The False Rose by Jakob Wegelius

Author:Jakob Wegelius
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pushkin Press
Published: 2021-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

Tarantello

The atmosphere in Moira’s office was tense. Carl and Kevin were in the process of loading their revolvers and stuffing their pockets with spare ammunition. Flintheart was standing at the window, keeping watch on the street through a crack in the curtains.

“Oy, oy, oy,” she muttered quietly. “We should never have burgled that gambling club! Tommy Tarantello will have put two and two together and now he’s coming to…”

Moira slapped her hand on the table.

“Calm down, Fiona,” she said between clenched teeth. “If Tommy had been intending to attack us, he wouldn’t have phoned and warned us he was on his way. Take your places now.”

Carl and Kevin took up position at the bar, their firearms ready but hidden behind the counter. Bernie and I were ordered to stand in a corner and look menacing.

“You and I will go and meet Tommy Tarantello and his mob down on the street,” Gordon said to Skinflint. “Do you have your gun with you?”

Skinflint leered unpleasantly as he opened his jacket: a sawn-off shotgun was hanging below his armpit.

He and Gordon left the room. As for the rest of us, we had to wait.

The small clock on Moira’s desk had just struck ten when Flintheart, voice hoarse with excitement, reported that a large, white Plymouth had pulled in at the kerb outside. A few minutes later, footsteps could be heard on the stairs and the door to the office opened.

Gordon was the first to enter. Then he stepped to one side and made room for a man to pass him—a man so broad across the shoulders that he had to turn slightly sideways so as not to get jammed in the doorframe. He had a gleaming white scar running from his forehead down across his face and all the way to the point of his chin. The eyes that peered out under the brim of his hat were watchful and he kept one hand inside his jacket, where he obviously had a weapon at the ready.

He was followed by a tall, erect woman in a long cape. Her face, stern and earnest, was shaded by a plain lady’s hat. My immediate thought was that there was something familiar about the woman.

A short, older man in a tailored woollen overcoat followed the woman in. He bowed and gave Moira’s hand a light kiss.

“You are very welcome, Mr Tarantello,” she said, managing to sound as if she meant it. “We’ve left it far too long since we last met.”

“Indeed, how time passes!” he said in the rasping voice of a chain smoker. “But you’re looking as wonderful as ever, Moira. Allow me to introduce my niece—she has come all the way from Salerno in Italy.”

The two women shook hands and, speaking with a heavy Italian accent, his niece said, “My name is Florenza Tarantello. I’m pleased to meet you.”

I jumped. I’d heard that voice somewhere before, I was sure I had.

Sounding full of pride, Tommy Tarantello said, “Florenza’s father was the head of the Tarantello family in Salerno.

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