“I’m not sure I can put a figure on that.”
She made a move to get up from the chair. “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing more to say.”
“Wait,” I said. “Look… can I get a drink or something? Being… brought in like this has made me very thirsty. And then we can talk a bit more.”
She stared right at me and I stared right back. Then she made her decision and got up. “Very well. How does ice water sound?”
I was going to make a joke about whether she intended to get the water from the kitchen or just open up a vein in her arm, but I didn’t think Melanie Caprica was in a joking mood.
“That sounds fine,” I said.
She left me alone for a moment, and I got up and walked around. I checked out the French doors to the balcony, some of the artwork — nice framed canvases of landscapes and flowers from a woman artist named Varvara Harmon — and checked out the bookshelves as well. The books were leather-bound and looked like they came from a decorating catalogue that said something like, “For Sale, one leather-bound library, books guaranteed unread, perfect to impress those visitors who move their lips while reading.”
I heard the clatter of footsteps and, scratching my head one more time, returned to my chair. Melanie came back in, holding a wooden tray with one glass of ice water. I picked up the water, nodded my thanks, and drank half of it in one chilly swallow. I put the glass back down on the tray, now sitting before me on a coffee table.
My host — hostess? — seemed irritated. “Do go on, Mr. Rowland. What did you have to say?”
I shrugged. “I have a counteroffer.”
She said, “Name the price, then. Why are you wasting my time?”
“Because the counteroffer doesn’t involve money.”
“What does it involve, then?”
I gave her my best smile, which was a feat, considering where I was and how I had gotten there. “The counteroffer involves you.”
That got her, and I felt a bit of a thrill that she seemed slightly off balance. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What do you mean, it involves me?”
“It involves you, Miss Melanie Caprica, who has been in the employ of Mr. Frank Spinnelli for the past seven years. Prior to that, you went to Suffolk Law School, and before that, you were a summa cum laude graduate of Brown University. And curiously enough, your record prior to entering Brown University was a bit… sketchy. Involving some criminal complaints. Regarding petty larceny, drug possession, unlicensed massage therapy…”
With each sentence I had said, her face had gotten redder and redder, until now, it was scarlet. I again tried my best smile and said, “See? You’re not the only one with impressive research capabilities.”
“That’s it,” she snapped. “That’s enough.”
“But don’t you want to hear more about my counteroffer? I mean, well, excuse me for saying this, but you’re taking this very personally, Miss Caprica, and this is strictly business, is it not? For both parties to come away with the feeling that each has reached a compromise, a deal?”
I suppose I have the good professors at Suffolk Law to thank for what happened next, for she composed herself and said, “All right. Go on. But make it quick.”
I reached over, finished my glass of water, glad to see my hand wasn’t shaking when I put the empty glass down. “Then here’s my offer, and no more time-wasting. I still want to do this book. Mr. Spinnelli has had an… interesting life. The story of men like Mr. Spinnelli often takes place in New Jersey, New York, or Los Angeles. Not quiet little New England. Right there is the hook, Miss Caprica. Something different, something unusual, something that will catch the interest of book publishers.”
“And my part in this?”
I shrugged again. “Work with me. Be a co-author, or an unnamed contributor. You know so many secrets, so many tales… With your assistance, I guarantee the book will be a bestseller and optioned to the movies. An inside view of Mr. Spinnelli and his organization? Instant hit.”
I watched her face carefully, and then she burst out laughing. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”
“I surely do,” I said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked it.”
Another shake of her head and another burst of laughter. “You… you… bone-picker. You scribbler. You skimmer of other people’s trash, misery, dirt. You know nothing of loyalty, nothing of serving someone who has helped you out, nothing about me or my way of life.”
I toyed with the empty glass and touched the top of the coffee table. “Then explain it to me.”
She shifted in her seat and said, “My earlier history… true. Nothing I was proud of. But I grew up in a tough neighborhood, with a single mom who did the best she could but which wasn’t enough. So the streets called to me… I answered their call… but before it was too late, Frank Spinnelli took notice of me and straightened me out. I got my GED, got into Brown… and after getting my law degree, I began to repay the many services he provided to me. I’ve had one client during my entire professional career. My savior.”
“Sounds like a king. Or an emperor. Not a criminal thug.”
Her eyes flashed at me. “Again… your ignorance is overwhelming, Mr. Rowland. Mr. Spinnelli represents… represents something that has existed in human society for centuries. A man above society, who lives and exists outside of the normal, who protects his family and friends, and doesn’t depend on society to protect him or them. A man of strength, of vision, of power, a man who—”
I interrupted her. “I once did a story, back in my Providence Journal days, about a little grocery-shop owner, lived in a mixed neighborhood. Once he had it started up and running, two associates of Mr. Spinnelli’s came by to advise him of the nature of that particular neighborhood. That donations had to be made on a weekly basis to a nonexistent local civic-action group. He refused to pay. And then he had to quickly learn how to run a grocery store with two broken arms. So don’t give me any more crap about the noble feudal chief who protects the poor and the struggling. It’s nonsense, and deep inside, you know it.”
“Then I guess our negotiations are over,” she said, standing up. “I’ll have Alonzo and Pat drive you back to your cottage. And after tomorrow… I’d be one prepared man, Mr. Rowland.”
I stood up as well. “Sounds nice, Miss Caprica. For I’m sure you’re one prepared woman.”
Again, that quick puzzled look that pleased me. “You’re speaking in riddles again, Mr. Rowland.”
I held out my hands in a quick gesture. “Then I’ll make this plain and simple.”
“Please do.”
I took a breath. “How much longer do you think you and your two friends can keep the secret hidden?”
“And what secret is that?”
Another breath. “That Mr. Spinnelli is dead.”
My, that certainly got her attention, and her eyes stared at me with such hate and contempt, I had to wonder how she’d ever gotten any customers doing unlicensed masseuse work back in the day. “You… you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I went back to my chair. “I most certainly do. Shall I go on?”
She stood there as if debating whether to stand up and have her two boys toss me out, or let curiosity take control and sit down.
Curiosity, I was pleased to see, won out. She sat down. “Go on. Now, please.”
I said, “Even though I’m no longer with the Journal, I have contacts with a number of law-enforcement types in Providence and elsewhere. And in doing research for my book, I kept on getting the same story, over and over again. That Mr. Spinnelli had dropped out of sight. That he was no longer being seen at his usual haunts, the bars, the social clubs, the restaurants. And that there were grumblings among other… types who move in Mr. Spinnelli’s circle that they were concerned that they hadn’t seen him or heard from him in a while.”