Part 3 (2/2)

Years ago, when he was a boy, his parents had immigrated to America. He went to high school in New York City, but had neither the money nor the inclination to go any further with his schooling. By the time he was eighteen, his mother and father were still producing more offspring, and so he found himself on his own, trying to make a go of it. He was expected to work, to help with the family, but he couldn't stand the crying of babies, and his mother's prayers and insistence on church every Sunday, or the sorrowful darkness in her eyes each time she warned him that he was running with the wrong crowd. He liked his friends.

They knew the cheapest bars. And where to get money when they were broke. They knew which subway routes were poorly policed. They were excellent at removing the burdens of purses, briefcases, and backpacks from those who were surely weary of carrying them. Once, when plying his trade along Fifth Avenue late at night, he made the mistake of mugging an undercover officer.

He did a stint in jail. He called home. His father refused to bail him out. He never went to prison; his attorney managed to plea bargain a sentence of time served and community service. Community service led him to work in Central Park, a fine place to master the art of surprise and attack.

One night, the thump on the head he gave to an old geezer who had picked up the wrong prost.i.tute killed the man. He didn't know it at first; he read about it in the paper the next morning. He wasn't afraid of being caught; he had learned to wear gloves, to strike, and to run. He hadn't been seen. The branch with which he had killed the fellow lay on the walk by him and bore no prints. The prost.i.tute, who had lain screaming and begging for her life, hadn't seen his face or heard him speak. She had run faster than Gino had after he attacked the old man.

His lack of fear at being caught was somewhat surprising to him. More so was his total lack of remorse. The guy had been old. The whack on the head he had bestowed on him had merely put the geezer out of any future misery.

But that wasn't it. Gino had liked the look of fear on the guy's face. He had liked the feel of wielding the broken branch with so much power that it shuddered in his hands as it struck gray hair, flesh, and bone.

Robbing the unwary, however, wasn't enough. He had to get work-a day job. The only work he could find where he wasn't asked too many questions was nonunion, back- breaking labor at the docks. There, the bosses liked to use men who didn't have references.

They didn't believe in bonuses. Overtime was overlooked. He had a strong, burly build.

When he worked, he worked hard. His English was perfect, unaccented, though he could slip into the role of a struggling new immigrant when he found it necessary or convenient.

In a bar one night, he met a stranger who gave him some veiled hints on how to improve his income.

He agreed to meet the stranger again.

The man opened up a new world to him.

First, there were the drugs. What a difference they made after a long day of hard labor.

Gino was a good-looking man. The stranger provided not just drugs, but women as well.

They liked him. They liked the accent he could affect at will. Every night, when he chose, there was something. Some sweet reward.

He knew, of course, that nothing in life was free. He expected to be asked favors in return. They were usually easy. Because of his work habits by day, he was trusted. His powerful friends asked only that certain s.h.i.+pments at certain times go by without inspection, that certain crates be guarded and never opened. He was more than happy to oblige. He had a new car, a decent apartment. There were days when he stayed in some of the finest hotels despite his own pleasant lodgings. So little to pay, so much to be gained.

Then, late one summer afternoon, when he was about to call it quits for the day, two inspectors arrived at the docks. The Star of Sheba, registered to a Middle Eastern country, was about to leave port. There were a number of crates aboard that had been slipped onto the s.h.i.+p illegally. They were important; that had been emphasized to Gino. Crewmen, suspecting something was up, mysteriously disappeared. Gino found himself alone with the two men from the government.

One of them had put down a crowbar. Gino decided to use it. He stowed the two dead men behind the crates. The Star of Sheba sailed as planned. But the bodies were found, and this time, he had forgotten to get rid of the crowbar, and there were those who had seen him with the government men. The good thing was that the crates reached their destination undisturbed. The bad was that Gino was arrested and charged with murder. His friends, naturally, provided him with an attorney, an extremely attractive woman.

When he tried to flirt with her and make light of his situation, he found out that she was very intelligent. Sharp as a tack, hard as a nail. He was immediately put in his place as she explained the gravity of the situation.

Jail was bad, his attorney told him. Prison was much worse. There were lots of guys in there much bigger than he was. All those things he had done to others could be done to him. And looking over the physical evidence... well, she could plea bargain, but he might find himself being a pincus.h.i.+on and more for men who were truly the dregs of society. As they talked, he came to realize that the best thing to do was what she suggested: escape and leave the country. She had a place in Italy; he could go back to his real home. He had come from Bari; her home was in Venice. No matter. There was plenty he could do for her. False papers could be arranged, and the actual escape seemed of little difficulty for his powerful friends. The idea appealed to him far more than being b.u.g.g.e.red by a bunch of apes. Filthy, toothless, animals, hardly human.

They arranged the escape for a day he was scheduled to be transferred to another facility. The driver of his car was apparently with his friends; the police escort was stopped by another police car. His escort simply disappeared; he never asked how.

At a hotel outside the airport he was given new clothing and a pa.s.sport with a new ident.i.ty. He reached Venice via Paris. At first, he had little to do; very little to do. He was warned that he must lie low, that he needn't seek income in any other way than his work for his friends. For a few years, he wasn't sure what his real worth was-he worked for an important woman, but he was a delivery man, a courier, and captain of the launch. His employer had been away for many years; she was just now reestablis.h.i.+ng herself in her family home, yet she was very often gone: a woman of her stature and means had many social obligations in other countries.

Nor were women such as she bound by the rules of others.

In time, he discovered what his true talents were to be for his employer.

He didn't mind.

He didn't dislike his work. He didn't mind the cold, the sharp breeze that blew around him, nor the rocking of the boat in winter. The ... messiness of his work didn't bother him, either. Thinking in American terms, his was a job right up his own alley.

Then he made a sudden realization, and he was afraid.

His employer was wonderful. But she wasn't to be crossed.

In the middle of his work, filling and weighting the barrels he would sink to the bottom of the Adriatic Sea, he was suddenly very aware of a cold breeze.

He dumped all the barrels he had filled, frantically looking around, counting, piecing together, counting again.

Ice filled him, colder than the sea.

He was missing a piece of cargo.

CHAPTER 2.

Nothing.

Still standing in front of the restaurant, Jordan turned around slowly once again, puzzling over the strange sounds of whispering and the impression of winged shadows that had teased her senses. Scanning the street around her, she hoped for a moment to see if the outgoing and bra.s.sy Tiff had perhaps followed her route, and was watching her, ready to approach her again.

But as she looked around, there was no one in the busy street who appeared to be the least interested in her. Groups of people laughed and joked together. She heard bits of different languages-English, Italian, German, French-but she didn't feel even the faintest hint of a cold breeze touching her nape or hissing in her ear.

Then, suddenly, she heard her name called.

”Jordan! Jordan!” She spun in the opposite direction as her name was repeated in a loud and friendly summons. Lynn Mallory, an American artist working at the Venetian shop where she had acquired her costume the evening before, was hailing her from the door of the shop. Jordan hadn't realized that she had walked quite so far, that she was right across from the Arte della Anna Maria, named for the impressive Venetian woman who had formed the co-op store for rising and talented young entrepreneurs.

”Lynn!” she called back, starting over, then ducking back as the same Napoleon and his courtiers came rollicking along. Once again, Napoleon stopped, bowing low to her. ”Oh, wait, wait! Please, wait!” someone pleaded. A camera flashed. Napoleon smiled regally, then swept his arm again. Jordan hurried by, and he moved on with appropriate hauteur and arrogance.

”Jordan!” Lynn said, greeting her typically with a kiss on both cheeks. Her eyes were merry and bright. ”Where is your costume? In true style, you know, you should dress even to wander through the streets.”

”I'm afraid I was in a far more casual mood this morning,” Jordan said lightly. Lynn was about Jordan's age with close cropped dark hair and smoky gray eyes. Jordan, speaking such poor Italian, had found a bond with the American girl the moment she stepped into the shop for the first time two days ago. Lynn's mother was an Italian-American who had taught her daughter her native language as a child; as an adult, Lynn admitted, she simply loved all things Italian. A semester of college in Florence had convinced her that she wanted to spend a few years, at the least, living in Italy. Anna Maria's co-op had been the perfect place for her to sell her creations-wooden marionettes dressed in detailed and exquisite costumes.

”Ah,” Lynn murmured, eyes clouded with concern as she watched Jordan.

Jordan grimaced. ”So you heard-”

”Some of our customers attended the ball.” Lynn pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her jacket, shook one out, lit up, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a long plume of smoke. ”It's been busy ... my first cigarette in hours.” She grimaced. ”We still smoke everywhere, here in Italy, not like the States. But you can't light up in the shop, not with so many people and things, costumes, fabric, paint, and art! We could burn a hole in a costume, you know? Or go up like a tinderbox.” Lynn was speaking casually, but she studied Jordan all the while. ”You're okay now?”

”I'm fine. But the contessa's concept of fun is macabre. It was very real,” Jordan said.

She realized she sounded defensive. ”Yes, well, the contessa would have entertainment that included the best special effects.” Lynn brightened suddenly. ”Well, you needn't fear when you attend our ball.” She grinned, seeing the confusion in Jordan's eyes. ”Tonight, the artist's ball-naturally, most of us will be in attendance. Friday night is Anna Maria's Venetian Waltz. We have a palazzo as well, you know. Rented for the occasion, not owned by any of us, unfortunately.

But we won't scare you half to death. We entertain with music, tarot card readers, jesters ... a pleasure palace, but no monsters.”

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