Judy didn’t get it. “Wait. What do you own? The wall?”
Frank nodded, with a grin. “I bought this property as of yesterday, from my client. Ten acres, most of it uncleared, but it’s still land.”
“You’re kidding!”
“So now it’s my wall.” Frank turned and pointed behind him, to lower ground. “The house will be there.”
“House?”
“I can build it.”
“By yourself?”
“Nah.” Frank turned and pointed toward the oak grove, where Pigeon Tony began the long trek toward them. “I got the little stones to help, like that one.”
Judy smiled. “Jeez! And I thought I had news.”
Frank cocked his head. “What’s your news?”
Judy opened the newspaper, held it up, and showed him the headline. She knew what it said. JOHN COLUZZI ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF BROTHER MARCO.
“They announced today, huh?” Frank set down his hammer and accepted the paper.
“The proverbial good news and bad news.” Judy winced. “Jimmy Bello turns on John Coluzzi in return for a lighter sentence on your parents’ murder. Bello even produced the ski masks and bloody clothes, which he was supposed to stash after they killed Marco. The D.A. said he has John nailed.”
Frank’s lips parted as he read the story, and Judy waited for his reaction. In the background she could see Pigeon Tony getting closer, in his baggy pants and blousy white shirt. After a minute Frank looked up from the paper. “They don’t say how light the sentence will be,” he said, dry-mouthed.
“It won’t be that light, they told me, and it’ll run consecutively, so he’s locked up for a good, long time.”
“I can meet with the judge when the time comes, as victims’ family, right?”
“Right. I’ll go with you.”
“Good.” Frank squinted against the sun. His broad chest heaved up and down with a deep sigh. “Not the worst thing in the world. Justice, in a way.”
“In a way. And Dan Roser’s lawsuit goes forward, against John and the company. With Kevin McRea’s testimony, Coluzzi Construction is out of business.”
Frank handed her back the newspaper. “Sometimes that’s the best the law can do,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s time to end all this, huh?”
“You mean the hate part? The hostility and the war?”
Frank smiled. “The vendetta.”
“So the vendetta ends. Excellent. From now on there will be only peace, stone walls, and houses in the country.”
“And love,” Frank said. He leaned over and kissed Judy gently, without her even asking.
“Judy!” came a shout, and Judy managed to unlock her lips. Behind Frank, Pigeon Tony was walking, with Penny dancing circles at his side. He carried a Hefty bag, and Judy knew it had to be full of lunch and laundry. But Pigeon Tony’s straw hat was tilted at an unusual angle, and something she couldn’t see clearly was on his shoulder.
“How do you think he’ll take the news?” she asked, shielding her eyes to see Pigeon Tony better. Something appeared to be sitting on his shoulder, and Penny kept jumping up to get it.
“I told him we’d have to make the deal, and he’s okay with it. He’s stronger than both of us and this wall put together.” Frank turned and waved at his grandfather. “He’s already talking about rebuilding his loft, at home, so he can get ready for race season this summer. He loves you forever for saving his birds.”
“I didn’t do it. The Tonys did.” Judy stood up and waved as Pigeon Tony approached, swinging his Hefty bag, and when he got close enough she could see what was driving the dog nuts. Perched on Pigeon Tony’s shoulder, riding happily under the brim of his hat, perched a slate-gray pigeon. Judy burst into laughter. “Is that a pigeon on his shoulder?”
“That’s no ordinary pigeon. That’s The Old Man.”
“He came back?”
“Naturally, to South Philly. Where else can he get fresh mozzarella?”
Judy laughed. “So what’s he doing here?”
“Tony-From-Down-The-Block brought him, and my grandfather won’t let the bird out of his sight. They’re both single, and they go everywhere together now.”
“Judy!” Pigeon Tony was pumping his hand with a familiar vigor. “Thank you, Judy. Thank you! Look! See! He come back!”
The motion unsettled the bird, which began fluttering its wings, and suddenly Penny leaped into the air at the pigeon.
Judy was about to shout in warning, but the aged pigeon, who had survived dangers greater than mere puppies, took easy flight, flapping its wings in a gentle rhythm, swooping in unhurried spirals into the cloudless blue sky. The bird climbed higher and higher as they all watched from the meadow, until finally it soared into the light of the sun, safe and free.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I know something about the law and about golden retrievers, but that’s about it. For this novel I had to understand homing pigeons and prewar Italy, so I was, in at least two areas, flat out of luck. Also the writing part never comes easy, but that’s another story. This is where I say thank you for the help, and kindly forgive my length. I’m a big fan of thank you. People should say it more often. Only goldens are exempt.
First thanks to my agent Molly Friedrich and my editor Carolyn Marino, for their guidance, support, and good humor during the writing and editing process. Thank you to HarperCollins CEO Jane Friedman, who watches over me, my books, and even their covers, and to Cathy Hemming, who is the best publisher in town. Thank you to Michael Morrison, for his expertise and kindness, and to Richard Rohrer, for all of the above, plus great taste in wine. Thank you to the Amazing Paul Cirone and to Erica Johanson, for everything. Special thanks to Laura Leonard and Tara Brown, for putting up with me.
Thank you to my wonderful family, The Flying Scottolines, here and in Italy, who let me mine them and their memories relentlessly. Thank you to my compare Rinaldo Celli and his family, who helped me understand something about life under Mussolini. Also helpful in this regard were several excellent works: Mussolini, My Rise and Fall (Da Capo, 1998); Moseley, Mussolini’s Shadow (Yale University Press, 1995); Whittam, Fascist Italy (Manchester University Press, 1995). For background, see Juliani, Building Little Italy; Philadelphia’s Italians Before Migration (Penn State University Press, 1998), and Mangione, Mount Allegro (Syracuse University Press, 1998). Like most Italian-Americans, I grew up in a proverb-spouting household, but I hear that not everybody learns what goes around, comes around or the ever-cryptic I cry, or you cry at age three. Those of you who escaped childhood without this experience, or even those of you who survived it, may want to read Mertvago, ed., Dictionary of Italian Proverbs (Hippocrene, 1997). Thanks to my friend, Carolyn Romano.
Thank you to Anthony and Rocco LaSalle and his family, who invited me into their home, loft, and friendship. I am forever grateful. Thank you to the members of a certain local pigeon racing club, for letting this rookie attend. For further reading about pideon racing, see Rotondo, Rotondo on Racing Pigeons (Mattacchione, 1987) and Bodio, Aloft (Pruett, 1990). Thank you to Wil Durham, for his expertise and kindness, and to Marty Keeley, Sebastian Pistritto, and Chris Molitor.
Thank you to Paul Davis, friend and master stonemason, for answering countless questions and for letting me watch him pick up rocks and put them down again. Fot the zen of dry-laid walls, see Allport, Sermons in Stone (Norton, 1990) and Vivian, Building Stone Walls (Storey, 1976). Thank you to Dr. Anthony Giangrasso, for his forensic expertise and kindness. Thank you to my dear friends criminal defense lawyer Glenn Gilman and detective/whiz Art Mee of the Office of the District Attorney of Philadelphia.