the trunk latch. Donaldson lifted the suitcase and painting and placed them inside; then closed the trunk and held the driver’s door, while Mrs. Gay seated herself; then he helped Stephanie. The grandmother started the car and stared back again at the Villa. Darby stepped out and walked down to stand beside the marshal. Both waved as Stephanie craned her neck to wave in return. The sun’s yellow morning bands had crept now into the trees and its bright aura blinded them as they watched the Nissan pass through the gates and out of view.
“Well, what to do with the car?” Donaldson enquired. “Is there a cliff along the Parkway that no one would notice?” he queried in jest. “What does Gunn expect me to do?”
“I still don’t understand why the car can’t be impounded for evidence? Why have to destroy it?”
“I wish I knew myself. It could lead to a lot of other leads, but that’s not my decision. Mainly, it’s to keep the local sheriff’s department out of the picture. They don’t need to know about our business, or how we go about it. Now, what to do with this car? Any suggestions?”
“Jon Paul likely knows plenty of places you could ditch it. It’s a shame someone can’t use it.”
“Again, that’s not our problem. I’ll remove the tags and see what I can do to the VIN. I can’t leave our witness unguarded. Any ideas?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a logging road behind the Villa that’s negotiable most of the way down. The bottom opens into a little valley of creeks and tall oaks. A mica mine flanks it to the left. Lots of abandoned debris and rusted drums molder there. Sometimes trickles of silver leach out of the mine. Lots of kudzu, grapevines, and honeysuckle everywhere. And tangles and tangles of briars! A car driven into all that would scarcely be noticeable. When you’re ready, give me the keys and I can do the rest.”
“I’d go with you if I could. Maybe the old man and I could walk down and meet you partway back. How long would it take you?”
“A half-hour to an hour down. Two to three hiking out. I’m a little out of shape. It’s a long way down and back but beautiful this time of year. It’s a great place to fish in the spring.”
“Let’s plan on early afternoon. OK?”
“Fine! Let’s say by one o’clock!”
* * *
Creeping down the logging trail was not as easy as Darby had fancied. Deep ruts, fallen branches, and washed out rainbars created a driver’s nightmare. Darby guided the mobsters’ vehicle cautiously over the rocks and roots, down the road’s gravelly descents, along its narrow ledges and clay curbs. Occasionally, he stopped to admire the forest’s red and yellow leaves, browns and stone-white grays. Many had fallen, affording a visibility of hundreds of yards along the mountain’s slope and ravines—dark green with thickets of rhododendron. With his heart still pounding, he finally made it to the bottom, eased the car toward a bank of dried honeysuckle and floor-boarded the petal. With a violent lurch, the big Chrysler plunged into the tangle. It was all Darby could do to force the door open and crawl out. Once in the clear, he leaned back and stared up at the gray cliffs, below the overlook. If it weren’t for the wall there, he and Donaldson could have pushed the car over, and that would have settled it. He released a sigh, looked up toward the sun, and began his hike up the trail. He paused to listen to the tinkling murmur of the stream, faintly audible over his right shoulder. He could see its banks and moss-covered rocks through the alder bushes and beech trees. He must come back. As he began his ascent he noticed the uprooted ground cover deep in the woods where wild hogs had despoiled the forest floor. Their menacing presence did not bode well. Hopefully, they’d remain in the wooded glades and not discover the orchard.
At least an hour and a half or more elapsed before he met up with Joel and his Star witness. The aging Italian had paused to rest on a smooth granite ledge to enjoy a cigar. Darby could smell the Havana’s aroma while still out of sight. The don scooted sideways for Darby to sit and catch his breath. “After dinner, save me some time to talk, a kind of confessione, you know,” Dominetti whispered quietly. “You can never be sure. Right now, I want to enjoy the view. We ain’t got as much in New York, ’less you go off to the lakes and Adirondacks. Me? I am a stranger here. My life’s in the city, in its noisy neighborhoods with trash in the streets and rats in the alleys. And not just rodents. I mean real rats! Wire singers, sapatos e fannuloes.” He shook his head in the negative. “What have we here but the fire of the sun and the smile of angels! No? Behold, we look
Nel giallo de la rosa sempiterna.3
That’s what my father used to call my mother: la rosa sempiterna, his ‘eternal rose.’ Come! Pull me up! La lucerna del mondo will soon go down,” he waved his cigar toward the sun.
As evening approached, Darby sought out Linda. “I know we’ll be having dinner soon, but I need an item, a piece of cloth hopefully you have on hand.”
“What kind?” she asked, somewhat amused. “Have you ripped something? Torn a hole in your pants?”
“No! Not that at all!” he blushed with embarrassment. “I need a purple stole, or something as close to that as possible. You know, a priest’s stole, a vestment he wears about his neck!”
“Are you serious?” she cocked her head with a smile. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No! It’s partly your fault. Signore Ruffini has asked me to hear his confessione. He wants to talk to me in private. He said you told him I was a priest.”
“I only hinted at it,” Linda blushed. “I like it when you get peeved,” she pursed her lips as if to kiss him. “There. Now calm down.”
“Well, he’s Catholic, you know,” Darby picked up the threads of his thoughts. “Priests don a purple stole when they hear confessions. I don’t have a choice,” Darby stared into Linda’s eyes. “I can’t let him down.”
Her thin face filled with reflection. He could tell her mind was sorting through closets, or searching through drawers for whatever might match his request. “Yes!” she stated. “There’s a bolt of lace border upstairs. It’s lavender, but it’s all I have. I could cut off a section.”
“Good, you’re a dream,” Darby kissed her right cheek. “That’ll work. Say, two yards. You don’t need to iron it.”
Following dinner, Darby remained in the living room for a while, determining what to do. Jon Paul had re-stoked the fire. Now its orange flames provoked a radiant wave of pleasant warmth. Should he return to his cottage or wait longer? He paced the room, stared at Garnett’s walls of books and paintings, moved toward the central couch, and flopped in front of the fireplace. He couldn’t imagine what being a mobster was like, least of all a don or godfather, however minor or common. He never thought of the Cosa Nostra as being American anyway. Or for that matter, New York Italians! They were so entrenched in their culture’s past! Provincial? Yes, he was provincial! A Provincial with a PhD! He smiled at himself. Still, he had his dreams. Poor Garnett. Probably still undergoing tests. Darby glanced at his watch. He listened as the hallway’s grandfather clock chimed eight-thirty. He drew in a deep breath and rose to leave.
“Hold up!” Donaldson called from the hallway. “Angelico wants to see you. He wants to walk in the Garden. I’ve told him to wear his overcoat.”
“I
