Teresa pursed her lips suspiciously. "What did you say?"
"He wouldn't trade you any day," Sophia interjected, then exchanged grins with Filippo.
"Exaaactly!"
Nothing in Don Roberto's manner gave a hint of his intentions. He would inform his sons the following night, when the men dined alone together. They would know then that he was to be the major witness for the prosecution, then and not before. Tonight he wished to enjoy his family. He brought out his vintage brandy and a treasured box of Havana cigars.
The little boys began to tire, but would not leave their grandfather's side. They vied with each other for his attention, demanding stories.
Puffing on his cigar, the don began to tell them about an incident in his own childhood, when he was no older than Nunzio. He had climbed into an orchard and stolen two big rosy apples. He needed his hands free to climb back over the wall, so he stuffed the apples down the back of his pants.
"Well, there I was, half over the wall, when the farmer caught me. He pulled at my boot…" He made a face and stuck out his bottom lip. "Caught you, you thieving little beggar!" He raised his eyes in a show of innocence. "Me, sir? I have not taken anything. I was just looking over the wall at your beautiful orchard and thinking to myself how nice it would be to have one of your big rosy apples."
Constantino slipped his arm around his mother's shoulders. Everyone was listening as the don continued, spreading his hands wide. "Look, sir, I haven't stolen anything. I'm innocent."
He blinked and gave a clownish grin. Constantino whispered to Graziella, "I have never seen him so relaxed. He never told us stories."
Graziella patted her son's hand and looked up into his face, saying very softly, "You forget…"
" 'Well,' said the farmer, 'I am sorry. Now you be on your way and count yourself lucky I didn't box your ears. Go on, off with you.' So I began walking away from him, backward, because if I turned around, he couldn't help seeing just where I had hidden the apples. Then he called out, 'Wait a minute, wait a minute!' and he reached into his basket for a big, big apple, and held it out. Just as I reached for it, can you guess what happened?"
Two little faces peered up at him, and two little heads shook from side to side.
"Why, the two apples I had stolen fell to the ground and rolled right up to his feet. He chased me down the lane, shaking his fist, and then can you guess what he did? No? He was so angry that he threw the apples after me, and guess what then? Later that night I went back and picked up the apples. I was so pleased with myself that I ate them all, every one. And then can you guess what happened? No? No?" He roared with laughter. "/ got a bellyache/"
Everyone rocked with laughter. Tears rolled down the children's cheeks. When they finally subsided, Don Roberto gave his wife a private, intimate look. Their house burst with life and energy, and it felt so safe. He knew he was right not to tell them, not tonight.
The following morning the Villa Rivera reverberated with the sounds of the family. Gifts for the bride and groom were being stacked in the living room as they arrived, a profusion of wedding bells and horseshoes, but only the don and his wife knew that each one had been carefully inspected and rewrapped before being brought into the house. Only they knew why, as the family gathered for breakfast, every door was guarded. There were men on the roof, men in the orchards and in the stables, and more checked everyone who entered or left the premises against the list of staff hired to complete the wedding arrangements.
The same tight security enabled the prosecuting counsel, Giuliano Emanuel, to feel secure in his own house. He was still tired from the previous night, having worked late over the Luciano tapes in the privacy of his own home. It was after ten o'clock when he drove to work, where security was even more in evidence. It was a considerable time before he could enter his own office, but he could not complain as the guards checked his identity papers. He was the one who had instigated the security measures. He had told Mario Domino the day after their meeting in the restaurant that he had arranged to have fifteen guards allocated to the Luciano household. The don and his family would be protected as requested.
Closing his office door, he tossed his briefcase on the desk. He and Roberto Luciano had been working together for almost eight days, recording the don's statements. Luciano had asked for a weekend break, to be with his family. Emanuel agreed; he needed the time to write up all his notes.
The past eight days had been exhausting; the precautions that had had to be taken to keep the don's identity secret and to ensure his safety bordered on the obsessive. Every meeting place was guarded; cars were changed, locations switched at the last moment. Even finding safe houses had proved a nightmare. And all the tapes had to be transcribed before they went into court.
Emanuel had also prepared a list of problems arising from the statements. Don Roberto would take the stand as soon as the adjournment was over. Emanuel had let it be known that he had a powerful new witness for the prosecution, but he was confident that no one could discover the don's identity.
Emanuel pulled the tape recorder closer and loaded Tape 4 from the last session. The volume was too high, distorting the don's voice, and he turned it down. Then he opened his notebook and switched on his word processor.
The statements went back as far as twenty years, to the death of Michael Luciano. Although he had listened to the man for days on end, the don's voice impressed him with its strength and clarity, his choice of words. He never rambled; he was concise, meticulous about dates and facts, and when he mentioned a name, he spelled it out carefully so there could never be any confusion. Rarely was there any hesitation, and then only when Luciano, aware of implications against himself, sidestepped issues that would entail naming names he did not wish to disclose.
Emanuel typed onto the screen: "Roberto Luciano, Statement 3, Tape 4. February 12, 1987." He worked solidly until after twelve, rewinding the tape when he wanted to confirm or query something Luciano had said, continually cross-referenc- ing and checking against statements he had already compiled from previous days. He tapped the "Execute" key, tapped again; the screen had locked out. He could neither execute nor exit from the program.
Suddenly the screen flashed: "Power failure." He sat in mute fury, refusing to believe the hated words, desperately wishing them away because against all instructions, he had not backed up his disks or saved the changes he had made. The only thing he could do was shut down the system to clear the hang-up; all the work he had just done would be lost.
Swearing at his own stupidity, he reached for the switch as the telephone rang. The bell cut through his anger, startling him. As he reached for it, he knocked over a mug of cold coffee from the night before. In trying to save it from falling to the floor, he dropped the telephone receiver. It smashed against the side of his desk.
He could hear his wife's voice from the dangling phone, asking if he was all right. Yelling for her to hold on, he picked up the mug, then grasped the telephone cord to pull the receiver up. The curly flex hooked on the edge of his desk, and he swore yet again as he ran his fingers along the desk to release it. Suddenly he reacted as if he had been given an electric shock. He pulled his hand back.
His wife was shouting, "Hello? You there? Hello?"
Emanuel quickly picked up the receiver. "I'll call you back… No, I'm fine, nothing's wrong. I'll call you later."
Nothing wrong? Jesus Christ... He slammed the phone down and felt along the side of the desk, heart thudding. He trembled as he touched it again; he knew exactly what it was. He ran to the door and yanked it open.