“You think you have enough firepower there?” Karen asked.
“I hope so. Give me a hand with this, will you?”
They loaded the rifle and shotgun, carried them out to the open shed that served as a garage, and arranged them under the front seats of Steve’s new Laredo. Neal backed it out of the shed, they transferred the bags, and Karen pulled her jeep into the shed.
“Think we’ll be back before Steve and Peggy?” she asked.
“I hope so.”
Neal took the wheel this time. He turned south toward a fifty-mile stretch of rugged dirt road that was the loneliest part of the High Lonely. It would take him straight down the Reese River Valley, then west over the Shoshone Mountains, then down into the low desert. He had driven it many times in daylight and never seen a single other car, and he sure didn’t want to see one tonight.
“Where are we going?” Polly asked.
“God knows,” Neal answered.
Polly thought a few seconds before she asked, “Is that in California?”
No, Neal thought. Las Vegas.
Part Two
Candyland
14
Marc Merolla opened the door before the bell stopped chiming.
Ed liked the door, black exterior enamel with a brass knob at waist height. The refurbished mock-Federal door epitomized the recent Yuppie homesteading in the old neighborhood on Providence’s east side. Once shabby and bohemian, it was becoming the place to be for young doctors, lawyers, and business types who could buy an old house cheaply and put the money they saved into renovations. The general rule seemed to be that the new owners would freshen up the exteriors, leaving the Colonial flavor intact, and gut the insides. Behind the tranquil quaint facades, contractors knocked down walls, exposed beams, sank tubs, and installed kitchen islands over which to hand stylish copper pots and pans that were much too expensive to mess up with food.
“Ed, hello,” Marc said. “Come in.”
Marc was a small man, compact and trim. His thick dark brown hair was short and he wore a neat mustache. His eyes, almond-shaped and deep brown, were soft and expressive, betraying the basic component of Marc’s personality-kindness.
Marc Merolla was unfailingly kind. Soft-spoken and polite, he was a successful stock trader and investor who wanted to do well by doing good and had pulled it off so far. Even his clothes seemed calculated not to threaten. Today he was wearing a plum polo shirt with the collar turned up over a cream-colored sweater. His dull brown corduroy trousers were baggy and fell over suede shoes.
“Sorry to disturb your Saturday morning,” Ed said.
Ed had taken the 3:00 A.M. train from New York, gone to the offices in the bank to shower and change clothes, then taken a cab to Merolla’s.
“You’re never a disturbance, Ed,” Marc said as he ushered him in. “Let me tell Theresa you’re here.”
He took Ed’s jacket and hung it on an antique coat rack in the hallway. He motioned for Ed to wait, then returned a few moments later with his wife and two young children.
Small and dark, Theresa was a perfect match for Marc. Her black hair framed sharp, pretty features and her brown eyes seemed to engage without challenging. She and Marc had dated since high school, all the way through college, and then married.
Theresa had an arm around each child’s shoulder as she whispered to them and pushed them forward to shake their guest’s hand.
Ed squatted to greet them. He made small talk with Theresa for a few minutes before she excused herself and the children to return to the kitchen, where they were busy baking a cake.
“Do you want to come in the library?” Marc asked. “And can I make you a cappuccino? It’s my Saturday-morning indulgence.”
“Sounds great. Thanks.”
Marc opened the library door, just off the hallway, and gestured to a Danish-modern chair.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ed took a walk around the large room. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases held collections of the classics and an assortment of reference books. Several music stands, their surfaces laid flat, held oversized, open photography books, most of them of Italian country scenes. The walls were decorated with opera posters, mementos, and framed photographs of Marc and Theresa, their family, and their friends.
As Ed surveyed the pictures, music came piping softly from speakers in the bookcases. Opera, Ed thought with a smile. A typical Marc Merolla gesture, because Marc and Ed had first met at the opera. It was a charity event that Kitteredge had been desperate to dodge, so he’d sent Ed instead. To his own great surprise, Ed had enjoyed the music and also the Merollas.
Marc came in juggling two large cups of cappuccino. He set them both on his desk, handed one to Ed, then sat down. Ed sat down across from him.
Marc said, “You look awful.”
It wasn’t an insult, but an opening.
“I wouldn’t bother you with this, Marc,” Ed said. “But it’s a real crisis.”
“We’re Friends of the Family, right?”
Marc had several large accounts at the bank.
“It’s nice of you to think of it that way.”
“What do you need?”
Ed sighed and then spit it out.
“I need to talk with your grandfather.”
“Don’t look so embarrassed,” Marc said. “I talk with him all the time. I just don’t work with him.”
Ed heard the slight stress on the word work.
“This is business,” Ed said.
“I don’t know anything about his business,” Marc said. “Every three or four years, I seem to have to convince the FBI of that, but I didn’t think I’d have to convince you.”
“You don’t,” Ed asserted. He knew that Marc Merolla had never been involved in the family business. He also knew how hard it was for Italian-Americans to shake the mob label, especially in a wholly owned Mafia subsidiary like Rhode Island. “I know who you are, Marc.”
“Then why are you asking me this?”
“One of my people is in trouble. I need help. I was hoping maybe your grandfather could open a door for me.”
Marc chuckled softly. “He’s in prison, Ed. If he could open doors
…”
It was no secret that Dominic Merolla ran New England from a suite at the Adult Correctional Institution.
“If I could just talk with him,” Ed said.
Marc was quiet while he seemed to be listening to the aria and sipping cappuccino. He was thinking it through.
After a long while, he said, “We go to see him every other week, Theresa and the boys and I. The boys ask me if Poppy is a bad man and I tell them that he’s not a bad man but that he has old ways that get him into trouble.
“He’s seventy-eight years old and he’s sick. Do you know why the state prosecuted?”
“No.”
“To beat the feds to the punch so he could be near his family instead of at Leavenworth,” Marc answered. “He’s my grandfather, Ed, and I love him, but I don’t get involved with his business. Sorry.”
Ed drank some coffee to be polite. He didn’t really want any. His stomach was raw from the battery acid he’d consumed on Amtrak.
“This really isn’t anything to do with his business,” Ed said. “I guess what I really need is an introduction.”
“To…”
“You don’t want to know, do you?”
“But someone of his standing.”
“Yeah.” Ed set his cup and saucer back on the desk. He bent forward so far, his head was almost touching his knees. He felt very tired. “Marc, I’m afraid. I’m afraid one of my people is going to get killed. I need to reach out, but my arms aren’t long enough.
“Shit.”
“I know.”
Ed looked up and saw Marc’s smile.
“I’ll make a couple of calls,” Marc said. “No promises. He hates you Waspy types.”
“I’m Jewish.”
“I meant the bank.”
“I know,” Ed answered. “Thanks, Marc.”
“Would you like to stay for lunch?”
Lunch was three hours away. Even third-generation Yuppie Italians will always press you to stay for the next meal, Ed thought. They still cook in big pots.