggling, cracks deepening, watery eyes rolling over the dry and frantic pull of his mouth. He answered everything.

  Outside, Victor Scandura sounded the horn. The ten minutes were up.

  4

  MOTHER AND DAUGHTER returned from the Caribbean, and Anthony Gardella met them at the door. The mother, Mrs. Denig, said with an edge, “I’d have brought her back right away if you’d gotten in touch,” and the daughter, his wife, said beseechingly, “Why didn’t you, Tony?” He could have given several answers, but he let one suffice.

  “I wanted to spare you.”

  “Spare her? She’s your wife.”

  He tolerated the mother because he adored the daughter, whose eyes reached out to him. She stepped toward him on long, lively legs. Jane Denig Gardella, a conspicuous beauty from the day she was born, was tall and fair, long-necked and tight-waisted, with sea-blue eyes that focused wistfully on her husband. She was half his age. “Didn’t you need me?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said, and she clung to him.

  “It’s so horrible.”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Denig said, “We should’ve at least been here for the funeral.”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” he said with perfect control and watched his mother-in-law rearrange the collar of her coat. She wore expensive clothes, confined her brindled hair in combs, and bore vestiges of a beauty that age and certain disappointments had coarsened and roughened. A deep disappointment was her daughter’s marriage to a man who was not only Mediterranean but a reputed criminal, with looks too smooth and manners too obvious. She readily accepted the monthly allowance he provided her but felt within her rights to be distant. She backed away from her daughter’s luggage and opened the door. “Where are you going?” her son-in-law asked.

  “Where do you think? Home. I want to be in my own bed tonight.”

  “I’ll arrange a ride.”

  “You don’t have to,” Mrs. Denig said stoutly. “The taxi’s waiting. Kiss your wife.”

  When the door closed behind her, Anthony Gardella kissed his wife long and lovingly and then held her at arm’s length to stare at her oval face and blond hair. “I’m so in love with you,” she whispered, and he drew her near again, savoring her scent. “I should have been beside you,” she murmured. “What did people say?”

  “They didn’t say anything.”

  “But you should have told me. It’s like I’m not really a part of your life.”

  He spoke close to her ear. “That’s not true.”

  “Take me upstairs
, Tony. Carry me up.” His reaction was slow, and she sensed the reason. “We’re not alone, are we?”

  “My sister and Victor are in the front room. It’s business. It won’t take long.”

  She separated from him and smiled weakly over the bow of her blouse. “Should I pop in and say hello?”

  “No. Wait for me upstairs.”

  They looked up when he entered the room. His sister was ensconced on a sofa and drinking Saint Raphael. Victor Scandura sat woodenly across from her. He did not look happy. Gardella dropped into a deep chair and said, “What’s the matter, Victor?”

  “I’ve been trying to convince your sister, but she won’t listen either.”

  “If this had happened to your mother and father,” Gardella said with gravity, “would you wait?”

  Scandura spoke with a long face. “Anthony, listen to me. One of the reasons you’re where you are is you’re a patient man. ‘A patient man avoids mistakes.’ I’m quoting you, Anthony, and I’m saying we should handle this like always. Six months at least to let things cool down. A year would be better. Let those punks think they got away with it. Makes it even sweeter when the time comes.”

  “No,” said Rita O’Dea. “Six months, a year, a train might hit them, and they get off easy.”

  “Rita’s right,” Gardella said and made a fist. “I want them to die hard, and I want to be there. I want to see it happen.”

  “No, you don’t, Anthony.” Scandura was upset. “I don’t advise it.”

  “I’m entitled.”

  “We’ll both be there,” said Rita O’Dea.

  Scandura adjusted his glasses. He made one final plea. “I only met this Wade guy once, that’s all. Maybe he’s got something up his sleeve. He seems okay, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  “So we’ll be careful,” Gardella said, undeterred. “Any other problems?”

  “Anthony, I’m going to need time. A little time at least to set it up.”

  Rita O’Dea finished her drink. “Then get working on it,” she said in a tone that never failed to offend Scandura.

  • • •

  With the blinds drawn against the stark winter daylight, Jane Gardella made room for her husband on the warm bed. She lay extended, her toes stretched to enhance her feet, her waist incredibly slim. His eyes absorbed her, and his hand traced over her. He said, “I missed you.”

  “You were supposed to,” she said, bathing in his attention.

  “Who did you meet on those white beaches?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Have you ever known me not to be?”

  She rolled partly over him, digging in a gentle knee, and grinned into his face. “You’d have loved the Europeans. The women, even the husky ones, wore bikinis and took off the tops.”

  “How did that sit with your mother?”

  “Not well.”

  “And with you?”

  “I’d have done it too if you’d been there. We’d have swum in the buff. Some did.”

  “We wouldn’t have.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said confidently. “I’d have shown you off.”

  “You still don’t know me.”

  “You’re wrong, Tony. So wrong.” She spoke slowly, working her eyes into his while she let her blond hair tumble down. Her fingers glanced over him. “My turn,” she whispered. “My turn to touch.”

  Eventually, exuberantly, he embraced her, his voice stumbling out of his mouth. The words were heated and intimate, the sort he had never uttered to his first wife. She had been deeply devout, a clay Christ above her bed and saints beside it, a trace of martyrdom in her heart each time he had touched her, which he had stopped doing long before her death, though he had certainly still cherished her, more than she ever could have guessed. His second wife was from a different generation, another world. Legs bowed over him, she panted, “Yes, Tony, yes.”

  Later, wearing matching silk robes, they made their way downstairs, the whole house to themselves, which was rare. She settled on the sofa his sister had earlier occupied and watched him pour Saint Raphael into two glasses. He added soda and a twist to hers and then tasted it to make sure it was right. It always was. He joined her on the sofa; for the time being he was concerned only with immediate reality, grateful that she was back. He would have been content to sit there in silence with her, an arm around her, but she brought up the tragedy of his parents.

  “What are you doing about it, Tony?”

  He loved her passionately, but not blindly. Some things he would never tell her.

  • • •

  Lieutenant Christopher Wade had misgivings. In a small way he hated himself. Toying with pencils on his desk, all in need of points, he said to Trooper Denton, “What if I told you I’m a piece of shit?” Trooper Denton thought he was joking and smiled. “When I ask a question, why don’t you answer?”

  Denton said, “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”

  “Nothing Jack Daniel’s wouldn’t cure. Run out and get me a bottle.”

  “You don’t drink.”

  “I don’t smoke either, but what am I doing with this?” Wade plucked out a Merit and lit it. “I have a riddle for you, Denton. What talks in the toilet and makes an offer you could’ve refused? You don’t know, I’ll tell you. A fed.”

  The trooper was uncertain whether to respond. He had much admiration for Wade, not a little of which was hero worship. “You into something heavy, Lieutenant?” he asked, and Wade grimaced.

  “Nothing you want to know about. I’m running off at the mouth, something I’d advise you never to do.”

  “Want me to leave you alone?”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  As soon as Denton closed the door behind him, Wade picked up the phone and punched out a Boston number. Eventually Russell Thurston came on the line, official-sounding, high-toned. Wade, without introduction, said, “What if I told you I’m having second thoughts?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Wade.”

  There was a tiny pause. “I’d say it’s too late, since you’ve already tipped off Scandura about Rogers. What the hell’s your problem, Lieutenant?”

  “Maybe it’s moral. Does that surprise you? I feel like I’m sinking to Gardella’s level, and there’s a good possibility you’re already there.”

  “Come on, Wade, cops aren’t expected to be saints. We do what we have to do. Otherwise society wouldn’t be fit to live in. Christ, do I have to give you a lecture?”

  “I’m a state cop, you’re a fed. Maybe we play by different rules.”

  “The rules depend on what’s at stake. They always have, always will. Do you doubt that?”

  “I doubt what we’re doing.”

  This time Thurston made his pause significant. “Do you love your wife, Wade?”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “Just answer the question, make like I’m a minister.”

  “Yes, I love her.”

  “If you want her back, you’d better hurry. I understand she’s seeing some guy steady.”

  Wade made a mark on a jotting pad, the dull tip of the pencil tearing through two sheets. “How the hell would you know that?” he demanded, and Thurston’s voice came through like fluid.

  “Believe me, I know.”

  Wade was silent. He dropped the pencil and rubbed an eye, making it sore.

  Thurston said, “I’ll pretend you never made this call.”

  • • •

  Two weeks later Special Agent Blodgett stood stocky and blunt-shouldered in a public phone booth in Hyde Park’s Cleary Square, his back to the slow grind of winter traffic. “I think it’s going to happen. I’d bet my last dollar.” He placed his lips closer to the mouthpiece. “Five got into a car. Blue followed them as far as the Mass Pike.”

  “Five?” Russell Thurston was on the other end. “That seems like overkill.”

  “Victor Scandura’s there with two heavies — Ralph Roselli and a kid I don’t know, but I’m sure I’
ve seen him before, just haven’t figured out where yet.”

  “That’s good. That’s beautiful. The kid could come in handy sometime. Who are the other two?”

  “I was saving that for last.” Growing excitement animated Blodgett’s usually bland face. “Looks like Gardella and his sister are going along for the ride.”

  “Beautiful,” said Thurston. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  “I guess you want to rethink this now.”

  “No,” Thurston said firmly. “They get one whiff of us, it won’t go down.”

  “Sir, this is a gift from God. We could grab a chopper and get to Greenwood before they do. We could — ”

  “You didn’t hear me, Blodgett. Nor do you understand. I don’t want only Gardella and his sister. I want the whole operation. I want the biggest bust Boston’s ever seen. Cops, politicians, bankers, everybody Gardella deals with. You hear me now, don’t you?”

  Blodgett made a small sound.

  “I want it on the national news and Ted Koppel talking about it on Nightline, me there, along with Webster. Get the picture?”

  “Yes, sir,” Blodgett said and cut the connection.

  • • •

  The roadhouse was an oasis of jagged neon on a country thoroughfare bordered by heaped snow. The evening sky was clear and full of stars. In the plowed lot, pickups and cars surrounded the roadhouse, a rusted Thunderbird among them, also a dark Cadillac, not the Eldorado but an old one, nondescript. In the back seat, sitting with her brother, Rita O’Dea unwrapped a cold chicken sandwich dripping with mayonnaise, and Gardella told her to be careful. He shifted away from her. “You got a napkin, I hope.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  Gardella leaned forward and murmured to Victor Scandura, “They might stay in there for hours.”

  “I don’t think so.” Scandura twisted around. He was in front between the inert shapes of Ralph and Augie. “They try to score with the girls, but they don’t know how. So they get mad and leave.”

  Time dragged. Rita O’Dea finished her sandwich and cleaned her fingers with fierce licks, annoying her brother in a way she had as a child. It made her feel closer to him. She crumpled the wrapper and stuffed it into an ashtray, another annoyance. She whispered something to him, and he answered mechanically, his eye trained on the entrance of the roadhouse. People had gone in, but no one had come out. Finally two shuffling figures did. “Well?” he said.