Free The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer by Rick Boyer Page A

were used to
commanding obsequious armies of attendants, purveyors, merchants,
chefs, valets, and chauffeurs at their beck and call. Sometimes
America was a rude shock for them.
    "I think his death had nothing to do with his
errand for us," suggested Lucia.
    " Plausible," said Joe, "except that
Johnny wasn't the only one—"
    "Uh, Joe," I said quickly, "let's talk
briefly with Mr. Fabrianni before we go, okay? And also, Ms.
Fabrianni, we really appreciate your help . . . I was just wondering
if you could provide us with a quick rundown of the members of your
party? Do you have any pictures we could look at?"
    She balked a bit at this, but relented, and we
returned to the Fabrianni suite where we met Paolo, infirm with old
age and diabetes, and looked at many photographs in big albums. The
watch Lucia Fabrianni was wearing had me on edge. Like the one on the
wrist of the elegant young corpse in the old chimney, it was a
Bulgari. We looked all through the photo albums, which were full of
pictures of the art objects as well as the tour personnel. In none of
the pictures could we spot a man who looked like the dead man. But
Lucia explained that not all of the tour people were in the
photographs; several of the younger assistants had not been around
when the pictures were taken.
    "Is everybody here now?" Joe asked Lucia.
    " No. Several are away sightseeing this weekend.
Two of them, I think Enzo and Michael, went down to New York on the
airplane to see relatives—"
    "They left Friday?"
    " Yes. Friday afternoon," she answered after
some thought. Joe was leaning over toward her, his attention held
totally by what she was saying. Why was he so engrossed? Then I
realized he was staring down at the lighter. He was studying it as
one might study a moon rock or the remains of a meteorite.
    "And you have no pictures of either of them we
could take a look at?" he finally asked her.
    "No, I don't think so. Why? Are they accused of
anything?"
    "No. Uh, would you call me, please, at this
number if either one of them fails to turn up when you expect?
Thanks."
    We rose to go and she opened the side door, revealing
another parlor, and her aged father sitting in his wheelchair in
front of a table with playing cards on it. Joe thanked her in
Italian. She brightened up and answered him back.
    "Mr. Brindelli, Dr. Adams, you must come for
dinner soon. We will have a big banquet before we leave. Mr.
Brindelli, you are the brother to Mrs. Adams?"
    "Afraid so."
    "Ah, and what village did you come from?"
    "Oh, a little place south of Naples, like most
of us who came to America."
    "I see . . . interesting. And what is the name
of the village?"
    "San Mango d'Aquino, in Calabria."
    "Oh yes," she said distantly, "I've
heard of it, I think. It's very poor down there, isn't it?"
    "Yes," said Joe.
    * * *
    We left the suite and walked down the hall toward the
elevators. "Notice the watch, Joe? Another Bulgari. Don't you
think that's more than coincidental?"
    "Yep," he said.
    "What chance is there that the guy in the
chimney was one of the Fabrianni party?"
    "Some."
    "And if he is, er, was, then what in God's name
does it all mean?"
    He shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. Joe
wasn't saying much. But I knew what was bothering him.
    Joe looked down at the patterned carpet as we walked.
He didn't say anything. He scowled.
    " That norte bitch," he said finally.
    "Don't let it get to you," I said. "She
doesn't know anything else. Like a lot of rich people she's both
worldly and ignorant at the same time."
    " ' It's vevy poor dawn
there, isn't it? ' " said Joe, mocking
her. "Well goddamn right it's poor down there; why the hell you
think we all came over here?"
    We got into the elevator and rode down alone. We
didn't say anything. In the lobby we paused near the old gilded clock
as if unsure of what to do next. Then we drifted along the corridor
to the library bar. We sat in two leather chairs and gazed absently
at the bookshelves and paintings. A waitress came by