The Scarlatti Inheritance(27)

And then the other man, the man who remained in the back seat of the second automobile, leaned forward toward the window, half hidden in the shadows.

“What’s the matter? What are they yelling about, Vitone?”

“This comandante doesn’t like the way we do business, Padrone. He says he won’t let us unload no more.”

“Why not?”

“Si rifiuti!” shouted the captain, sensing what was being said though not understanding the words.

“He says he don’t see anyone he knows. He says we don’t have no rights with his ship! He wants to make telephone calls.”

“I’ll bet he does,” the man in shadow said quietly. “I know just who he wants to call.”

“You gonna let him?” asked the short Italian.

“Don’t be foolish, Vitone.… Talk nice. Smile. Wave back at the ship. All of you!… That’s a powder keg back there, you imbeciles!… Let them think everything’s fine.”

“Sure. Sure, Padrone.”

All of them laughed and waved except the captain, who furiously tried to release his arms. The effect was comic, and Canfield found himself nearly smiling except that the face in the automobile window was now in his direct line of sight. The field accountant saw that it was a good-looking face—striking would be the word. Although the face was somewhat obscured by the wide brim of a hat, Canfield noticed that the features were sharp, aquiline, clean-cut. What particularly struck the field accountant were the eyes.

They were very light blue eyes. Yet he was addressed by the Italian “padrone.” Canfield assumed there were Italians with blue eyes but he had never met any. It was unusual.

“What do we do, Padrone?” asked the short man who had given Canfield the hundred dollars.

“What else, sport? He’s a visitor to our shores, isn’t he? Be courteous, Vitone.… Take the captain outside and let him … make his phone calls.” Then the man with the light blue eyes lowered his voice. “And kill him!”

The small Italian nodded his head slightly in the direction of the pier entrance. The two men on each side of the uniformed officer pushed him forward, out the large door into the darkness of the night.

“Chiama le nostri amici …” said the goon on the captain’s right arm.

But the captain resisted. Once outside, in the dim spill of the door’s light, Canfield could see that he began violently thrashing his body against both escorts until the one on the left lost his balance. The captain then swung into the other man with both fists, shouting at him in Italian.

The man who had been shoved away regained his balance, and took something out of his pocket. Canfield couldn’t distinguish its shape.

Then Canfield saw what it was.

A knife.

The man behind the captain plunged it into the officer’s unguarded back.

Matthew Canfield pulled the visor of his customs cap down and began walking away from the automobiles. He walked slowly, casually.

“Hey! You! You! Customs!” It was the blue-eyed man from the back seat.

“You! Lake Erie!” the short Italian yelled.

Canfield turned. “I didn’t see anything. Not a thing. Nothin’!” He tried to smile but no smile would come.

The man with the light blue eyes stared at him as Canfield squinted and pinched his face below the visor of his cap. The short Italian nodded to the driver of the first car.

The driver got out and came behind the field accountant.

“Porta lui fuori vicin’ a l’acqua! Sensa fuccide! Corteddo!” said the short man.

The driver pushed Canfield in the small of the back toward the pier entrance. “Hey, c’mon! I didn’t see nothin’! What d’you want with me!… C’mon, for Christ’s sake!”

Matthew Canfield didn’t have to be given an answer. He knew exactly what they wanted from him. His insignificant life.

The man behind him kept pushing, nudging him onward. Around the building. Along the deserted side of the pier.

Two rats scampered several yards in front of Canfield and his executioner. The growing sounds of arguments could be heard behind the walls of the cargo area. The Hudson River slapped against the huge pylons of the dock.

Canfield stopped. He wasn’t sure why but he couldn’t simply keep walking. The pain in his stomach was the pain of fear.

“A lesta chil … Keep movin’!” said the man, poking a revolver into Canfield’s ribs.

“Listen to me.” Gone was Canfield’s attempt to rougnen his voice. “I’m a government man! You do anything to me, they’ll get you! You won’t get any protection from your friends when they find out.…”