L.A. Dead Read Free Page B

there?”
    “Yes, and preparatory school and elementary school before that. I was born and raised in Brooklyn. Eduardo and I used to steal fruit together, before the Jesuits got hold of me.” He said something to Eduardo in what seemed to Stone flawless Italian, raising a chuckle. He turned back to Stone. “I understand that you are engaged in the practice of law.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “If I may torture the scriptures a little, it is probably easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a lawyer to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
    “I tread as narrow a path as my feet will follow,” Stone replied.
    Bellini smiled. “I should hate to oppose this young man in court,” he said to Eduardo.
    “Are you a lawyer, as well?” Stone asked.
    “I was trained as such at Harvard,” Bellini replied, “and my work requires me still to employ those skills from time to time—after which I immediately visit my confessor. I should hate to die with the practice of law on my soul.”
    “I understand you also dabble in banking.”
    “Yes, but there is nothing so pure as money, used properly. I am required to ask you, Stone, if you have ever been married.”
    “No, Your Eminence; I’ve come close, but I’ve never been in serious trouble.”
    “And do you willingly consent to your wife’s devout practice of her religion?”
    “Willingly, Your Eminence. To deny Dolce anything could be dangerous to my health.”
    Bellini seemed to try not to laugh, but Dino couldn’t help himself.
    The women arrived, and they all moved to a table set in the center of the garden, where they feasted on antipasti, a pasta with lobster sauce, and a glittering white wine, served from frosted pitchers. During most of lunch, Eduardo and the cardinal conversed seriously in Italian.
    When they got up from the table, Stone sidled over to Dino. “What were Eduardo and Bellini talking about at lunch?” he asked.
    “Not you, pal,” Dino said. “They were doing business.” He glanced at his father-in-law to be sure he would not be overheard. “Eduardo still doesn’t know how much Italian I understand.”
     
     
    Stone and Dolce took a walk together through the narrow streets of Venice, becoming hopelessly lost. They did a little window shopping and talked happily. Stone tried to find out where they were honeymooning, but Dolce would reveal nothing.
    They returned to the palazzo in the late afternoon, ready for a nap. Stone was shown to a suite—sitting room and bedroom—that overlooked the Grand Canal. He dozed off to the sounds of motorboats and of water lapping against stone.
    He dreamed something that disturbed him, but when he awoke, he couldn’t remember what it was. He joined the others for cocktails with a strange sense of foreboding.
     
     
    At cocktails, Eduardo’s sister, Rosaria, was present; she was a large woman who perpetually wore the black dresses of a widow. Stone had met her at Eduardo’s home in New York, where she had kept house for her brother since his wife’s death. Her younger niece was named for her, but the family had always called her Dolce.
    The cardinal was now dressed in a beautifully cut black suit.
    Half an hour later they were all shown aboard Eduardo’s motor launch and transported to dinner at the world-famous Harry’s Bar. Stone suspected that Eduardo’s presence alone would be cause for considerable deference from the restaurant’s staff, but the presence of a cardinal sent them into paroxysms of service. Stone had never seen so many waiters move so fast and from so crouched a position.
    They dined on a variety of antipasti and thinly sliced calf ’s liver with a sherry sauce, with a saffron risotto on the side. The wines were superlative, and by the time they had been returned to the Bianchi palazzo, Stone was a little drunk, more than a little jet-lagged, and ready for bed. Dolce left him at his door with a kiss and vanished down the hallway.
    Stone died for ten