Day Of Confession

139

The clink of glass and smell of rum and spilled beer filled the kitchen. There was a final gurgle as Elena emptied the last bottle of Moretti double-malt beer into the sink. Then, running the tap, she rinsed the bottle, collected the four other Moretti bottles she'd already emptied, and brought them to the table where Danny worked.

In front of him was a large ceramic mixing bowl with a pour spout. In it, mixed proportionally, were two simple ingredients from the kitchen: 150-proof rum used for cooking, and olive oil. On the table to his right were a pair of scissors and a box of pint-sized plastic Ziploc bags; and to the right of that, the work that was already done – ten large cloth table napkins, cut in quarters, then soaked in the rum-and-oil mixture and rolled up tightly like little tubes. These he was carefully placing with oily, rum-soaked fingers into the plastic bags, and then sealing them. Forty in all, four to a bag, ten bags.

Finishing, he wiped his hands with a paper towel, then took the Moretti bottles from Elena and placed them on the table in front of him. Picking up the mixing bowl, he carefully poured the remainder of the liquid into each.

'Cut another napkin,' he said to Elena as he worked. 'We'll need five dry wicks, about six inches long, rolled tightly.'

'All right.' Picking up the scissors, Elena glanced at the clock over the stove.

Abruptly Roscani took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and shoved it in the Alfa's ashtray. Another moment and he knew he would have pushed in the lighter. Glancing at Castelletti beside him, he looked in the mirror and then to the broad avenue ahead of them. They were driving south, along Viale di Trastevere. Roscani was more troubled than he had been the entire night when he couldn't sleep; he was thinking of Pio and how much he missed him and how much he wished he were with them right now.

For the first time in his life, Roscani was lost. He had no idea if what they were doing was right. Pio's magic was that he would have looked at the whole thing differently than any of them, and they would have talked it through and in the end found some way that made it work for everyone. But Pio wasn't there, and whatever magic they might hope for they would have to find for themselves. The tires squealed loudly as he took a sharp right, and then another. On their left were the railroad tracks, and absently Roscani searched for the work engine. But he saw nothing. Then they were there and turning down Via Nicolo V, moving toward Scala's white Fiat parked at the end of the street across from number 22.