“What do you think?” Truffatore said.
“I think I may be able to raise the money by Saturday morning.”
“Good, then...”
“Provided,” Ganucci said.
Truffatore looked at Ladruncolo.
“Provided what?” Ladruncolo asked.
“The discount is improved.”
“By how much?”
“You mentioned that you also picked up twelve thousand dollars in cash when you knocked off the bank. Deduct that from the sixty-two thousand, and we’ve got a deal.”
“That money is long since gone.”
“When did you say the bank was kicked over?”
“Last month.”
“That money is still hot, and therefore it is not long since gone,” Ganucci said. “I’ll deliver fifty thousand dollars to you on Saturday morning, in return for your shipment of Virgin Mary medallions guaranteed to be worth eighty thousand dollars. That’s the deal. And I mean guaranteed. I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen if those medallions turn out to be really silver plate.”
“They’re solid gold, don’t worry about that.”
“Yes or no?” Ganucci said.
“You’re asking for too big a profit,” Truffatore protested.
“Yes or no?” Ganucci said. “Is it a deal?”
“It’s a deal,” Ladruncolo said.
“It’s a deal,” Truffatore said glumly.
Stella Ganucci loved the sun.
She attributed this to the fact that during her show business days she had never been allowed to go out in the sun. Stella was a big lady, five feet nine inches tall, with blond hair and blue eyes and a fair complexion. She had been told time and again, back in the old show business days, that audiences did not appreciate looking at a big job who was lobster red from the sun. This, of course, was when she used to perform in Miami. She had insisted that she could cover herself all over with powder, which was what she did, anyway. But the edict had held: no sun for Stella.
She had once asked Mr. Padrone, who ran the club on Collins Avenue, “Mr. Padrone, why can there never be sun for sun nor star for star?” and Mr. Padrone had said, “What the hell are you talking about?” and that had been the end of the argument. Stella had known what she was talking about. Stella always knew what she was talking about. She had been talking about stella, which meant star, and star meant sun, and it seemed terribly unfair to her and not a little uncompromising that there could never be sun for sun nor star for star, that was what she’d been talking about, of course.
She luxuriated now in the late afternoon sunshine at the pool of the Quisisana Hotel on Capri, and wondered why people never understood her. It seemed to Stella that she was perfectly understandable. Except here, of course, because she did not speak a word of Italian. Well, not here, exactly, not here poolside at the Quisisana because every person here was American, and the only ones who spoke Italian were beachboys and busboys and waiters, and Carmine would have busted her head if she’d opened her mouth to any of them. Carmine was very peculiar that way. Still, he did understand her. Most of the time.
Nanny did not understand her most of the time. Nanny, in fact, never understood her, which made it difficult. The misunderstanding had started almost at once because Stella could not honestly see why they needed a governess for an eight-year-old child.
“To teach him things,” Carmine had said.
“What sort of things?”
“Culture.”
“I can teach him culture by myself.”
“I know you can,” Carmine said, “but can you teach him English culture?”
“Culture is culture,” Stella said.
“She’s a good governess,” Carmine replied. “Let’s give it a try.”
Nanny had moved into the house two years ago, to occupy what had once been a large storage room on the second floor, down the corridor from Carmine’s darkroom. To tell the truth, Stella couldn’t see much change in Lewis. To her, he looked about as cultured as he had always looked. She had to admit that Nanny added a certain tone to the household, what with her nice manners, and her pleasant English accent, but it was also a trial having her around all the time, like not being able to say “Shit” when she wanted to — things like that. Stella rarely used profanity (Carmine would have busted her head if she did), but occasionally she used a dirty word or two when she thought she was alone. With Nanny around the house all the time, she was hardly ever alone.
She was hardly ever alone at the pool of the Quisisana, either, but that didn’t bother her too much, mainly because she would never dream of using profanity in public.
“Did your husband take the helicopter to Naples?” Marcia Leavitt asked.
Marcia was wearing a bikini she had bought in St. Tropez the week before. She was a trim little brunette with tiny breasts; she would never have made it in Miami, Stella thought, and then said, “Yes, he took the helicopter.”
“Does he like that city?” Marcia asked.
“No,” Stella said, “he doesn’t, really.”
“I hate that city,” Marcia said.
“I don’t believe Carmine cares for it too much, either,” Stella said.
“That’s my least favorite city in the whole world,” Marcia said.
“My husband doesn’t like it, either.”
“I detest that city,” Marcia said. “‘See Naples and die’ is right. You could die from Naples.”
“My husband...”
“I abhor that city,” Marcia said. “What does your husband find so attractive in that damn city? Does he have business there?”
“No, he’s retired,” Stella said.
“Oh? What line did he used to be in?”
“Soft drinks. He’s a retired soft drinks manufacturer,” Stella said.
“Oh, really? Would I know the soft drink he manufactured?”
“I don’t think so. It was sold only in the Midwest.”
“It’s not Pepsi-Cola or anything like that?”
“No.”
“Or Coca-Cola?”
“No.”
“Where in the Midwest?”
“Chicago mostly.”
“I’m not too familiar with Chicago,” Marcia said, and rolled over on her belly. She undid the straps on her bikini top, closed her eyes, let out a deep sigh, and said, “I’m from Los Angeles myself.”
Stella did not answer. She had once played Los Angeles on the same bill with Sandy Rowles, who at that time was living with a fellow named Dan Birraio. Birraio had been Carmine’s partner back in the old days in Chicago when they were both making beer. From what Stella understood, they had made very good beer, which was quite considerate of them since they really didn’t have to. But if there was one thing Carmine believed in, it was quality. Never mind the expense involved, he had always insisted on the best malts and hops, whatever they were. Sandy had once told Stella that Birraio wore a gun to bed. When Stella in turn reported this to Carmine, to whom she was not yet married, he had said simply, “That fellow has no manners.” Which was true. In all the time she had known Carmine, he had never once worn a gun to bed. Well, only once. But that was a special occasion following his sister’s wedding, when they were expecting trouble from the fellows in Brooklyn. And the gun had only been a tiny little one strapped to his leg just above his garter. And actually, he’d forgotten to take it off when he climbed into bed only because he had drunk too much at Theresa’s wedding when it was learned that the fellows in Brooklyn had met with an unfortunate accident after somebody threw a bomb in the candy store where they hung out.