The Stars Shine Down (10 page)

“I should have killed that bastard.”

“Right. That would have helped a lot,” Keller said dryly.

Lara got up and began pacing. “I could ask Sam Gosden to…” She suddenly remembered. “No, I fired him.”

“Why?”

“Never mind.”

Keller was thinking aloud. “Maybe if we got hold of a good labor lawyer…someone with clout.”

“That’s a good idea. Someone who can move fast. Do you know anybody?”

“No. But Sam Gosden mentioned someone in one of our meetings. A man named Martin. Paul Martin.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m not sure, but we were talking about union problems, and his name came up.”

“Do you know what firm he’s with?”

“No.”

Lara buzzed her secretary. “Kathy, there’s a lawyer in Manhattan named Paul Martin. Get me his address.”

Keller said, “Don’t you want his phone number so you can make an appointment?”

“There’s no time. I can’t afford to sit around waiting for an appointment. I’m going to see him today. If he can help us, fine. If he can’t, we’ll have to come up with something else.”

But Lara was thinking to herself,
There is nothing else.

P
aul Martin’s office was on the twenty-fifth floor in an office building on Wall Street. The frosted sign on the door read,
PAUL MARTIN, ATTORNEY AT LAW
.

Lara took a deep breath and stepped inside. The reception office was smaller than she had expected. It contained one scarred desk with a bottle-blond secretary behind it.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Martin,” Lara said.

“Is he expecting you?”

“Yes, he is.” There was no time for explanations.

“And your name?”

“Cameron. Lara Cameron.”

The secretary looked at her quizzically. “Just a moment. I’ll see whether Mr. Martin can see you.”

The secretary got up from behind the desk and disappeared into the inner office.

He’s got to see me,
Lara thought.

A moment later the secretary emerged. “Yes, Mr. Martin will see you.”

Lara concealed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

She walked into the inner office. It was small and simply furnished. A desk, two couches, a coffee table, and a few chairs.
Not exactly a citadel of power,
Lara thought. The man behind the desk appeared to be in his early sixties. He had a deeply lined face, a hawk nose, and a mane of white hair. There was a feral, animal-like vitality about him. He was wearing an old-fashioned pinstripe double-breasted gray suit and a white shirt with a narrow collar. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, low, somehow compelling.

“My secretary said that I was expecting you.”

“I’m sorry,” Lara said. “I had to see you. It’s an emergency.”

“Sit down, Miss…”

“Cameron. Lara Cameron.” She took a chair.

“What can I do for you?”

Lara took a deep breath. “I have a little problem.”
A skeleton twenty-four stories of uncompleted steel and concrete standing idle.
“It’s about a building.”

“What about it?”

“I’m a real estate developer, Mr. Martin. I’m in the middle of putting up an office building on the East Side, and I’m having a problem with the union.”

He was listening, saying nothing.

Lara hurried on. “I lost my temper and slapped one of the workmen, and the union called a strike.”

He was studying her, puzzled. “Miss Cameron…what does all this have to do with me?”

“I heard you might be able to help me.”

“I’m afraid you heard wrong. I’m a corporate attorney. I’m not involved with buildings, and I don’t deal with unions.”

Lara’s heart sank. “Oh, I thought…isn’t there anything you can do?”

He placed the palm of his hands on the desk, as though he were about to rise. “I can give you a couple pieces of advice. Get hold of a labor lawyer. Have him take the union to court and…”

“There’s no time. I’m up against a deadline. I…what’s the second piece of advice?”

“Get out of the building business.” His eyes were fixed on her breasts. “You don’t have the right equipment for it.”

“What?”

“It’s no place for a woman.”

“And what
is
the place for a woman?” Lara asked angrily. “Barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen?”

“Something like that. Yeah.”

Lara rose to her feet. It was all she could do to control herself. “You must come from a long line of dinosaurs. Maybe you haven’t heard the news. Women are free now.”

Paul Martin shook his head. “No. Just noisier.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Martin. I’m sorry I took up your valuable time.”

Lara turned and strode out of the office, slamming the door behind her. She stopped in the corridor and took a deep breath.
This was a mistake,
she thought. She had finally reached a dead end. She had risked everything it had taken her years to build up, and she had lost it in one swift instant. There was no one to turn to. Nowhere to go.

It was over.

Lara walked the cold, rainy streets. She was completely unaware of the icy wind and her surroundings. Her mind was filled with the terrible disaster that had befallen her. Howard Keller’s warning was ringing in her ears:
You put up buildings and borrow on them. It’s like a pyramid, only if you’re not
careful, that pyramid can fall down.
And it had. The banks in Chicago would foreclose on her properties there, and she would lose all the money she had invested in the new building. She would have to start all over, from the beginning.
Poor Howard,
she thought.
He believed in my dreams, and I’ve let him down.

The rain had stopped, and the sky was beginning to clear. A pale sun was fighting its way through the clouds. She suddenly realized it was dawn. She had walked all night. Lara looked around and saw where she was for the first time. She was only two blocks from the doomed property.
I’ll take a last look at it,
Lara thought, resignedly.

She was a full block away when she first heard it. It was the sound of pneumatic drills and hammers and the roar of cement mixers filling the air. Lara stood there, listening for an instant, then started running toward the building site. When she reached it, she stood there, staring, unbelievingly.

The full crew was there, hard at work.

The foreman came up to her, smiling. “Morning, Miss Cameron.”

Lara finally found her voice. “What…what’s happening? I…I thought you were pulling your men off the job.’

He said sheepishly, “That was a little misunderstanding, Miss Cameron. Bruno could have killed you when he dropped that wrench.”

Lara swallowed. “But he…”

“Don’t worry. He’s gone. Nothing like that will happen again. You don’t have a thing to worry about. We’re right back on schedule.”

Lara felt as though she were in a dream. She stood there watching the men swarming over the skeleton of the building and she thought,
I got it all back again. Everything. Paul Martin.

Lara telephoned him as soon as she returned to her office. His secretary said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Martin is not available.”

“Would you ask him to call me, please?” Lara left her number.

At three o’clock in the afternoon she still had not heard from him. She called him again.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Martin is not available.”

He did not return her call.

At five o’clock Lara went to Paul Martin’s office.

She said to the blond secretary, “Would you please tell Mr. Martin that Lara Cameron is here to see him?”

The secretary looked uncertain. “Well, I’ll…Just a moment.” She disappeared into the inner office and returned a minute later. “Go right in, please.”

Paul Martin looked up as Lara walked in.

“Yes, Miss Cameron?” His voice was cool, neither friendly nor unfriendly. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to thank you.”

“Thank me for what?”

“For…for straightening things out with the union.”

He frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All the workmen came back this morning, and everything’s wonderful. The building is back on schedule.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“If you’ll send me a bill for your fee…”

“Miss Cameron, I think you’re a little confused. If your problem is solved, I’m glad. But I had nothing to do with it.”

Lara looked at him for a long time. “All right. I’m…I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“No problem.” He watched her leave the office.

A moment later his secretary came in. “Miss Cameron left a package for you, Mr. Martin.”

It was a small package, tied with bright ribbon. Curious, he opened it. Inside was a silver knight in full armor, ready to do battle. An apology.
What did she call me? A dinosaur.
He could still hear his grandfather’s voice.
Those were dangerous times, Paul. The young men decided to take control of the Mafia, to get rid of the old-timers, the mustache Petes, the dinosaurs. It was bloody, but they did it.

But all that was a long, long time ago, in the old country. Sicily.

Gibellina, Sicily—1879

T
he Martinis were
stranieri
—outsiders, in the little Sicilian village of Gibellina. The countryside was desolate, a barren land of death, bathed in blazing pitiless sunlight, a landscape painted by a sadistic artist. In a land where the large estates belonged to the
gabelloti,
the wealthy landowners, the Martinis had bought a small farm and tried to run it themselves.

The
soprintendente
had come calling on Giuseppe Martini one day.

“This little farm of yours,” he said, “the land is too rocky. You will not be able to make a decent living on it, growing olives and grapes.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Martini said. “I’ve been farming all my life.”

“We’re all worried about you,” the
soprintendente
insisted. “Don Vito has some good farmland that he is willing to lease to you.”

“I know about Don Vito and his land,” Giuseppe Martini snorted. “If I sign a
mezzadria
with him to farm his land, he will take three fourths of my crops and charge me a hundred percent interest for the seed. I will end up with nothing, like the other fools who deal with him. Tell him I said no, thank you.”

“You are making a big mistake, signore. This is dangerous country. Serious accidents can happen here.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Certainly not, signore. I was merely pointing out…”

“Get off my land,” Giuseppe Martini said.

The overseer looked at him for a long time, then shook his head sadly. “You are a stubborn man.”

Giuseppe Martini’s young son, Ivo, said, “Who was that, Papa?”

“He’s the overseer for one of the large landowners.”

“I don’t like him,” the young boy said.

“I don’t like him either, Ivo.”

The following night Giuseppe Martini’s crops were set on fire and the few cattle he had disappeared.

That was when Giuseppe Martini made his second mistake. He went to the
guardia
in the village.

“I demand protection,” he said.

The chief of police studied him noncommittally. “That’s what we are here for,” he said. “What is your problem, signore?”

“Last night Don Vito’s men burned my crops and stole my cattle.”

“That is a serious charge. Can you prove it?”

“His
soprintendente
came to me and threatened me.”

“Did he tell you they were going to burn your crops and steal your cattle?”

“Of course not,” Giuseppe Martini said.

“What
did
he say to you?”

“He said that I should give up my farm and lease land from Don Vito.”

“And you refused?”

“Naturally.”

“Signore, Don Vito is a very important man. Do you wish me to arrest him simply because he offered to share his rich farmland with you?”

“I want you to protect me,” Giuseppe Martini demanded. “I’m not going to let them drive me off my land.”

“Signore, I am most sympathetic. I will certainly see what I can do.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“Consider it done.”

The following afternoon, as young Ivo was returning from town, he saw half a dozen men ride up to his father’s farm. They dismounted and went into the house.

A few minutes later Ivo saw his father dragged out to the field.

One of the men took out a gun. “We are going to give you a chance to escape. Run for it.”

“No! This is my land! I…”

Ivo watched, terrified, as the man shot at the ground near his father’s feet.

“Run!”

Giuseppe Martini started to run.

The
campieri
got on their horses and began circling Martini, yelling all the while.

Ivo hid, watching in horror at the terrible scene that was unfolding before his eyes.

The mounted men watched the man run across the field, trying to escape. Each time he reached the edge of the dirt road, one of them raced to cut him off and knock him to the
ground. The farmer was bleeding and exhausted. He was slowing down.

The
campieri
decided they had had enough sport. One of them put a rope around the man’s neck and dragged him toward the well.

“Why?” he gasped. “What have I done?”

“You went to the
guardia.
You should not have done that.”

The
campieri
pulled down the victim’s trousers, and one of the men took out a knife, while the others held him down.

“Let this be a lesson to you.”

The man screamed, “No, please! I’m sorry.”

The
campiero
smiled. “Tell that to your wife.”

He reached down, grabbed the man’s member, and slashed through it with the knife.

His screams filled the air.

“You won’t need this anymore,” the captain assured him.

He took the member and stuffed it in the man’s mouth. He gagged and spit it out.

The captain looked at the other
campieri.
“He doesn’t like the taste of it.”

“Uccidi quel figlio di puttana!”

One of the
campieri
dismounted from his horse and picked up some heavy stones from the field. He pulled up the victim’s bloodied pants and filled his pockets with the stones.

“Up you go.” They lifted the man and carried him to the top of the well. “Have a nice trip.”

They dumped him into the well.

“That water’s going to taste like piss,” one of them said.

Another one laughed. “The villagers won’t know the difference.”

They stayed for a moment, listening to the diminishing sounds and finally the silence, then mounted their horses and rode toward the house.

Ivo Martini stayed in the distance, watching in horror, hidden by the brush. The ten-year-old boy hurried to the well.

He looked down and whispered, “Papa…”

But the well was deep, and he heard nothing.

When the
campieri
had finished with Giuseppe Martini, they went to find his wife, Maria. She was in the kitchen when they entered.

“Where’s my husband?” she demanded.

A grin. “Getting a drink of water.”

Two of the men were closing in on her. One of them said, “You’re too pretty to be married to an ugly man like that.”

“Get out of my house,” Maria ordered.

“Is that a way to treat guests?” One of the men reached out and tore her dress. “You’re going to be wearing widow’s clothes, so you won’t need that anymore.”

“Animal!”

There was a boiling pot of water on the stove. Maria reached for it and threw it in the man’s face.

He screamed in pain.
“Fica!”
He pulled out his gun and fired at her.

She was dead before she hit the floor.

The captain shouted,
“Idiot! First
you fuck them,
then
you shoot them. Come on, let’s report back to Don Vito.”

Half an hour later they were back at Don Vito’s estate.

“We took good care of the husband and wife,” the captain reported.

“What about the son?”

The captain looked at Don Vito in surprise. “You didn’t say anything about a son.”

“Cretino
! I said to take care of the family.”

“But he’s only a boy, Don Vito.”

“Boys grow up to be men. Men want their vengeance. Kill him.”

“As you say.”

Two of the men rode back to the Martini farm.

Ivo was in a state of shock. He had watched both his parents murdered. He was alone in the world with no place to go and no one to turn to.
Wait
! There
was
one person to turn to: his father’s brother, Nunzio Martini, in Palermo. Ivo knew that he had to move quickly. Don Vito’s men would be coming back to kill him. He wondered why they had not done so already. The young boy threw some food into a knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and hurriedly left the farm.

Ivo made his way to the little dirt road that led away from the village, and started walking. Whenever he heard a cart coming, he moved off the road and hid in the trees.

An hour after he had started his journey, he saw a group of
campieri
riding along the road searching for him. Ivo stayed hidden, motionless until long after they were gone. Then he began walking again. At night, he slept in the orchards and he lived off the fruit from the trees and the vegetables in the fields. He walked for three days.

When he felt he was safe from Don Vito, he approached a small village. An hour later he was in the back of a wagon headed for Palermo.

Ivo reached the house of his uncle in the middle of the night. Nunzio Martini lived in a large, prosperous-looking house on the outskirts of the city. It had a spacious balcony, terraces, and a courtyard. Ivo pounded on the front door. There was a long silence, and then a deep voice called out, “Who the hell is it?”

“It’s Ivo, Uncle Nunzio.”

Moments later Nunzio Martini opened the door. Ivo’s uncle was a large middle-aged man with a generous Roman nose and flowing white hair. He was wearing a nightshirt. He looked at the boy in surprise. “Ivo! What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Where are your mother and father?”

“They’re dead,” Ivo sobbed.

“Dead? Come in, come in.”

Ivo stumbled into the house.

“That’s terrible news. Was there some kind of an accident?”

Ivo shook his head. “Don Vito had them murdered.”

“Murdered? But why?”

“My father refused to lease land from him.”

“Ah.”

“Why would he have them killed? They never did anything to him.”

“It was nothing personal,” Nunzio Martini said.

Ivo stared at him. “
Nothing personal?
I don’t understand.”

“Everyone knows of Don Vito. He has a reputation. He is an
uomo rispettato
—a man of respect and power. If he let your father defy him, then others would try to defy him, then others would lose his power. There is nothing that can be done.”

The boy was watching him, aghast. “Nothing?”

“Not now, Ivo. Not now. Meanwhile, you look as though you could use a good night’s sleep.”

In the morning, at breakfast, they talked.

“How would you like to live in this fine house and work for me?” Nunzio Martini was a widower.

“I think I would like that,” Ivo said.

“I can use a smart boy like you. And you look strong.”

“I am strong,” Ivo told him.

“Good.”

“What business are you in, Uncle?” Ivo asked.

Nunzio Martini smiled. “I protect people.”

The Mafia had sprung up throughout Sicily and other poverty-stricken parts of Italy to protect the people from a ruthless, autocratic government. The Mafia corrected injustices and avenged wrongs, and it finally became so powerful that the government itself feared it, and merchants and farmers paid tribute to it.

Nunzio Martini was the Mafia
capo
in Palermo. He saw to it that proper tribute was collected and that those who did not pay were punished. Punishment could range from a broken arm or leg to a slow and painful death.

Ivo went to work for his uncle.

For the next fifteen years Palermo was Ivo’s school, and his uncle Nunzio was his teacher. Ivo started out as an errand boy, then moved up to collector, and finally became his uncle’s trusted lieutenant.

When Ivo was twenty-five years old, he married Carmela, a buxom Sicilian girl, and a year later they had a son, Gian Carlo. Ivo moved his family into their own house. When his uncle died, Ivo took his position and became even more successful and prosperous. But he had some unfinished business to attend to.

One day he said to Carmela, “Start packing up. We’re moving to America.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why are we going to America?”

Ivo was not accustomed to being questioned. “Just do as I say. I’m leaving now. I’ll be back in two or three days.”

“Ivo…”

“Pack.”

Three black
macchine
pulled up in front of the
guardia
headquarters in Gibellina. The captain, now heavier by thirty pounds, was seated at his desk when the door opened and half a dozen men walked in. They were well dressed and prosperous-looking.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?”

“We have come to help
you
,” Ivo said. “Do you remember me? I’m the son of Giuseppe Martini.”

The police captain’s eyes widened. “You,” he said. “What are you doing here? It is dangerous for you.”

“I came because of your teeth.”

“My teeth?”

“Yes.” Two of Ivo’s men closed in on the captain and pinned his arms to his side. “You need dental work. Let me fix them.”

Ivo shoved the gun into the chief’s mouth and pulled the trigger.

Ivo turned to his companions. “Let’s go.”

Fifteen minutes later the three automobiles drove up to Don Vito’s house. There were two guards outside. They watched the procession curiously. When the cars came to a stop, Ivo got out.

“Good morning. Don Vito’s expecting us,” he said.

One of the guards frowned. “He didn’t say anything about…”

In the next instant the guards were gunned down. The guns were loaded with
lupare,
cartridges with large leaden balls, a hunter’s trick to spread the pellets. The guards were cut to pieces.

Inside the house Don Vito heard the shooting. When he looked out the window and saw what was happening, he quickly crossed to a drawer and pulled out a gun. “Franco!” he called. “Antonio! Quickly!”

There were more sounds of shots from outside.

A voice said, “Don Vito…”

He spun around.

Ivo stood there, a gun in his hand. “Drop your gun.”

“I…”

“Drop it.”

Don Vito let his gun fall to the floor. “Take whatever you want and get out.”

“I don’t want anything,” Ivo said. “As a matter of fact, I came here because I owe you something.”

Don Vito said, “Whatever it is, I’m prepared to forget it.”

“I’m not. Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“Ivo Martini.”

The old man frowned, trying to remember. He shrugged. “It means nothing to me.”

“More than fifteen years ago. Your men killed my mother and father.”

“That’s terrible,” Don Vito exclaimed. “I will have them punished, I’ll…”