The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [3]
‘Look out!’ cried Jeremy, unhelpfully.
There was only one thing to do and Sarah instinctively did it. Continuing the swing to starboard, she scrambled back into the boat ready to wear round, sheeting in to prevent the boom whipping across when the wind caught the leech of the sail from astern. She glanced up at the bow of the ferry, only yards away. She should just about make it.
It was at that moment that she saw the Brigadier, leaning over the rail.
She didn’t collide with the steamer. But the shock was enough to make her miss the moment of gybing. The boom was flung across with the full force of the wind, narrowly missing her head; the boat heeled to port, failed to recover, and Sarah and Jeremy were in the water.
The art of recovering from a capsize had been part of Sarah’s sailing course, the lesson recurring perhaps more often than might have been expected, had it not included the 10
strict necessity for tutor and pupil to help each other to get dry.
Long before Sarah had sailed the boat back to the quayside, the afternoon sun had dried her and Jeremy even more thoroughly, but he showed no sign of appreciating that righting an upturned boat was all part of the fun. He seemed to have turned against the whole thing and grumpily refused to believe that she’d seen the Brig.
‘Why on earth should he come here?’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’
‘I bet it wasn’t him. Was he wearing his uniform?’
‘Well, no. He was wearing a blazer, I think.’
‘There you are, then.’
‘He wouldn’t dress up in uniform if he was on holiday, you twit. It was a Briggish sort of blazer, anyway.’
But by the time they had returned the boat and were walking back to their posh hotel (thank you, Jeremy’s Mama), she was becoming more and more convinced that she had made a mistake. She was off her chump. Working too hard. How could it be that he should turn up in exactly the same small Italian resort as Jeremy and her? It was about as likely as Garcia having an Auntie Nuala from Galway living just down the road from Elspeth; and that was enough to worry about without imaginary Brigs poking their officious noses in.
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‘A tourist centre, a leisure complex; an island – two islands – I am negotiating to buy San Stefano Minore as well. Two islands, two centres, catering between them for all the desires of every sort of holidaymaker. Strictly legitimate. If the hostesses are friendly and obliging, what business is it of mine? Or yours? Why should I need your help? Or…’ he paused. His voice became hard. ‘Or your protection?’
Don Fabrizzio’s voice was equally hard. ‘A bordello, a whore-house, a leisure complex – what’s it matter what you call it?’ His voice softened, almost pleading with the American to see sense. ‘You are a rich man already – a multi-millionaire if my information is correct. If you are wise, you will devote some of your profits to the cultivation of goodwill. You will not be the loser.’
Vilmio rose to his feet and spoke down to the little Don from his quite considerable height. The contempt in his voice was now overt. ‘A multi-millionaire? You’re wrong. I got to be a multi-billionaire over three years ago. Do you think I did it by giving away my profits? Or by letting myself be kicked around by some two-bit Godfather with cowshit between his toes?’
Don Fabrizzio sighed. He would have so much preferred the matter to be settled without violence.
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He rose to his immaculately shod feet, knowing that the two men at the back of him would now be alerted for his signal.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You have been offered the hand of friendship and you have chosen to spurn it. I am sad.
When I think of my friend, your father –’
‘You are a sentimental old woman – just as he was. He wasn’t my father, and you know it. I helped the guy with a business problem is all – and he welcomed me into the Family. It suited me to go along with his garbage for a while. And now he’s feeding the worms.’
Don Fabrizzio looked into the sneering face. The world would be well rid of this pezzo di merda.
‘Goodbye, Signore,’ he said quietly.
Max Vilmio