The Sicilian - Mario Puzo [97]
Pisciotta sent Terranova to fetch Guiliano’s father and then he went to the three men, who were sitting on the ground. He bent down and picked up Stefan Andolini’s weapon. Members of the band encircled the three men like wolves surrounding a fallen prey. “You don’t mind if I relieve you of the task of caring for this weapon now?” Pisciotta asked with a grin. Stefan Andolini looked startled for a moment, his face twisting into a grimace. Then he shrugged. Pisciotta tossed the lupara to one of his men.
He waited for a few moments, making sure his men were ready. Then he reached down to take the lupare from Andolini’s two picciotti. One of them, more from fear than malice, pushed Pisciotta away and put his hand on his shotgun. In the next moment, quickly as a snake baring its tongue, a knife appeared in Pisciotta’s hand. His body darted forward and the knife cut the picciotto’s throat. A fountain of pink blood burst into the clear mountain air and the picciotto slumped over on his side. Pisciotta was straddling his body, leaning down, and another quick stroke finished the job. Then, with a series of quick kicks, he rolled the body into a gully.
The other men of Guiliano’s band had sprung to their feet leveling their guns. Andolini, sitting on the ground, raised his hands in the air and looked around him beseechingly. But the other picciotto lunged for his weapon and tried to bring it around. Passatempo, standing behind him and grinning with enjoyment, emptied his pistol into the man’s head. The shots echoed through the mountains. They all remained frozen, Andolini pale and shaking with fear, Passatempo holding his pistol. And then Guiliano’s voice from the edge of the cliff said quietly, “Get rid of the bodies and tie that Malpelo to a tree until my father comes.”
The bodies were wrapped in bamboo nets and carried to a deep crevice. They were thrown in with stones tumbled down after them to keep the stench from rising, according to old superstition. This was a task for Passatempo, who robbed the bodies before he buried them. Guiliano constantly fought against his distaste for Passatempo. No amount of rationalization could turn that animal into a knight.
It was after dusk, almost seven hours later, that Guiliano’s father was finally brought into the camp. Stefan Andolini was released from his tree and brought over to the cave lit with kerosene lamps. Guiliano’s father was angry when he saw Andolini’s condition.
“But this man is my friend,” he said to his son. “We both worked for the Godfather in America. I told him he could come and join your band, that he would be well treated.”
He shook hands with Andolini and said, “I apologize. My son must have misunderstood or heard some gossip about you.” He paused for a moment, troubled. It distressed him to see his old friend so full of fear. For Andolini could barely stand.
Andolini was sure he would be killed. That this was all a charade. The back of his neck ached as the muscles tensed to receive the bullets. He almost wept at his own brashness that had made him underestimate Guiliano. The quick killings of his two picciotti had sent him into shock.
Signor Guiliano sensed that his friend was in mortal danger from his son. He said to him, “Turi, how often do I ask you to do something for me? If you have anything against this man forgive him and let him go. He was kind to me in America and he sent you a gift when you were christened. I trust him and hold his friendship dear.”
Guiliano said, “Now that you have identified him, he will be treated as an honored guest. If he wishes to remain as a member of my band he is welcome.”
Guiliano’s father was taken back to Montelepre by horse so that he could sleep in his own bed. And after he was gone Guiliano spoke to Stefan Andolini alone.
“I know about you and Candeleria,” he said. “You were a spy for Don Croce when you joined Candeleria’s band. A month later Candeleria was dead. His widow remembers you. From what she told me it wasn’t hard for me to figure out what happened. We Sicilians are good at putting