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Amazon
Category:
Crime
Publisher: Author Reputation Press
ISBN-10: 1649610572
Type: Fiction
Pages: 254
Copyright: 2020
ISBN-13: 9781649610577
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
Murder at the World’s Fair Logline:
Two seminarians find a bloodied young man on the streets of New York City and end up helping him to stop the heist of the century while finding a body to prove that a murder took place.
The Vatican has given permission for one of its greatest treasures to be exhibited at the New York World’s Fair in 1964. As America prepares to receive one of the most revered works of art in the world, others are planning for the greatest heist of the century. Into this mix of celebration and theft come two buddies studying for the priesthood and a girl from Georgia who fancies one of them. Together they find themselves searching for a dead body, matching wits with a police detective, trapping mobsters, spying in the United Nations Building, and finding justice for a murder victim and an accused murderer.
“Murder at the World’s Fair” will have you rubbing elbows with diplomats and prelates, escaping the clutches of henchmen out to kill, uncovering secret love, witnessing faith come to life, entering the realm of the underworld, revealing plots, clues and true identities while combating rage which turns the white Carrara marble red with innocent blood.
Excerpt
Chapter One: Blood on the Pieta
The bright sunlight streamed through the discolored warehouse glass panes bringing in shafts of if not golden light then gloomy tones of sickly yellow over the large almost barren area of storage space. Barren save for that which was directly in the center, there set upon a large wooden base of pallets was a gleaming Carrara marble statue which no discolored light could dim as it reflected the sunlight, dimmed though it might be. The fame of the purest white marble found in the Tuscan mountains of Italy where the likes of Michelangelo once roamed to choose that certain piece of marble from which he would release his renowned masterpiece of the Virgin Mary tenderly cradling across her lap the dead body of her son, whom believers called Messiah, Savior, Lord and Son of God; one Jesus of Nazareth. His Pieta would become the most revered religious works of art in western culture since its creation some 465 years ago. It was natural then when the news had been announced by Cardinal Spellman of New York City that the Masterpiece was to be loaned to the 1964 New York World’s Fair to become the centerpiece of the Vatican Pavilion, the art world, and all Christendom became ecstatic with anticipation of its arrival at the docks of the city.
The jewel of Christian Art indeed, save perhaps for the David of Florence Italy also by Michelangelo, of all sculpted works of the Renaissance era and arguably of any in centuries which followed, was to be hailed and given such honor and protection as to think that it was a living being. That of course, Michelangelo himself would have understood. He believed that the Holy Mother and Savior were just waiting in the marble to be released through his carving of the stone. Carved by the incomparable artist when he was only twenty-one years old, its fame brought the young sculptor who claimed not to be a painter, though he would later create the Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and its Sanctuary Wall depicting The Last Judgement years later both of which were acclaimed to be instant, yet controversial, masterpieces in their day and in the present day. And so with bated breath as it was enclosed in a crate which would float should the ship it sailed on should sink, the world watched and waited for its arrival in New York City. The south dock where the ship was to arrive was festooned with decorations and a platform for dignitaries to welcome the Pieta to America while giving Pope Paul VI who allowed the permission of Pope John XXIII to stand after he died, praise and thanks for the honor to host the priceless masterpiece.
Through those slightly open warehouse windows, one could hear the final preparations being made as the platform boards were nailed together and the bunting draped across its railings depicting the gold and white colors of the Vatican flag and the red, white and blue colors of the flag of the United States of America using staple guns to affix it to the wood. It was only a matter of hours now before the Italian Line’s ship called the Cristoforo Colombo was to dock at the Hudson River Berth at West 44th Street. Three red tugboats steadied themselves in the river to escort the ship up the Hudson River. Signs could be easily read on the little boats. “New York Welcomes Pieta” they read. Columbus and Michelangelo were contemporaries though never met, as the artist was only 16 when the explorer discovered a “New World” he thought, at first, to be the east indies of Asia.
Those sounds were easily heard in the steel and wood warehouse building just far enough from the docking area so as to be unobtrusive to the security people swarming the docks to insure the safe transfer of the statue from the ship to a barge which would carry it to a location closer to the site of the World’s Fair. On that barge named Challenger, the Pieta was to be lowered and kept overnight so as to wait for lighter river traffic and thus easier transfer of the statue around the Battery and up the East River into Flushing Bay where a flatbed trailer awaited to take it to the fair grounds.
The sounds of the tooting horns of the tugboats soon filtered into what appeared to be a desolate warehouse. For a brief instant, a rather short slender but muscular man in his 30’s peeked out from behind the large Carrara marble piece.
“Ah, she’s upon us,” he patted the marble as he pulled over it a large white canvas tarp. “But we are ready, are we not?”
A deep throated voice answered his question. “I should hope so. The ship’s being pulled up the river right now.”
The slender man though startled at first, finished his chore of covering the marble piece. He brushed his below the ear sandy brown hair away from his face and turned with his back to the now concealed marble. His large brown eyes rivaled those of “Elsie” the Borden Milk Cow as seen in posters throughout most cities. “Signore Battista, you gave me a fright. I was just finishing up…”
“Forget all that; is it done?” Two wide eyes as clear as the blue waters of a Caribbean beach squinted. His pudgy fingers grasping a half smoked equally thick cigar tightened their grip causing the tobacco to crunch and then break in two. He tossed the smoldering remains across the cement floor.
The blue smocked man began to embrace the covered marble, the marble dust sprinkled off his hair and cotton smock as he did so with such tenderness as one would think that his lover was soon to be in his arms. “Si Signore, but…”
He was cut off as Battista ran to him and grabbed him by the collar of his smock. “Gaglioni, what is this ‘but’? Is the piece done or is it not.”
As he spoke and Gaglioni quivered in his hold, a woman with three rather threatening looking men stepped into the sun light beyond the doorway through which they had just entered. On the fairly warm April afternoon, the woman was wrapped in a mink coat with a collar pulled up until it touched her golden, though bleached, blond hair held in place by whatever hair spray brand she used up that morning. Her black pumps clumped on the cement floor as she rushed to Battista now shaking Gaglioni, who was too frightened to speak at all, let alone answer a question.
She tenderly touched the hands of Battista now pulling the smock collar tightly around the neck of Gaglioni. “Carlo, my dear, how can he answer if he cannot breathe?” She flashed a grin revealing perfectly white straight teeth surrounded by ruby red lips, also applied that morning.
The three gruff looking men stood directly behind Battista with one hand thrust under their suit coat jacket, each quite tall and muscular they could easily squish Gaglioni and certainly didn’t need the gun they now fondled under their jacket. Nevertheless, they awaited their orders and said nothing as they stood stoically like the marble statue under the tarp.
The hold was loosened. The round head covered with a black fedora hat turned. His piercing blue eyes began to widen. The wrinkles around his eyes softened as those on his brow did. He smiled at her and nodded understanding. Then turning to Gaglioni, he patted his cheek softly. “Now Giovanni, my boy, forgive my… shall I say excitement. It’s just that we have planned for this day for so long that…well we just can’t afford any type of delay. You do understand… caspice?” Battista placed his arm around the woman’s waist; she who in her twenties was a good thirty years younger than he. “Sheila, you always know how to quiet my nerves and settle me.” He waved his other hand at the three men who took one step back and dropped their hands to their sides. The bulge of the gun still visible under their jackets caused no ease of nerves on poor Gaglioni.
Gaglioni’s watering eyes froze on those hazel green eyes of Sheila Murphy being squeezed by Battista. At thirty, he was much better suited for such a lovely and soft spoken woman than the beast of a man who held onto her, he thought despite his fear. She cast back a slight smile and gaze of understanding his misery at that moment. Battista took no notice of the exchange; he then took hold of Gaglioni by the waist and held him and Sheila close.
“Now then, where were we before…well before the excitement? Ah yes, you were going to tell me about the marble weren’t you Giovanni?”
Giovanni Gaglioni shuddered and Battista could feel his body tremble. He released Sheila and turned into Gaglioni face to face. He placed a kiss on each of his cheeks and then patted them gently, his pudgy fingers caressing them before being pulled away.
“Now see how I love you. I make Sheila here jealous…” he turned and winked at the woman. She returned a nod and broad smile with cast down eyes to feign embarrassment. Returning his gaze into those dark eyes of the one he kissed, he began a history lesson of sorts. “How do you return this love I have for you my friend? Was it not I who plucked you out of the Belle de Arte school in Florence to give you what your heart yearned for; that is to work on marble of your own? Did I not take you to Rome and gain permission to have you study at the feet of Michelangelo’s Pieta in St. Peter’s itself? And when you had studied and measured and created drawings and models of clay, did I not proclaim you to be as good as the master, Il Divino Michelangelo, himself?”
The would-be artist began to relax in what had now become an embrace. “Maybe the Signore Battista really does love me and was just excited and concerned about the project,” he thought to himself before he answered. “Signore Battista, you make me to blush and feel shame to have appeared so ungrateful for all you have said is true. I shall be always in your debt. I will choose my words more wisely in the future.”
“Yes that’s it; words…they are so important wouldn’t you agree Sheila,” he twisted his body so as to take in her reaction while still embracing Gaglioni.
She delivered an approving coquettish smile while her emerald eyes pierced the very soul of Giovanni Gaglioni the recipient of a welcome embrace rather than they strangle hold of a few minutes prior. The shuddering of Gaglioni’s body made Battista think that the artist was still apprehensive though in truth it was the smile and those green eyes which sent the shiver through his being.
“Why Giovanni you still shake. Perhaps it’s the boys,” he turned the two of them so that he could address the still stoic statue-like henchmen. “Giuseppe, Stephano, Andrew you make our Giovanni scared. Relax, go have an expresso or wait at the car for me.”
“Yes Signore Battista,” Andrew Jackson spoke for the three. He gave a shove to the others and they made their way outside where a black Cadillac limo sat with its engine running and the driver dressed in formal livery wear and cap leaning against it smoking a Pall Mall cigarette. The music of Elvis blaring from the interior of the car drowned out the call from Andrew to him.
“Sacha, the Signore says for us to get an expresso…hey idioso… are you deaf?” The three now stood in front of the non-responsive driver. Andrew took hold of the driver and shook him. “Now do you hear me?”
“For Christ’s sake get your hands off me. You made me miss the best part of the song…” he began to sing song the lyrics. “Love me Tender Love me…see I can’t remember now.”
“Who the hell cares about that asshole with the hip movement?” Andrew had released the driver, but not before he took the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it aside. “These things will kill you one day.”
“So now the big man is a doctor,” Sacha laughed boldly but not totally without fear as he gazed at the three linebackers now forming an arc of flesh around his slender frame of a body.
“Cut the crap and get in the car,” ordered Andrew. “The Signore says that we should go get an expresso. Take us to Mulberry Street.”
The stunned driver looked directly into Andrew’s dark eyes which now picked up the afternoon sun which caused a spark of red to shoot out from them or so it seemed to Sacha. “Are you crazy, we’re on 44th Street and Little Italy is past Prince Street which is south of 2nd Street.”
Stephano didn’t wait for Andrew to answer his large hand grabbed hold of Sacha’s crotch and squeezed his balls. The resulting scream left the driver doubled over before Andrew shoved Stephano away. “Idioso, get in the car, both of you.”
“He deserved it; he defied the Signore’s order.” Stephano pushed his way past Giuseppe and Andrew and walked behind the car to the other side entering it with a loud slam of the back door. Giuseppe followed without a word and entered on the passenger side rear door.
“There, now the big bad boys are gone,” Andrew caressed the cheek of the still unnerved Sacha and then with his other hand tenderly took hold of his crotch. “There now, does that feel better?”
“What the hell…stop it, if the Signore knew what you really liked he’d kick your ass.”
The tender strokes suddenly became a vice lock grip, Sacha grimaced and sweat began to pour off his brow. “And who’s going to tell the Signore anything…you Sacha? I’ll cut your dick off first and shove it down your throat.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, honest Andrew, you just scared me that’s all.”
“That’s a good boy,” the grip loosened. “Who’d want you anyway male or female?” Andrew gave a shove to the driver. “Now take us for an expresso; you know this city better than any of us. There has to be a Trattoria closer than Little Italy.”
“Sure Andrew, right away.” The nervous Sacha slipped behind the wheel, glanced at the two in the rear seat through the rear view mirror as Andrew entered the car.
“Move your ass over Giuseppe and let a real man in.” The bravado was taken very seriously by his co-worker and protector of the “Signore” for he and Stephano had seen what an angry Andrew could do to a man, even one as big as them.
Sacha lowered the window separating the rear of the limo from the driver’s area and turned his head toward the back seat. He almost laughed at the sight of what he envisioned to be a see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil trio of thugs. The laugh was not because of the sight of Andrew now licking his lips with his wide tongue, while Giuseppe was using his little finger to dig into his ear and Stephano was rubbing his eye saying that something was in it. But he dared not provoke them again by ridiculing them. “There’s a little place on 42nd St. in the theater district which would be perfect for getting a quick expresso and getting back to the Signore.”
He pulled down on the gear shift and off they sped down 44th Street toward Broadway.
Inside the warehouse, all was quite calm. Battista still hugged the now calm artist and Sheila applied more lipstick as if she really needed it.
“Now then, see they are gone, there is nothing to fear my boy… nothing at all. Sheila and I are here and we love you, don’t we my sweet thing?”
“Huh, oh most assuredly Carlo my love, we love everyone especially one who is about to make millions for us.”
“Let’s not be crass my dear, Giovanni is a modern day Michelangelo,” Battista then focused on Giovanni. “He is your idle is he not?”
“Si Signore, he is the idle of all sculptors and painters and even architects for he is the genius in all three fields.”
“Is that so, well right now we are interested only in marble and what can be made from it; so tell me what is the ‘but’ about and why is the marble covered?” He released the shaken artist from his grasp with another pat on his cheek. “And do watch the words you use, we wouldn’t want another misunderstanding would we?”
Giovanni glanced at Sheila, who cast an ever so gentle smile toward him and stepped back to adjust the tarp. “Si Signore, of course Signore…no misunderstanding to be sure. The ‘but’ and the covering both answer your question. The statue is covered for it is about to be revealed BUT for one little thing…”
“There’s that word again, Giovanni.” Battista’s face began to get flushed with streaks of red. “Is the marble ready or is it not?”
Giovanni began to pull on the tarp. “Let the marble speak for itself Signore.” He gave the tarp a quick tug and it began to cascade down off the marble revealing a replica of Michelangelo’s Pieta.
Both Sheila and Battista gasped in wonder and joy.
“Signore Gaglioni, this is magnificent there is no ‘but’ about it.” Sheila walked up to the now smiling artist and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Look Carlo how the sunlight makes it sparkle with holy light.” She crossed herself and knelt at the feet of the Christ being held by Mary, his mother. Around her shoulders lay an ivory white lace shawl covering them and the low neckline of the pink rather tight fitting dress she wore. She pulled it up so as to cover her head in prayer. It was a natural instinct and not thought out nor planned; the emotion of seeing such perfection in art struck her to the core of her being.
Carlo Battista stood awestruck watching her devout posturing before the statue and its artist, who didn’t quite know how to react to this sudden act of piety so unlike the Sheila he saw when she was with Battista. The gleaming white statue radiated something that Battista with all his connections around the world with his import and art business could not define. He once again took hold of Giovanni and kissed him on each cheek.
“Sheila’s words are true my dear Giovanni, this is perfection as if the actual Pieta of St. Peter’s where in this place and not on that ship in the East River. I cannot imagine as to how you could say ‘but’ in presenting this masterpiece to us this day of days. See how it glows with a holiness which would defy that most learned of the art world to identify this work as a copy.”
“You are too kind Signore, but…”
Battista dropped his embrace and held Giovanni by the shoulders at arm’s length. “There’s that word again, how can you use it in the presence of such perfection?”
“But… I mean my point is that its gleam is too bright, I think. Michelangelo’s statue is 465 years old. Would it not be slightly duller in the sunlight?”
“Nonsense, who has ever seen it since it entered St. Peter’s in natural sunlight? No one has; for it has never been moved from the Basilica until this year.” He patted Giovanni’s cheek once again. “So you see, there is no ‘but’, there is only perfection.” He placed his arm around the blushing yet nervous artist’s shoulder and called to Sheila. “My dear, come to Giovanni and tell him that what I say is true. He will believe you.”
The young woman rose with a slight touch to the feet of the crucified Lord. The lace shawl turned into a veil covering feel down to her shoulders as she approached the artist. That same sunlight which was causing the marble of the statue to gleam now shone upon her so as to make a halo effect surround her head. Giovanni trembled as she approached. Her loveliness in his mind was to rival the gentle face of the Virgin Mary of the statue he just created as the Master called Il Divino Michelangelo had envisioned. The Divine One had created not an elderly Mary holding her thirty-three year old son but one with youthfulness and sublime beauty of gentleness.
Battista watched virtually dumbfounded as he had never seen this pious…devout side of his lover. His eyes watched her every move as she fell to her knees before the artist and began to kiss his hands. Giovanni glanced quickly at his patron who brought him to America to create another Pieta to rival the original. Could he just stand there and accept such devotion and ignore the feelings of his patron? His mind began to spin, his body to tremble as her lips touched his hands which he instinctively withdrew. He attempted to wipe the fresh ruby color of her lips from his hands while she crumbled to the floor while praying.
“Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee…”
Only the shout from Battista stopped her words. “What the hell are you doing Sheila? Stop it right now.” He grabbed hold of her arms and brought her to her feet. “Have you gone mad? This is just a piece of marble and this nothing of an artist is just someone hired so that we could make millions and live our lives in such luxury as to be the envy of monarchs and presidents.”
Her weight though in truth lighter than sugar plums dancing in one’s dreams fell on him as if she were a sack of potatoes. He tried to keep her on her feet.
She only called out all the louder, “Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee.”
“Stop it I say,” Battista slapped her in the face with the hope of bringing her out of whatever trance-like state she had fallen into. He shook her again and again.
Gaglioni stunned at first suddenly had the courage to act. “Stop it Signore, you are hurting her.” He took hold of Sheila and swung her away from Battista’s arms and into his own. Holding her in his strong well developed sculptor’s arms she ran behind the statue. Gently he lowered Sheila onto the floor with her back up against the back of the Virgin Mary.
“Show yourself, you insignificant pissant. You ingrate who would take the woman I love, the woman who I made into a princess among New York society, how dare you defy me.”
Giovanni Gaglioni understood all that Battista was saying was true. He was a nobody, a struggling would-artist in Florence when the New York tycoon some would call him while others referred to him as the mob boss, plucked him into a life beyond his wildest imagination as he was brought to America to begin work on a noble project for which he was to be paid a sum never dreamed possible as a youth in the Academy of Belle de Arte. He lowered his head next to Sheila’s and whispered that he would go to speak with Battista. She began to shake her head back and forth saying, “No, no, do not trust him.”
“But he is my patron who made me what I am, I must do him the honor of explaining how I feel about you, that I didn’t mean it to happen, that your eyes burned into my heart and I had no defense to stop the burning desire to see you, to hold you, to touch you.”
“Please Giovanni, do not tell him such things…you don’t know what he’s really like. He is not selling your statue to the Cathedral as you think, he is going to switch it with the real Michelangelo Pieta and ransom it for millions or sell it on the black market.”
Gaglioni fell backwards onto the cold cement floor. “No, the Signore promised that once the statue was completed that I would be introduced as its creator and that my career would be set on a course to fame in my own right, able to create my own pieces from my own thoughts.”
Sheila struggled to speak, so torn between loyalty to Battista and love for Gaglioni that her voice faltered. “It’s all a lie Giovanni,” she sank into a daze, just staring out into space. He lowered her onto the floor placing the balled up shawl under her head.
Rising slowly with a lasting final touch of her hand, he walked to the side of the statue. “Signore, I do not mean to hurt you. I have done all that you have asked of me. But now I must know the truth. Did you say the truth to me? Is my statue going to be sold to the cathedral to serve as a lasting memory of the Divine One’s Pieta at the World’s Fair?”
Battista was pacing to and fro rapidly, pausing to light a cigar and then tossing it aside and pacing again. He looked about for his goons but realized he had sent them away. It was just he and the artist in the cavernous warehouse with the changing light as the afternoon sun became the evening sun, the rays now illuminated the base of the statue rather than directly on the figures of Jesus and Mary. He stood frozen in his steps with a beet red face and fist pounding into his hand. “You have betrayed me,” is all he said before he lunged for Gaglioni who quickly ran to the other side of the statue at the feet of Jesus.
“That’s not true Signore. I am grateful for all you have done for me. But the heart does not always work as it should. I did not mean to insult you.”
“So you admit it. You love my girl, my princess, my lover.”
“I am guilty of loving one whom I may never love. But I love you too as my patron as my friend as my sponsor to this nation.”
With the speed unlike Gaglioni had ever seen in a track star who was trim and cheetah-like, the 200 pound, five foot ten inch Battista leapt and then dashed into the hundred and thirty-five pound slender but powerful and now shocked artist. With fists as large as those of Michelangelo’s David he began to swing without thought or direction. One of those punches crashed into the smooth face of Gaglioni who screamed in pain and struggled to get out of Battista’s vice-like grip. More blows landed on his face, then stomach, then chest. “I hate you. You deserve death for what you have done to me.”
As Battista shouted Gaglioni’s knee struck him in the groin. The artist was free as the Signore bellowed in agony and anger at the same time. Standing behind a wooden work table holding his sculpting tools of chisels, hammers and polishing materials, the artist took a piece of cloth saturated with water and polishing ointment and placed it on his chin. “Signore, per favore, please stop this rage before…”
He never finished his thought. Battista now on the other side of the table lifted it and tossed it aside. The metal tools rang like bells off tune as they hit the cement floor. Now only three feet of space lay between the two. The rage in Battista’s eyes and the fear in Gaglioni’s eyes grew in that moment of confrontation. In a swoop down to the floor, Battista grabbed hold of a heavy chisel used to cut the folds in Mary’s gown and veil. He swung it violently without aim as he once again lunged for Gaglioni who tried to outrun his patron and circled back to the statue. At the base an awakening Sheila was coming to.
She gasped out, “Stop this…”
Both men paused to stare at each other. Only the statue of the Holy Mother with her son’s body given in sacrifice for all people stood between them. Gaglioni understood the message for he brought it to life as had Michelangelo over four centuries prior. Battista however saw something quite different; it was a hammer lying at his feet. He slowly leaned over to pick it up.
“And now traitor to the heart and our friendship, here is what shall be done which shall be for all time the last you shall ever see of your work.” Battista raised the hammer to strike a blow to the face of the Virgin Mary. He grinned like a Cheshire cat before attacking his prey.
Gaglioni screamed as in excruciating pain and tackled Battista before the hammer struck the marble. “Not the marble Signore, not the symbol of our faith.”
As the two plunged to the cement the hammer flew from the grasp of Battista across the floor crashing not into the marble but into shattered tool table. The two men now rolled across the floor each trying to place a blow into the other’s face, kidney, stomach and ribs. The two hundred pound man had the advantage as they managed to get to their feet. Battista literally lifted the artist off the floor and took a moment to hoist him up with one hand under Gaglioni’s arm and the other firmly entrenched on his crotch area. He swung around to toss him into the marble statue. At that moment Sheila crawling out from behind the statue pulled herself up on the arm of the Holy Mother Mary and thrust herself into Battista. Gaglioni was tossed but not with the might intended for Battista was falling backwards from the impact of Sheila’s body hit. As he tumbled back, Gaglioni flew into the hand of Christ gashing his head. Blood gushed out and ran down the robes of Mary. He slid down to the base of the statue motionless. With a scream of anguish, Sheila bouncing off Battista made her way in a crawl to the fallen artist. She cradled him as did the Virgin Mother directly above her, the sunlight now illuminating a human Pieta.
Battista tumbled into the broken pieces of the tool table and fell to the floor in a daze which focused on the marble depiction and the human depiction of sorrow and sacrifice. Slowly he tossed aside the pieces of wood in which he was tangled and rose. “Look at you,” he shouted. “You do not mourn for me, but for one who betrayed me.” The hammer which had crashed into the trashed tool table caught his eye. “Tramp, that’s what you are; nothing but a whore who gives herself to anyone who would cast a glistening eye toward you.” His rage erupted once again as he took hold of the hammer and raised it above his head. “Death is what you both deserve.”
Fearing that the statue was in danger once again, Sheila gently rolled the body of Gaglioni off her lap and stood to face Battista, her arms were spread wide to protect the statue as she stepped forward to meet her one time lover. “Carlo, you cannot do this…you cannot destroy such beauty.” As the last word was uttered the hammer came crashing into the back of her skull. She fell backwards onto the body of Gaglioni.
Battista still in a rage shouted, “So is the end of all traitors.” He tossed the hammer aside and ran to the warehouse doors hoping to find his goons.
As the door slammed shut a stillness followed which filled the warehouse with an eerie quiet. The marble dripped the last of the blood from Giovanni Gaglioni’s wound and mixed with Sheila Murphy’s blood seeping into the folds of Mary’s marble gown at the base of the statue. Two eyes fluttered and then a groan of pain was uttered. Slowly the body moved and beheld another body; then followed the wail of grief and heartbreak.
Giovanni cradled Sheila in his arms and rocked back and forth, humming a tune which accompanied the words which she had prayed just minutes ago, Ave Maria Gratia Plena, Hail Mary full of Grace…and as he hummed he thought of the love they shared, an innocent love through a smile or touch of the hand, a kiss lightly given in the shadows of the now blood stained statue, a kind word of encouragement when the Signore was on one of his harsh barrages against the unfairness of life and how he would get what was due to him. He glanced up to the face of the Christ, no longer in pain but at peace and then to that of His mother, serene and accepting of the sacrifice just made on the Cross. But in his heart there was no peace, no serenity; for within it began to burn the desire for revenge. As the beating heart seemed to speed up he lifted the body of the one he loved in silence for most of their time together and placed her body over that of the Christ in the arms of Mary.
“Now rest my sweet and I shall return with he who took you from me and before you shall I make him repent. But for now sleep as did Juliet of old and wait for my return so that I may join you in heaven as I could not in this life.” He kissed her lips, still warm, tenderly; then taking the lace shawl once used as her pillow, spread it across her body as a shroud. “May the angels be with you as you enter paradise my love.”
Staggering to the door with a throbbing head and a broken heart, he took sight of the weapon of murder. He picked up the hammer he used with chisel to shape and bring forth the Pieta copy. “Ah, my friend, you shall be used one more time to bring justice to this place.”
He pushed open the warehouse doors and entered the crowds and traffic of 44th Street just as a black limo pulled away. His vision still blurred with tears made it difficult for him to discern whether or not it was the Signore’s car or just another black Cadillac.
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