The boy stood in a corner, in the arms of a policewoman. His narrow shoulders quivering, his head was cradled in the woman’s chest. Again, in a woman’s chest.
The cop knew enough to keep him turned from the corpse. Over the top of the boy’s small head, over the half-combed hair, there ran a blue scarf thickly knotted at the back. A blindfold? Barbara couldn’t handle the question. She couldn’t say how long it took to move his way. At last she got a hand on Paul and realized that his shoulders were shaking because he was crying, only crying, and he had no injury, no further abuse, he was all right — and Mother of God, the sunshine under that delivery door! The racket of cars and trucks beyond!
There was a racket in here, too, someone shouting. “Dottore! Un dottore!” The mother, in so far as she could think at all, could only think this was a fantasy. The word had to come straight out of her celebrating unconscious. Yes, the dottore was in. The doctor, healer, miracolino.
“Un dottore! Signora—you, please.”
Barb lifted her other hand, the one with the rosary round it. The beads seemed to hoist her right mind into place too; she knew where she was and what she heard. But to find out who was shouting, that had to wait, yet. First she had to pull her boy out of the policewoman’s embrace and into her own. She had to plant a kiss on his forehead, over the blindfold, and give the cop a calming word or two.
“Hatnno ‘mazzatto! Hanno ‘maz-zaa’!”
Now that phrase got her attention, no matter who was doing the shouting, They’ve murdered him—Barbara couldn’t help but give that some thought. They, not she. Not Romy. Taking care that Mr. Paul saw nothing of the carnage on the loading dock, the mother tried to size up the scene more sensibly.
“Signora Lulucita!”
The speaker was Umberto. Wounded, weakened, the museum guide scuttled out of an unlit corner on his bony knees. “You, please, you see the tenente. They have killed him. I am — I must have a doctor.”
Whoever this guy was, he didn’t look like a useful witness. He cradled one arm, a mess, the elbow shattered and pumping blood. Then as Barbara’s eyes adjusted, she realized the elbow was his only wound. Umberto’s head was fine.
“Signora, please. You see, yes? You understand, yes?”
No, she didn’t. The man’s head didn’t have a scratch. Then what was that story about getting hit, and the blood on his blazer? What — Silky’s last Shuck’ n’ Jive?
Chapter Eight
Barbara began to have doubts as soon as she met Mrs. Roebuck, Attaché to the American Consulate and the family’s unasked-for “new liaison to the overseas community.” The introduction took place hardly twenty-five hours after the mother had stumbled onto Silky Kahlberg’s final salaam. Fast work, and either NATO or the Consulate set limits on the police investigation as well. After the city cops had finished their first round of questions, at the loading dock and in the gift shop, they hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the Lulucitas. Nor was there media access. A work crew set up sawhorses around the stoop of the Vomero palazzo, and the Attaché rushed out faxes and e-mails. The American citizen volunteers would have no statement for the press until they’d had a chance to review their rights and obligations with representatives of American authority. The very next afternoon, Barbara and Jay were whisked up to the third floor of the Consulate, a cube of sober granite from the turn of the previous century. And five minutes into the conversation, the mother began to think she could no more trust this woman Roebuck than she had the Lieutenant Major. It made no difference that the Consular official had put together a very different look from that of the NATO PR man. A woman of about sixty, without military rank, Roebuck welcomed them to her office in a skirt-suit of wintry and unremarkable gray. Nevertheless, before the three of them had worked through the small talk, Barbara found herself reaching for her husband, pinching the waistband of his underwear through his shirt.
“And the boy?” the Attaché asked. “Paul? How’s he holding up?”
The Jaybird allowed himself a word or two, around a glance at Barb.
“You know,” Roebuck said, “it’s a blessing he was blindfolded.”
Barbara’s touch remained out of sight, since the three of them were still on their feet and Jay had worn a jacket. She kept her knuckles at her husband’s hip a moment longer. This woman with the Consulate proved unsettling, for starters, in how powerfully she suggested the Alpha Moms of greater Catholic metro New York. Women like this had come strutting across her path from time to time, for instance when the kids kept Barbara waiting in the Holy Name parking lot. But even the Alphas with names like Deltino or Sorrenillo offered her little more than a smile of strictly molded corporate plastic. They had two-children homes and husbands in banking or law.
Here in the Consulate over the waterfront, meanwhile, Mrs. Roebuck was saying she’d found time to consult with Dr. DiPio. The old medico had stressed how good it was (“a blessing, honestly”) that Paul hadn’t actually witnessed the murder. “A boy that age,” the Attaché went on. “Well. He’s had a difficult time of it already. If he’s exposed to some sort of major trauma…”
“He’s all right,” Barbara said. “Cesare’s talking with him. My priest.”
“But no counseling, have I got that right? You’ve requested there be no…”
“There’s my Mom,” Jay said. “You know she flew in yesterday.”
When Roebuck nodded, Barb caught sight of her own reflection, upside-down in the older woman’s bifocals. She must’ve seemed topsy-turvy to the Alpha Moms as well. She must’ve looked as if she ran a baby factory. Then there was her husband, practically coming home with grease under his nails, working with food and trucks and warehouse dollies. Their family had no diplomas on the wall. One grandmother was a runaway and the other might as well have been, she was such a scandal.
Roebuck was asking about the other children.
“They’re all fine,” Barbara said. “They have the priest, the doctor. And like Jay’s saying, now there’s his mother.”
“I guess they’re kind of worried about this meeting,” Jay said. “The kids.”
Barb’s reflection disappeared as the older woman turned to the husband.
“Roebuck, you’ve got to admit this is pretty quick. Everybody’s still reeling.”
“Well. Reeling. Certainly we intend to help.”
Certainly the woman’s office felt a world away from the kinds of places where Silky had done most of his talking, or double-talking. No guns, no dust. Someone had arranged the chairs so that, now as they all took a seat, they shared the same semi-oval around a low glass table. The Attaché would do without her desk, executive-weight, set up before an office window that wrapped around its corner. The segmented turret of thick glass showed 180 degrees of the Bay and the islands, but Barbara turned her back. She’d agreed to come, to give this a chance. Across the knee-high table she faced an empty fourth chair, and before it a laptop computer, so sleek it must’ve been designed by an Italian. The keyboard unfolded like a pair of hands in a linked gesture.