"Kennedy Airport," he said. The cab driver groused a little because he did not generally make out so well tip-wise on those long hauls, preferring short trips instead. Then on the trip he let his passenger in on his philosophy for the good life, which was that the world would be an all right place if it weren't for the jews, spicks, wops, niggers and polacks, you ain't Jewish or Italian, are you, mister? It was inferior people that made an inferior world, laziness was built into some of those types.
He stopped at Eastern Airlines as he was told and made no effort to help his passenger, who took only one of the bags and told him to wait. He watched through the window. Inside his fare bought a ticket at the counter and checked in the duffle bag of luggage, then the fare came back out and got into the cab. They drove down to the National Airlines ticket office which wasn't far, and did not really give the cab-driver much time to explain about the laziness of most races except his own. There they were already, again his fare lugged out the duffle bag himself and went in, checked the bag after buying a ticket with cash, then he was out in the cab again.
The next stop in line was TWA. The passenger took the third bag, bought a ticket there and checked his duffle bag. The cabbie turned his head for a moment and when he looked around again, his fare was gone. He waited and when the fare didn't return, he got out of the cab. He did not see him on the sidewalk and inside he did not see him anywhere in the TWA lounge, and-cursing all jews, guineas and spiks-he went inside and asked the clerk what had happened to the man who checked the duffle bag.
"Oh, you mean, Mister Gonzales," the clerk said, looking at the slip before him. "Well, he had to rush to catch his plane for Puerto Rico. He said that if you came in, I should tell you he'd get you the next time."
But the man known momentarily as Mister Gonzales was not on his way to Puerto Rico. He was sitting in one of the small jump seats on a helicopter headed for Newark Airport.
The duffle bag that belonged to Mr. Gonzales was now being loaded into the rear of the San Juan plane. And another duffle bag just like it, but belonging to Mr. Aronovitz was being loaded into the back of the Anchorage plane. And a third duffle bag, owned by Mr. Botticelli, was already aboard the Chicago plane.
But in Chicago and San Juan and Anchorage, no Mr. Gonzales or Mr. Aronovitz or Mr. Botticelli would call for the bags. They would sit in the terminals for a few days or maybe even a week, then the smell would begin to come through the rubber suits and the police of three cities would have an airport mystery.
That would really stir the pot but he hoped everything would be over before then, thought Remo Williams, now known as Remo Barry-sometimes Mr. Gonzales, Mr. Aronovitz and Mr. Botticelli-as he sat in the helicopter looking down at the meadows, as the chopper lowered for a landing at Newark Airport.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Conwell Funeral Home sat on a tired little side street in Hudson. It was located behind a supermarket, in an old frame building that dated back to the revolutionary war, and in the back yard was a giant oak tree under which George Washington once held a council of war.
The Conwell Funeral Home was very Wasp, very proper, and they simply did not like to bury just any Italian. But Dominic Verillio of course was another story. Why, Mr. Verillio wasn't even really like an Italian or even a Catholic, for that matter.
Why, he was a friend of the mayor's; he belonged to the Museum Society, gave to charities and was active in civic and social work. It was only an accident of birth that gave him an Italian name. The poor man must have suffered so to take his own life because of the pressure of overwork-work for the good of the people, you could count on that-and so funeral services would be held at Conwell's. A call from City Hall had stressed that they must be held immediately, that very day, with the funeral to be held tomorrow.
So there had been a private visitation that afternoon and men in cars, big, black cars and hard-faced men, had come to the funeral home all afternoon.
They had bent a knee at the sealed coffin containing Dominic Verillio's body. They had blessed themselves and left. Not a few of them wondered what had happened to their down payment money for the heroin.
The same men had sent flowers and the flowers had filled not only the small chapel for Dominic Verillio, but the entire first floor of the funeral home. Additional floral pieces were stacked outside on the front porch and still they came from all over the country.
Pietro Scubisci left his bag of peppers inside his car when he came in to bid farewell to Don Dominic. It was not like the old days at all. In the old days, they would have stayed at the funeral home. They would have taken it over. They would have rented entire hotels, so that there would be accommodations for all those who wanted to help send off the spirit of Don Dominic.
But today, Pietro sighed. It was impossible. The feds with their cameras, their microphones and their agents were all over and one could stop only for a moment before having to move on. The world changes. It was probably a good idea to rush the services before the feds could annoy everybody who showed up.
But still it would have been nice to send Don Dominic into the hands of God with a proper ceremony. There was no doubt that he was going to God. Had not Pietro's own daughter said that Don Dominic was going against a god? She must have meant going to God.
Pietro Scubisci bent his knee at the coffin and wiped a tear from his face. Don Dominic Verillio was a widower and no matter what Angela said there had been no children and so no one for Pietro to say goodbye to. Because of her obvious grief, however, he said goodbye to the beautiful young woman standing at the back of the chapel. She had the kind of face that Etruscans dreamed of and the bones looked familiar.
She wept and when Pietro Scubisci patted her on the shoulder, she said, "Grazie, Don Pietro." He looked hard at her but could not remember where he had seen that face. And then he went out into his car, told his driver to get moving to Atlantic City where there would be a conference about leadership and Pietro might have the votes. But who had the heroin?
Scubisci and the other Mafia men had arrived in the afternoon and there were more or less public ceremonies that night. Mayor Hansen was there looking dignified and vacuous, with his daughter, Cynthia, who looked truly grieved, and her mother, a dark woman who only a few persons knew had a drinking problem. She wept uncontrollably. There was Police Chief Brian Dugan because, after all, Verillio was the biggest contributor to the PAL and there was Horgan, the editor, and the Rt. Rev. Msgr. Joseph Antoni. In the back there was Remo Williams, who sat and watched the crowd.
Monsignor Antoni had revised his Columbus Day speech for the occasion. He spoke of Michelangelo and Leonardo DaVinci, of Christopher Columbus and Enrico Fermi. He spoke of Verdi, Caruso, Pope John XXIII and of Frank Sinatra. He said that against this panoply of greatness, of service to mankind, of progress and beauty, Dominic Verillio surely stood, joined with them in strong array against the more sensational exploitations of a handful of overrated gangsters, belief in whose existence blasphemed against the Italian people. When he said that, he glared angrily at Horgan, who had personally written a long, involved obituary of Verillio, hinting at the mystery in his life and making his opinions clear without ever stating them.
From his seat in the rear of the sweaty little room, Remo watched them all. Mayor Hansen, sitting erect, mixing his small repertoire of facial expressions carefully: one from column a for the eyes; another from column b for the mouth, alternately looking respectful, thoughtful, grieved, contemplative, and then respectful again.
Remo watched him carefully. It was the first time he had seen him, since Cynthia seemed intent on keeping the two of them apart, and Remo felt the frustration one often feels in dealing with a public man. It takes a lot of digging to get beneath the public face to find out what's really going on and often one finds nothing's going on. The private face is as stupid as the public face.