Gardella go up,” he said and looked pleased. Wade wasn’t. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”
Wade glanced at the traffic, which honked and fumed. “Let’s not go in yet.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like facing him.”
The agent made a face. “You afraid of him?”
“Yes,” said Wade. “I’m afraid of him.”
• • •
From a dormer window in Rita O’Dea’s bedroom, Alvaro had a full view of the driveway leading to Anthony Gardella’s house. When he saw the flash and sweep of headlights, he noted the time and later the fact that, as usual, Gardella entered his house through the three-stall garage, the doors of which moved electrically. He also observed that, of the two men who had arrived with Gardella, only one stayed, Ralph Roselli, who presumably would spend the night in a downstairs guest room. The other man, Victor Scandura, left in another car, his own.
Alvaro further noted that the grounds were well lit, as usual.
He moved swiftly from the window when Rita O’Dea called from the bathroom. Clad only in magenta Jockey briefs, he pattered to the door and peered through the vapors. Half out of the shower stall, she looked like a big baby picture that had burst out of its frame.
“No towels!” she cried.
He found one, terry cloth, monogrammed, one that he had used earlier, but was dry now. He spread it wide and rubbed her down, her flesh quivering. Gently he raked his fingernails down her back and gave her a shiver. She snatched off her shower cap, her hair jumping loose, and gazed at him over her shoulder.
“Sometimes you know just what to do,” she said and sought his lips. The kiss was vigorous on her part, expert on his. He helped her into a massive robe and tied it for her. She reached for a brush as the telephone rang in the bedroom. “Get it,” she said.
He fetched it for her. It was cordless. He stepped back to listen to her talk and immediately knew from her voice that the caller was her brother. She threw a look at him.
“This is private.”
He retreated into the bedroom, but it wasn’t far enough. She told him to go downstairs, which he did after squeezing into a pair of pants. He made his way into the kitchen, where polished pots and pans hung from a wall like weaponry. A knife gleamed from the butcher’s block. Opening a side door, he peered out into the chill darkness. Only a couple of lights glowed inside Anthony Gardella’s house. He had never been in it, but he knew it was laid out more or less like Rita’s. He also knew that Gardella never lingered more than a moment near a lit window, even with the shade pulled.
He went back up to the bedroom, where Rita O’Dea was moving about with a heavy step. She was dressing and doing it hurriedly, giving only scant attention to how she looked, which was uncharacteristic. “What’s the matter?” he asked and received no answer, not even a look. “Why you so quiet?”
“I’m quiet, you should be too.” She shook her shoulders. “Button me.”
He lifted her hair and did up the back of her dress while breathing on her neck. “Where you going?”
“My brother wants to see me.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Don’t ask. It was for you to know, I’d tell you.”
He stepped around her, forced her to look at him. His beard had a sleek look and smelled of bay rum. “What’s the matter, you afraid I keep a notebook on things you tell me?”
“No, only the things I don’t tell you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means my brother and I only trust each other.” Then she smiled thinly. “It’s how we stay in business, kiddo.”
• • •
Jane Gardella, staring through her darkened bedroom window, saw Alvaro standing in the side door of Rita O’Dea’s house and suddenly remembered where she had seen him before.
A part of her went cold.
The beard had fooled her. Slowly she dropped back from the window and only with the greatest effort restrained herself from running downstairs to her
Wade glanced at the traffic, which honked and fumed. “Let’s not go in yet.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like facing him.”
The agent made a face. “You afraid of him?”
“Yes,” said Wade. “I’m afraid of him.”
• • •
From a dormer window in Rita O’Dea’s bedroom, Alvaro had a full view of the driveway leading to Anthony Gardella’s house. When he saw the flash and sweep of headlights, he noted the time and later the fact that, as usual, Gardella entered his house through the three-stall garage, the doors of which moved electrically. He also observed that, of the two men who had arrived with Gardella, only one stayed, Ralph Roselli, who presumably would spend the night in a downstairs guest room. The other man, Victor Scandura, left in another car, his own.
Alvaro further noted that the grounds were well lit, as usual.
He moved swiftly from the window when Rita O’Dea called from the bathroom. Clad only in magenta Jockey briefs, he pattered to the door and peered through the vapors. Half out of the shower stall, she looked like a big baby picture that had burst out of its frame.
“No towels!” she cried.
He found one, terry cloth, monogrammed, one that he had used earlier, but was dry now. He spread it wide and rubbed her down, her flesh quivering. Gently he raked his fingernails down her back and gave her a shiver. She snatched off her shower cap, her hair jumping loose, and gazed at him over her shoulder.
“Sometimes you know just what to do,” she said and sought his lips. The kiss was vigorous on her part, expert on his. He helped her into a massive robe and tied it for her. She reached for a brush as the telephone rang in the bedroom. “Get it,” she said.
He fetched it for her. It was cordless. He stepped back to listen to her talk and immediately knew from her voice that the caller was her brother. She threw a look at him.
“This is private.”
He retreated into the bedroom, but it wasn’t far enough. She told him to go downstairs, which he did after squeezing into a pair of pants. He made his way into the kitchen, where polished pots and pans hung from a wall like weaponry. A knife gleamed from the butcher’s block. Opening a side door, he peered out into the chill darkness. Only a couple of lights glowed inside Anthony Gardella’s house. He had never been in it, but he knew it was laid out more or less like Rita’s. He also knew that Gardella never lingered more than a moment near a lit window, even with the shade pulled.
He went back up to the bedroom, where Rita O’Dea was moving about with a heavy step. She was dressing and doing it hurriedly, giving only scant attention to how she looked, which was uncharacteristic. “What’s the matter?” he asked and received no answer, not even a look. “Why you so quiet?”
“I’m quiet, you should be too.” She shook her shoulders. “Button me.”
He lifted her hair and did up the back of her dress while breathing on her neck. “Where you going?”
“My brother wants to see me.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Don’t ask. It was for you to know, I’d tell you.”
He stepped around her, forced her to look at him. His beard had a sleek look and smelled of bay rum. “What’s the matter, you afraid I keep a notebook on things you tell me?”
“No, only the things I don’t tell you.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means my brother and I only trust each other.” Then she smiled thinly. “It’s how we stay in business, kiddo.”
• • •
Jane Gardella, staring through her darkened bedroom window, saw Alvaro standing in the side door of Rita O’Dea’s house and suddenly remembered where she had seen him before.
A part of her went cold.
The beard had fooled her. Slowly she dropped back from the window and only with the greatest effort restrained herself from running downstairs to her
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