his dark-brown cowboy boots. A third figure of medium build, gray hair, black eyes, and a flattened Roman nose eyed Darby with suspicion. A rumpled, wide-lapelled, olive-green sports coat drooped cape-like about the man’s shoulders. Darby estimated him to be in his late-sixties. The remaining two wore dark suits, one with a beige shirt and red tie, the other in a blue shirt and gold tie.
“We’re with the Witness Protection Service,” the taller of the latter spoke. A full head of wavy black hair obscured his brow. His face seemed unusually pale. A scar ran horizontal along his cheek, just past his right eye. He leaned forward to shake Darby’s hand, his shoulder holster clearly visible. “Hal Gunn!” he identified himself. “Jorgan and I,” he glanced toward his partner, “are Federal agents. Donaldson,” he nodded toward the booted man, “and Jeffries are US marshals. Mr. Dominetti here’s in our protective care. You, Mr Wagner, and his wife, Linda, are the sole residents to know this. You’ll need to keep silent until he’s gone. He’ll be here no more than a week, if that long. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir! Quite!”
“Not even your staff is to know, if others work here,” he directed his comment toward Jon Paul.
“Hettie and Curly will not be informed, I assure you,” the chef stated.
“Who are they?”
“Housekeeper and grounds-man. They’re here only between guests, or as needed.”
“Well, try not to need them for a while. Mr. Dominetti’s identity is to remain undisclosed. If anybody asks, he’s a retired fireman from Albany, on his way to visit relatives in Florida, his family—so to speak. Jorgan and I, along with Jeffries, are entrusting the don to your villa. Donaldson will remain behind. They’ll share the same room, or at least rooms side by side, eat with guests or alone, and wander the grounds as they please. Help them fit in as naturally as possible. Dominetti’s due to testify in federal court next week—in Newark. He likes cigars, wine, and liquor. We’ve brought him boxes of each.”
The Italian shifted his jacket about his shoulders and smiled. “My name’s Angelico, named for my grandfather’s brother, a priest,” he extended his hand, first to Jon Paul, then to Darby. “You need somethin’, just ask Angelico!” he croaked in a hoarse, throaty voice. The man all but crushed Darby’s fingers as he enfolded them in his massive grip. “I give you my parola, come il cacio sui maccheroni! You got nothing to fear!”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Darby smiled. “Perhaps you can enjoy la vita di Michelaccio here. The food’s magnìfico and so is the view.”
“You speak Italian! I like that.”
Darby blushed, as he knew no Italian. Only phrases, blurted out occasionally by a former colleague in the hallways of the Humanities Department or occasionaly by an older priest. “Perhaps we can discuss Dante or the popes of the Renaissance.”
“Ahh!” he grunted with indifference. “Better their wines and dolce bagascia! But opera? That’s my true amore. Caruso! Pavarotti! Puccini! Verdi!”
Darby wondered what bagascia meant.
The Italian stuffed his hands in his pockets. Suddenly, he produced a rosary. “Forgive me for saying bagascia! My father would not have approved. One of his wife’s sisters was a whore.” He twiddled the rosary’s beads in both hands while the agents waited for Jon Paul to sign several papers they had placed before him.
“He’s all yours till next Sunday!” said Gunn. “Donaldson will see he’s protected. Goodnight, Dr. Peterson! Mr. Wagner! Remember, mum’s the word. Dominetti’s new name is yet to be assigned. What’ll it be, Angelico?”
“Dominetti! I will remain Dominetti till the day I die.”
“Don’t be silly!” Gunn replied. “We need you alive. Not dead! Dr. Peterson, come up with a good name for him, until then.”
“What about Domino, at least around others? That’ll preserve the Dom in your name.”
“Bischeros!” he muttered. “But it’ll do! Domino Ruffini! Thank you, Dr. Peterson. Dominettis don’t forget friends. Somehow, one day I’ll repay. I promise with my life.”
“Well, keep it through next week!” Gunn added. “Adieu, everyone! Donaldson, he’s all yours.”
The young marshal nodded, studied his quarry momentarily, and shook Peterson’s hand. “I like your style,” the marshal stated. “I don’t know beans about Dante or Puccini, but I know plenty about the mob, how they function, prostitutes, and whores,” he bent his head toward the living room.
He must have noticed Celeste, was all Darby could surmise. That’s all they needed. A capo and young marshal! He glanced at Jon Paul. The latter lowered his eyes. So he knew they were coming, but couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything.
Chapter 7
The purr of the running engine awakened Darby before his eye lids deigned to open. Rolling to one side, he rubbed them sleepily; then glanced at the clock. Six a.m. He sat up, yawned, slipped into his robe, and opened the cottage’s door. The taillights of Tunstan’s Mercedes glowed red as the car slipped out of sight around the Villa. Moments later, it re-emerged on the opposite side of the house. He watched as it headed up the lane. Once past the gates, the silvery vehicle sank out of view. So began his day.
* * *
“Oh, I love it!” Stephanie exclaimed as she held the canvas in her hands. “He’s such a nice man! Isn’t it beautiful?”
“That you like it, would please him.”
“I do! All night I kept thinking about his girlfriend and how beautiful Spain must be.” She set the painting beneath a dining room window before seating herself. She glanced about, then whispered: “Did you see those men last night? Two of them stayed here. They’re in a suite at the end of the hall. I heard Mrs. Martin come out of her room in the night. They’re two rooms down from me. Someone else came out. I could hear Mr. Martin’s voice. He was upset. I fell back to sleep. I like him. I wish I were older and he was single.”
“Stephanie, there’s enough going on around here without that. OK?”
“You don’t have to be so bossy! You have a mean voice sometimes. You know that?”
“Not intentionally mean. If so, I got it from monitoring certain types, especially during exams. They’d crimp cheat-notes inside their belts. They’d cough as they brought up their hands. Bad boys! There are a lot of them out there, Stephanie.”
“I know,” she said with a flirtatious smile. “Who are those men, anyway? Mr. Wagner’s supposed to tell us.”
“Firefighters, I believe. On their way to Florida or somewhere.”
“I don’t believe that. That one in the cowboy boots is cute.”
“Stephanie, that’s enough! You’ve got to get back to school before you slip down the drain.”
“I know! It’s hard to be upbeat when you’re sad.”
“There are some good argument patterns that can improve writing, you know? They’d make an admissions committee think twice before rejecting
