Zuni Stew: A Novel (2 page)

The chandeliers dimmed, the heavy double doors closed for privacy. “So, Doctor D’Amico, what do you think of our new front entrance?” Pasquale said, adjusting his cuff.

“The stairs—you kind of glide up them.”

“My exact intention—makes women look like royalty.”

“It’s in the stringers, the ratio of rise to tread and the total runs,” said Gabriel, taking the empty seat at the table. “Not easy to calculate.”

“You have draftsmen to do that now,” said Pasquale.

“Yes, but I did it myself. Tell me, did you cook for us tonight?” asked Gabriel.

Pasquale laughed. “Touché. I have chefs, but I’ve done it myself, too.”

“And well you did, may I say, very well indeed.”

The restaurant was hidden in woods a short distance from the tony northern suburb of Chicago, Lake Forest. His father said he chose the spot to make patrons search for it. Exclusive, discrete, a superb
chef de cuisine
from Tuscany. No wonder reservations ran a month or more ahead. (Thank God for expense accounts).

Liquor flowed, especially Johnny Walker Red. Wine bottles appeared in rows down the table. The chef was at his very best:
cozzes
Calabrese
—mussels with Calabrese sausage and faro, preceded Maine lobster, followed by Jack’s favorite:
tiramisu.
Rose directed the waiter to bring the gifts to Jack. A silver letter opener engraved with the date of his graduation, from Tristina and Giavanna. A box of stationary, pre-stamped at eight cents a pop, from Rose and Pasquale, and a pre-paid insurance policy on the new car they had given him before the party. A leather briefcase from his brother.

“To carry your money to the bank,” said Nic.

Uncle Gabe handed Jack a thick envelope. “He won’t be making anything for a while. This will help. I’m so proud of you, Jack.” They exchanged a back-thumping hug.

“More wine, anyone?” asked Nic.

Jack nodded, no, then looked at his empty dessert plate, knowing he faced two long years away from food and drink like this. But he wasn’t going to Vietnam, like one of his best friends back in 1969. When he had received his orders from the U. S. Public Health Service, Division of Indian Health, he was pretty sure New Mexico was between Texas and Arizona, but he didn’t have a clue where to find Zuni.

Pasquale had never heard of Zuni either. When Jack explained that it was an Indian reservation in northwestern New Mexico, quite a discussion had followed, his father doing the conversing. In his opinion, there were only two places in the west worth visiting—Las Vegas and Reno. No argument from Jack, he wasn’t happy with the posting either.

The maître d’ interrupted, whispering in Mr. D’Amico’s ear, who then walked briskly out of the private dining room.

The evening was clearly over.

Rose left in Gabriel’s car; Jack and the twins rode with Nic. Rose turned down an after- dinner drink in the library with the men, kissed them all on both cheeks, and slowly walked upstairs with her girls.

Uncle Gabe opted for a glass of port. Nic retrieved the key and unlocked the cabinet for him. Beer and shooters for the brothers. Gabe was in the middle of telling a good dirty joke when the pop of a champagne cork stopped him mid-sentence. Rose and the twins entered, Jo Lou close behind with a silver tray bearing champagne glasses. Rose poured, smiling broadly.

“To my son, with congratulations. Now, drink, sit. Lights out, girls. Jack, they have a surprise for you.” Rose swallowed hard, added, “Pasquale can see it later.”

As darkness enveloped the room, the twins took turns explaining what they had put together for a class project—Film as Art. Jack knew they had been filming at the hospital, but hadn’t paid attention. He should have.

The projector lamp clicked on and the short film began, titled, “A Day in a Young Doctor’s Life—36 Hours On—12 Hours Off,” directed by Tristina and Giavanna D’Amico. First scenario: 8:00 PM.

The film began with Jack jogging for the elevator, saying between breaths, “Celebrity in 321. He’s a rock star, police all over the place. Supposed to sing tonight.” The patient was disoriented, on the verge of becoming comatose. An overdose or acute infection looked likely; Jack did a spinal tap, confirmed his diagnosis. The rocker had meningitis.

At 4:00 PM the next day, Jack was seen leaving a private room on the fourth floor. “The senator—heart attack. He wanted his briefcase,” Jack said with a smile. “It was big and heavy, important stuff, I thought, he showed it to me—six bottles of Jack Daniels. He asked me for a paper cup.”

The third look into his tenure at Cook County showed an exhausted, heavy-lidded Jack racing for the ER early the next morning.

“ER Cubicle A-eight,” called a nurse. “Acute abdomen, he’s twenty-six. We’re waiting for a bed.”

Jack went with a diagnosis of peritonitis, and worried about operating—infection was on his mind. He needed tests and a consultation.

The next frame showed Jack sitting on a plastic chair in a semi-dark hallway, head bowed, hands clasped over his head. Tristina’s voice could be heard as Giavanna, holding the camera, went for a close-up. Sweat ringed Jack’s forehead and green cap at the hairline. A wet curl of hair looked frivolous and out-of-place on his grey-toned skin.



Early the next morning, cursing a hangover, Jack packed quickly in the dark. It didn’t take long; he took just a few clothes, knowing he would be in uniform all-too-soon. His stereo, box of classical LP’s. He began searching for Wooly. Guessing the big mutt was off prowling or sleeping over at neighbors, he thought better of putting him through the trip. Besides, Rose might need Wooly more than he did.

He trotted down the steps from his room over the garage, drank some milk from the bottle in the kitchen frig, left a note on the breakfast table, and was off. The dark green Thunderbird was a two-door model, gear shift on the console at his side. He merged into the stream of headlights onto US 55. Springfield. St. Louis. Jefferson City, a bit out of his way, but closer to US 54—a straight line to New Mexico.

Fatigue began setting in. His mind drifted back to the family dinner the night before. He had never seen his father react so abruptly, so coldly. Late that night, through a Scotch haze, Nic had mentioned some sort of rumble brewing, something he thought centered on a new federal building in the city center.

Jefferson City, Missouri, time to stop. He pulled into a small motel beside a truck stop, and by the looks of the packed parking lot, he judged the food must be pretty good.

The room was tiny, twin bed, straight-back chair, bedside table. Dinky TV. Wires dangled from the window air conditioner, but he didn’t care, all he wanted was a shower. He stepped from his room still a little damp, (cheap threadbare towel), locked the door, and headed across the parking lot toward the flashing green neon café sign. Something made him turn around. The Thunderbird was gone—less than fifteen minutes—dammit, gone!

He sprinted across the lot, around the café and body shop. A new girl was on duty at the motel office. Maybe fifteen, flat-assed dumb. Without asking, he reached over the counter for the telephone and dialed the operator.

Jack’s butt was aching from an hour of sitting in a folding chair. The night shift officer accomplished nothing. An ‘all-points bulletin’ was broadcast statewide. That was it.

After a sleepless night, he finally located a used Chevy which he could afford—thanks to Gabe. Since his two duffle bags were in the Thunderbird’s trunk, he walked the three miles to the dealership with only his Dopp kit in hand. On US 54 by noon.

3

T
he 1955 faded salmon and white Chevrolet crossed the Osage. The radio didn’t work. By the time he crossed into Kansas and stopped for gas in Fort Scott, he felt the humidity sucking out his energy. Gas was sixty-seven cents per gallon, two cents higher than Chicago. So much for middle-American values.

His T-shirt clung to his chest, perspiration burned his eyes. He pulled off the soaked shirt, wiped the sweat from his face, dropped some change in the red Coca Cola machine. He bartered (not very long) with the young cashier for a large cup of ice. It didn’t take long to get her to offer him a second.

He felt her watching him as he propped the bottles and ice in the passenger seat. She appeared beside him, offering a wax-paper-wrapped ham sandwich.

The oscillating heat waves rising from the pavement reminded him of how his mother suffered during the Chicago summers. Pasquale oversaw the construction of a lakeside summer home in northern Minnesota for Rose and the kids.

He opened the sandwich, paying little attention to the near-empty road stretching ahead, then touched the ice-filled cup against his brow. The white bread stuck to the top of his mouth—all-American Rainbow brand. What do they eat on the reservation?

4

J
o Lou started the coffee. While setting the table, she saw the note from Jack. It wasn’t folded so she read it:
I’m no good at goodbyes—time for me to face the music and get going. Again, thanks for the great car and dinner. Will call when I reach Albuquerque. Ciao & love to each one of you, Jack
.

By 6:30, Pasquale and Rose sat at the table, drinking coffee, reading and re-reading the note. Jack was the adventurous kid who climbed up on to the table and jumped off. Older brother Nic climbed up, but went down via the chair. The twin girls, both at Northwestern, were another problem. If Tristina painted her nails black, Giovanna would dye her hair pink. They were skinny. Identical Twiggys in mini-skirts.

“Ready for breakfast?” asked Rose, tightening her silk robe. Jo Lou heard her speak and reached in the oven for the platter of scrambled eggs and bacon.

No one heard the two men enter through the service room. A large man in a white button-down shirt crossed the kitchen in two steps, wrapped his hand across Jo Lou’s mouth, and using a thin-bladed Norwegian fish knife, sliced her throat. At first she felt nothing, but then a violent searing pain consumed her. Immediately, she felt warm, sticky blood flowing down her chest. That was her last sensation. The assassin silently lowered her to the floor as the second man sidestepped the body. He was the smaller of the two, well-dressed and equally agile.

Unaware, Rose sat with her back to the door, head down, searching for her slippers. Her husband glanced up with a start as the man grunted, “Watch, Pasquale. I want you to see this.” He locked an arm around Rose’s neck, and drove an eight-inch, large-bore trocar into the left side of her chest, burying it through her rib cage and into her heart. A pulsating spray of blood projected from the hollow, three-sided surgical instrument, striking Pasquale. In moments Rose was dead, her face blue-white, drained of blood.

Pasquale, paralyzed from shock, screamed, “You sonofabitch! You!”

The bodyguard grabbed D’Amico from behind in a vice hold. The other man jerked out the trocar, bent over to wipe it on her delicate robe, then spun around, forcing the trocar up one of Pasquale’s nostrils. The tip embedded in the center of his brain.

Pasquale’s eyes bulged, lightning sensations burst throughout his body. He gasped for air, for a voice to scream. No air, no sound came forth. His dead weight sagged in the arms of the bodyguard, who released his grip, letting the body thud to the floor.

“The kids now. All of them. Give me the knife, Mario.”

Upstairs, they entered each room and, without hesitating, sliced the throats of both Tristina and Giavanna. Blood splattered a bulletin board above the lamp between the twin beds. Two gold chains, each with a crucifix, were draped over the board. A purple pennant emblazoned with the words ‘Northwestern Rocks,’ was pinned next to a photo of Jack and Nic. The brothers were behind the wheel of a mahogany speedboat, a restored 1940’s Chris Torpedo-back.

The man in the suit touched the knife blade to the boys in the photograph and murmured, “Next.” The bodyguard followed him down the hall to the end bedroom. Quietly opening the door, they saw Nic sleeping soundly, an empty bottle of Heineken propped by his side. The old sheepdog sprawled across the other twin bed. Nic barely roused as the man silently slid the fish knife across his throat. Wooly stirred, responding mainly to the smell of blood. As the bodyguard stepped between the beds, Wooly wagged his tail and tried to stand. The tan-suited man rolled him over and deftly made a long incision in the dog’s soft belly, killing him instantly.

“Boss,” whispered the bodyguard. “One left—the doctor.”

They knew there was an apartment above the triple garage. The kid, the privileged one, had to be there. The door wasn’t locked, the bed slept in but empty, bathroom as well. He touched the sheets—they were cold.

The two men systematically checked the estate. Garages, storerooms, greenhouse, tennis court, pool cabana. The boss checked his suit for bloodstains as they drove away. He wasn’t finished. Mario had killed the maid. He himself had killed all of the others—all the D’Amicos, except one.

5

J
ack’s plan was to stay in Liberal, Kansas, the second night, but he decided to stay in Pratt, Nebraska, some one-hundred-twenty-five miles short of his destination. Ten-plus hours of driving rolled past. In the town of maybe six-thousand, there weren’t many choices for motels, so he decided on the one with a diner directly across the street. A shower, then a plate of greasy chicken-fried steak. A buck-ninety.