‘Pretty bad. Too much smoking. You ought to go see him.’
‘I don’t think Betsy would make me very welcome.’
‘What’s the story there? Why’d you fall out with her?’
‘Betsy don’t get on with women. She only likes men. Preferably young ones.’
Kit had seen this with his own eyes; Ruby wasn’t giving him any bullshit.
‘Right,’ he said, then hesitated. ‘We’d better get back.’
‘Call anytime,’ she said, hope and eagerness plain in her voice. It hurt Rob to hear it. He liked Ruby, and he wished Kit would stop treating her so coldly.
‘Thanks,’ said Kit, and left the room with Rob in tow.
Ruby sat there and stared at the closed door for long moments.
Kit still hates me, she thought.
She felt tears start in her eyes. She gulped, blinked, refused to cry. Instead, she stood up, breathed deeply. She’d go out. Do something. Anything. Take her mind off the fact that her son, whom she loved to distraction, still, despite all her efforts, despised her.
In the car while Rob drove, Kit examined the items in the bag. There were a couple of fifties and some loose change in the black leather wallet. A comb, still with strands of Michael’s thick iron-grey hair attached to it. He touched the strands, thought about Michael combing his hair for the last time, not knowing…
Shut up with that.
He put the comb aside, picked up the ring. It was heavy, the mount a solid lump of gold, a costly item with the springbok bounding on the gold coin. He turned it over, looked at the hallmark, reading the inscription again.
I’m Still in Love with You.
‘Ruby’s right,’ he said to Rob. ‘I never saw Michael wear this or any other ring. Did you?’
Rob shook his head.
‘But he was carrying it around with him. Why was he doing that?’
Rob shrugged. ‘So what? I got all sorts of shit in my pockets, haven’t you?’
Kit let out a sharp sigh. It worried him that Michael had had secrets from him, but of course it was only natural that he would. After all, Kit wasn’t his blood, he wasn’t his son. And Rob was right. The inscription on the ring, even the ring itself, probably meant fuck-all.
‘I want you to phone around when we get back, see if you can find any addresses or contact numbers for this Gabe.’
‘Will do.’
If there were any answers to be had, Kit wasn’t seeing them. And he wondered if he ever would. He leaned back, closed his eyes. Thought of those carefree days with Bianca…
He’d phone her, as soon as he got home. He needed to hear her voice.
51
Bianca was worn out with staring at the fucking phone. Days had gone by and it felt like that was all she’d done: stared at it, willed it to ring. Well, it had. Suppliers, workers, Mama Bella, everyone had phoned in. But not the only one she wanted to hear from. Not him.
Her weekend bag was packed and her coat was on, ready to go and visit Bella, she hadn’t been up to the Smoke since Tito’s funeral – ah, God what a day that had been – and still here she was, thinking Ring, come on, dammit! While the girls looked on, shaking their heads as if thinking, Christ, Bianca Danieri’s been screwed over – didn’t see that one coming.
‘Well, I’m off,’ she said to the assembled troops. ‘Cora’s in charge, OK.’
‘Have a good one,’ said the barman.
‘We’ll be fine here,’ said Cora.
She knew they would. Sensible people, well trained: she’d surrounded herself with a good team. Tanya, the single weak link in an otherwise strong chain, she’d sacked and replaced with someone better.
‘Well – bye then.’ Bianca went out and threw her bag in the car, a beaten-up old cream Morgan. She already had the soft leather top down. It was a golden day, beautiful, spring in all its glory; a person should be happy, in love, ebullient, on a day like this.
She was in love. But it was a tragic sort of love, a one-way street, because he hadn’t phoned.
Bianca started the engine, listened to its deep throaty roar. She loved to drive, to feel the wind whipping through her hair. She slipped on her shades and heaved a sharp sigh. She knew what Cora and Claire and the rest were thinking. She’d been done over. Used, then dumped. And they were right. She was furious with herself, and even more furious with him. Tony Mobley. The bastard.
‘Fuck it,’ she muttered, and slipped into first, and shot off towards London.
She was better than this. She was camorristi. Tito had drummed into her the ways of the Camorra, how to be proud, how to be vengeful. She remembered everything he had taught her so well.
Behind her, in Dante’s, the phone started ringing.
‘Is Bianca there?’ asked Kit, slumped on his sofa, wanting to hear her, speak to her. He’d put one of Michael’s LPs on the stereo, he had a bundle of them, a lot of Henry Mancini and some good Everly Brothers stuff, some Elvis, Roy Orbison, Billy Fury. Billy was currently singing ‘Jealousy’ to a hard tango beat.
Jesus he’d missed Bianca so much – but with all the shit going down since he’d got back, he hadn’t had a moment to get in touch.
‘Nope. Who’s calling?’ asked a stern female voice.
‘K- um… Tony,’ said Kit.
‘Tony Mobley?’
‘Yeah. Can I speak to her? Who is that?’
‘It’s Cora. She’s not here.’
‘Where is she then?’ He felt his stomach drop away, he was that disappointed. And the business with the fake name, what a fucking embarrassment that was turning out to be.
Old habits die hard.
Yeah, he’d become used to the usual deceptions most bachelors practised to keep themselves out of the firing line. But with Bianca… the minute the lie had come out of his mouth, he had wanted to snatch it back. It felt wrong, distasteful.
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Come on. You can.’
‘No can do.’
‘Give me a clue, yeah?’
‘No. She’d kill me if she knew I’d given out her whereabouts to a total stranger.’
‘I’m not a stranger. I’m…’ oh shit ‘… Tony. So you know about me? Did we meet when I came in the club recently?’
‘We did meet. Briefly. When Bianca’s not here, I manage the place.’
‘I remember you. Tall redhead, right?’
‘Yeah. OK. Right.’
‘So you know I’m not a stranger. Tell me where she is.’
‘No,’ said Cora.
Cora placed the phone carefully on its cradle.
‘Who was that?’ asked Claire, passing by with the barman lugging a crate of mixers behind her.
‘Nobody,’ said Cora, and went back out into the bar. All men were wasters, especially the gorgeous ones. Maybe Bianca just needed to learn that lesson the hard way.
52
‘Got some more news,’ said Jay in Vittore’s ear.
He had just joined his boss at the busy bar in the Danieri club called Goldie’s. It was late evening and the place was full of customers. ‘Waterloo’, Abba’s big hit from last year’s Eurovision, was banging out of the speakers at a colossal volume. People were bopping on the strobe-lit dance floor in flares and cheesecloth tie-dye tops, and waitresses in gold miniskirts, gold boots and gold nipple tassels were shimmying around among the punters, carrying trays of drinks to tables and corner banquettes.
Vittore had been watching these girls with disdain. As he had tidied up Tito’s – now transformed as Vito’s – so he intended to clean up this place too. These girls were dirty whores, flaunting themselves. They disgusted him and they would have to go.
‘Let’s discuss this upstairs,’ said Vittore, and led the way up to the office.