Surely the Clemenza must see what a pointless exercise this will be? This old goat can’t protect him, not like I can. Orcouldhave, until he skipped out and left me.
I wish I hadn’t asked him about that when I was edging him this morning. Made it seem like I gave a fuck.
“Come in, come in,” Ferraro is saying, backing down the corridor and motioning Caligula forward. “And I guess if you vouch for the Giuliano, he can come too.”
“As if you could stop me,” I mutter under my breath, so that only Caligula hears it. He gives me one last furious look, and turns to follow Ferraro as he leads us into the living room.
The house smells like old coffee and cigarette smoke that’s soaked into the walls over decades. The living room is cramped,filled up with a sagging couch, an old TV, and dirty plates here and there. But there are photographs on the wall on a lopsided shelf: a younger Strike Ferraro with thick dark hair and a grin that says he knew how good he looked, standing beside men in suits at what looks like a wedding. Clemenza men. I recognize the face of Lou Clemenza in one of them, younger and meaner, and beside him, for a second, I think it’s Caligula…
It’s his father. Cesario Clemenza.
I look away.
Ferraro starts clearing plates, hampered by the arm that won’t move past a few degrees. He can hold things if he passes them to himself, but it’s slow, clumsy work.
“Let me help,” Caligula offers.
“No! Hell, no. You just sit tight, sir, and I’ll get this cleared away…” He shuffles toward what I assume is a kitchen door with a small stack, dropping silverware as he goes.
Caligula sends me a significant look.
“For Christ’s sake,” I sigh. “I’ll help.”
In the kitchen, Ferraro keeps a suspicious eye on me as I place the plates down. “I know who you are,” he rumbles quietly. “And I know what you did. Buying that kid at a Bratva auction.” He shakes his head in disgust.
I don’t really give a shit what this guy thinks of me, so I’m more interested in the fact that heknowsall this. Word has gotten out. “He’s not a kid,” I say. “And if you really think he is, then you’re not much better than I am, using him to prop up your resurrection fantasies.”
He curls his lip. “Get some glasses out of the cupboard over there. Fill them with water.” He stands waiting for me to do it, and I have to admire his balls if nothing else.
Ferraro used to have quite the rep back in the day before he got injured. He was a solid right hand to Cesario Clemenza, probably would’ve made Capo some day if he hadn’t caught those bullets in the back. So out of respect for the man he might have been, I play waiter.
Back in the living room, Caligula Clemenza has taken a seat on the small couch, and looks up with a smile. “Thank you so much,” he says, as Ferraro sets the water down in front of him as though it’s fine champagne. “You’re very kind to welcome us into your home.”
A few hours ago, Caligula was shaking apart in my arms, begging for release. And right now, under those pressed pants, he’s wearing a cage I locked him into. Yet here he is. Sitting on a stranger’s couch with a posture that would make a king jealous.
How does hedothat? How does he switch so fast between the man who begs and the man who commands?
“You shouldn’t be here,” Ferraro growls again. “It’s not safe. Not since the Don passed, may he rest in peace.” He crosses himself automatically. “But thank God you’re still alive. We need to get you into hiding, get some protection for you—” He starts shifting in his seat, moving to get up. “I’ll call the boys.”
“Please don’t,” Caligula says at once. “Not until we’ve spoken, just the two of us. I, uh. I’m not sure who I can trust these days. I need to be careful. And I need information.”
He’s playing the old man, who doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re right,” he says, dropping back into his seat. “Can’t be too careful.You go on and ask whatever questions you have, sir. We can figure out a plan after that.”
The Clemenza’s golden eyes slide my way for a moment, and I know what he’s about to say. “Mr. Ferraro, I wanted to talk to you about my father,” he begins slowly.
Ferraro’s old face creases in a smile at once. “Cesar,” he says fondly. “That’s what we used to call him. He was a good man.”
I can’t stop my fists from bunching up at the idea of that murderer being described as a good man, but I stay in my seat.
“And you can call me Strike, sir,” Ferraro goes on. “You know it was your dad who started calling me that?”
“Strike. I wanted to ask about my father’s friendship with Vincent Orsini.”
Ferraro stops smiling. “What about it?”
“Well…” the Clemenza spreads his hands, unsure where to start. “Why did my grandfather allow the friendship, for starters?”
“Good for business,” Ferraro says with a shrug. “We were tight with the Gees back then. And Cesar was warm. Friendly. He coulda made friends with a lamppost if he had to. Orsini was different.” He turns to me. “He was a lot like you, your dad. A mean motherfucker. Cesar was the only one I ever saw make him laugh.”