Free Vendetta Trail by Robert Vaughan Page A

thank you for your offer,” Hawke said, cutting him off. “But I don’t do that anymore.”
    Tompkins stood there for a moment longer before realizing that Hawke was serious, that he wasn’t just trying to elicit further response or a more specific offer.
    “All right,” Tompkins said. “I don’t understand why you feel that way, but I’ll respect your decision. But if you ever do change your mind, if you would like to get back into serious music again, please, come see me.”
    “Thank you. I do appreciate your offer,” Hawke said again.

Chapter 11
    DE LUCA WAS SITTING AT A TABLE ON THE PORTICO at the back of his house, sipping a glass of wine as he read the New Orleans Picayune.
    MORE VIOLENCE AMONG THE ITALIANS
    On the 4th, Instant, there was a nighttime gun battle in which three Italians were found gunned down in an empty lot in the 1100 block of Dauphine Street. These three were said to be members of the Innocents, known to be controlled by Joseph Tangeleno.
    It is believed that they were killed by members of Carlos De Luca’s associates, known as the Family, and indeed, but one week following, three members of De Luca’s Family were murdered on the riverfront.
    Although many citizens have called upon the city government to take whatever action is required to rid our city of this scourge, to date, thecity has refused to act. Some have suggested that members of the city government, including the police, may be involved by way of receiving graft payments from one or more of these criminal elements.
    “Don De Luca?”
    De Luca looked up from his newspaper and saw Provenzano.
    “Yes?”
    “Morello is here,” Provenzano said.
    “Did he come alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “Is everything ready?” De Luca asked.
    “Yes.”
    De Luca folded his newspaper and lay it aside. “Very well, tell the others. Then bring him back here.”

Chapter 12
    RACHEL WAS LOOKING AT A FIELD OF FLOWERS, blue bachelor’s buttons, yellow black-eyed Susans, orange butterfly weeds, and cardinal flowers that were a brilliant red. The flowers moved gently to and fro in the breeze, causing the colors to meld and join together in one giant patchwork quilt.
    The windmill answered a breeze and, as the blades began spinning, she could hear a squeaking sound.
    The squeak got louder and more insistent and the pictures in her mind drifted away. The squeaking windmill was replaced by the squeaking sound of her bed. The flowers were gone too, and in their stead she saw the flocked wallpaper of her room.
    “Uhnn!” the man who was thrusting against her said. “Uhn, uhn, uhn, ohhhhhh!”
    He stopped his thrusting, the bed stopped squeaking, and he lay on her with all his weight, breathing hard.
    “Honey,” Rachel said quietly. “Honey, you’re weighing me down.” She pushed against him, insistently, but not too aggressively.
    “Oh yeah,” he said. He rolled off of her, then lay in the bed beside her, still breathing hard. “Damn, that was good.”
    “Oh, I’m so glad you liked it.”
    Rachel’s client was a man named Pietro Franchetti. She knew that he was Italian and was connected in some way with De Luca, but she didn’t know all the ins and outs of the Sicilian groups who so controlled New Orleans.
    They lay side by side for a few minutes longer before Rachel spoke again. “Pietro, I’m going to have to get on back downstairs now,” she said.
    “All right.”
    Pietro sat up, then reached for his pants. He laughed. “I didn’t bother to put on my underdrawers because I knew I was comin’ here tonight.”
    “That sounds like a smart move to me,” Rachel said.
    From the room next to hers, Rachael heard a popping sound, then a cry.
    She slipped into a robe, then walked to the door.
    “I wouldn’t open the door if I were you,” Pietro said.
    Rachel looked back toward him.
    “You don’t want to get involved with someone like Sal Vizzini,” Pietro said.
    “Why is he like that?” Rachel asked. “Why is he so cruel?”
    “It