Free Earthquake I.D. by John Domini Page B

choking body. But Mr. Paul needed better than that; if Mama was a saint, she had to do better.
    The cell door opened, not far, not even halfway. Another carabiniero called the first into the hall. The two conferred in a whisper, but they couldn’t hide anything from Barbara. She could read the pretty boy’s smile, full Elvis all of a sudden.
    â€œE sicuro , Jay?” she barked. “Tutto skuro?”
    The man who’d come to door met her look. He didn’t smile, or not quite, but he gave a very different sort of shrug from what she’d seen downtown.
    â€œYour father’s safe, guys.” Barb made it a point to catch Paul’s eye first. “The man is safe.”
    Now both the policemen were nodding.
    â€œAnd as soon as we can,” she went on, “we are all of us going out to the Refugee Center. It could be tomorrow, it could be the next day, but we are going to get some backup from NATO and ride out to Papa’s place.”
    The middle child was grinning more broadly than either of the carabinieri. He thrust a pair of fingers inside his open collar, exposing an inch more of hairless chest.
    â€œIt’s time,” Barbara went on, “we stop playing around.”

Chapter Four
    â€œWater buffalo?” Dora said. “Like in Africa?”
    â€œThis isn’t Africa,” Sylvia said, forcing a laugh. “This is Italy. Don’t try to tell us they’ve got water buffalo.”
    JJ went on pointing out the Humvee window. “Guys, hey. Even I wouldn’t try to confuse you about what continent we’re on.”
    â€œGirls, look, what do you think those things are?” Chris was pointing too. “Moose? The mozzarella, like, the cheese? That’s where it comes from.”
    Around them the landscape seesawed, here a scabbed, balsitic ridge and there the grass velvet of a creek plain. Across the more level areas sauntered the buffalo, hefty-shouldered and brick-brown, their horns like question marks. The NATO caravan had first taken the family through the Phlegrean Fields, north of the city—a low-rising outbreak of the same magma that underlay Vesuvius to the south. In the Fields the ground turned to dust around smoking fumaroles, mounds of pale flinders, like smoking dumps of extracted teeth. Two thousand, three thousand years ago, these badlands were said to house a gateway to the Underworld, the poisoned spring where Ulysses spoke with the dead. Yet soon enough the gravel and chalk gave way to actual fields, rippling with mid-June vitality. Low hillsides sprouted mixed greens in mouthwatering layers, while others flowered lavender, crimson, milk-white. Vest-pocket orchards and grape arbors cut rows and terraces across the flatter spaces, squeezing every workable inch of the nutrient-rich soil. Farther inland still, between the vine-rows and fruit trees, there began to appear the small herds of buffalo.
    â€œMozzarella?” Dora was asking.
    â€œBest mozzarella in the world,” Silky Kahlberg said. “Da bufalo , know what I mean? Vera da bufalo.”
    â€œSure,” said JJ. “The truth comes from buffalos. Old Neapolitan saying.”
    The NATO man chuckled, paternal, or the movie version.
    â€œYeah well,” Chris said, “JJ, if the choice was between asking you and asking a water buffalo.…”
    Kahlberg chuckled again, and Barbara allowed herself a laugh as well. She was going to have to learn to relax around the Lieutenant-Major. Certainly she enjoyed the benefits that came with having him somehow on call. She liked his van’s state-of-the-art air conditioning, for starters, a terrific relief on a morning when she’d woken up itching. Last night Jay had put something extra into his thrusts; he’d wanted to kindle a special glow for today’s visit. Then too, the mother was glad they didn’t have to share the ride with a machine gun. Instead Kahlberg had arranged for a pair of