"This one is one hundred percent cotton," Nunzio snapped in reply. He mopped his forehead with a paper napkin.
The two men were sitting in a busy Bachsburg restaurant. The dining room was filled with the worst humanity had to offer. Nunzio recognized a few of the criminals from some of the many meetings he had recently attended. They were much seedier than the men he ordinarily associated with.
The air in the cramped restaurant was thick. So many people in such a confined space. So, so hot. Nunzio wanted to scream. Either that or strip off his clothes and run outside. He'd seen a fountain down the street.
He tried concentrating. Maybe if he thought hard enough, he could feel what it might be like to stand naked in the ankle-deep pool, cooling water dripping down his bony shoulders and running down his scrawny legs.
But though he taxed his imagination to the limit, it was no good. The heat was just too great. He flung the sopped napkin to the checkered tablecloth, wrenching a fresh one from the stainless-steel dispenser.
"Maybe it's the color," Piceno ventured as Nunzio ran the napkin around neck and chin.
"White! I'm wearing white, for God's sake! I have it dry-cleaned every day and it's still knotted in the ass and stuck to my back. Any color suit is a damnable sponge in this humidity, so please keep your ridiculous suggestions to yourself and kindly shut up."
Piceno ordinarily wouldn't be put off so easily by one of Nunzio's trademark outbursts. But today was different. Piceno dutifully fell mute.
Nunzio flung another soaked napkin to the growing pile. The rattle of silver and china in the overcrowded restaurant assaulted his ears.
"Damn climate," he muttered, tugging out the collar of his shirt. With a flapping menu, he tried to force some air down onto his sweaty chest.
Nunzio had been plagued by perspiration since childhood. It was ironic, considering the fact that all the other men in the Spumoni family weighed over three hundred pounds and rarely broke a sweat. At six foot two, 140 pounds, Nunzio was the skinniest Spumoni in Napoli, yet he perspired like a man three times his size.
At least back home in Italy he knew how to control his environment. From homes to cars to offices, he carefully mapped out his schedule to spend as much time as possible in the relative comfort afforded by air-conditioning. But since arriving in East Africa two weeks ago, he had been forced to spend more time in the natural air than he could bear. He'd lost ten pounds of sweat in the past fourteen days.
"I cannot take much more of this," Nunzio breathed, flinging the menu to the table.
The napkin dispenser was empty. Fishing a sopping wet handkerchief from his pocket, he began sponging the back of his pencil-thin neck.
Piceno had been watching the front door. As his cousin smeared sweat with his hankie, the younger Spumoni sat at attention. "He is here," Piceno whispered gruffly.
Limp rag hanging from his long fingers, Nunzio glanced at the door.
The man who had just entered the restaurant was handsome enough to be called beautiful. Blond hair, grown long and greased back, framed a cover model's face. In spite of the years spent in the hot East African sun, his skin was pale and perfect. With eyes of rich green he searched the crowded room. When he spotted Nunzio, rosebud lips pouted a perfect smile. The man wended his way through the crowd to the back table where Nunzio and Piceno sat.
Although the man was maddeningly handsome, Nunzio did not envy him his looks. The thing that bothered the Italian most was the fact that this man stubbornly refused to perspire. The white cotton suit he wore as he slipped in across the table from Nunzio was a perfect match to Nunzio's in every respect, save one. The infuriating man's suit was not tinged gray with sweat.
"Nunzio, how good to see you." L. Vas Deferens smiled.
Dentists had been known to weep openly at the sight of the man's naturally perfect white teeth. Nunzio waved a sweaty hand. "Vas," he said, nodding.
Despite the fact that a handshake had not been offered him, Deferens extended a soft, manicured hand to Nunzio.
Nunzio detested shaking hands. Especially with someone who did not sweat. Reluctantly wiping as much perspiration from his palm as his sopped handkerchief would accept, he took the offered hand.
"Piceno, you are well?" Deferens smiled. He didn't wipe Nunzio's perspiration from his palm as he shook hands with the other man.
Nunzio's cousin nodded.
"Good, good. Would you mind excusing us?" Deferens suggested, his smile never wavering. "Your cousin and I have some important matters to discuss. You understand."
Half out of his seat, Deferens extended an arm, ushering Piceno Spumoni from the napkin-covered table. At a nod from Nunzio, Piceno excused himself.
Deferens waited until the big man was out of earshot before speaking. Once Nunzio's cousin was gone, the East African placed his dust-dry hands on the table, his fingers comfortably interlocked.
Nunzio only wished his cool demeanor were contagious. The Italian continued swiping at pooling pockets of salty perspiration.
"Don Vincenzo is pleased, I trust?" Deferens said in a cold voice. His eyes were cold, as well. Deep pools of green confidence.
"He's satisfied. For now," Nunzio stressed. "He'll be happier when this dark business is over. As will I."
Deferens tipped his head. "Nunzio, my old friend, is it possible after all this time that Camorra still does not trust me?"
"Trust is not easy in our business," Nunzio admitted. He waved to a nearby waiter, pointing to the empty water pitcher nested among the discarded napkins. The waiter nodded and scurried off.
Deferens was nodding. "I can't blame you." He sighed. "Camorra certainly has not had an easy time of it. Survival sometimes precludes trust."
Of that, Nunzio couldn't disagree. The secret criminal organization for which he worked had spent much of the past century lurking in shadows. Once powerful, Mussolini's fascists had done their best to eradicate the syndicate after the First World War. Entire families had been dragged into the streets and slaughtered. Betrayed by their countrymen and attacked on every level by the Mafia, the survivors of the Camorra purges remained in hiding for eight decades. Licking wounds and plotting revenge.
"Let's just say we do not do leaps of faith very well," Nunzio grunted.
The waiter arrived with a fresh pitcher of ice water. Nunzio poured a glass and drank greedily. "That will end," L. Vas Deferens promised with icy assurance. "Camorra's future as the premier crime organization in the world is secure." His voice became a conspiratorial whisper. "By week's end, you will eclipse even the Mafia."
Nunzio snorted through his water. Coming up out of his narrow throat, his laugh sounded like a donkey's bray. "We've nearly done that without your assistance."
"Yakuza, then. Or the cartels. The Vietnamese or Chinese crime syndicates. The chorus will fall silent. All the voices that overpowered your own for so many years-all gone. Camorra will seize power like none has before."
"We had better hope so," Nunzio warned. "For both our sakes. Don Vincenzo will not be pleased if we fail."
Deferens waved a dismissive hand. He didn't deign to respond to such a ludicrous suggestion. Nunzio only wished he could share this ice man's utter confidence. Sweaty rivulets rolled from his underarms. Maybe if it wasn't so hot...
"I have advised Don Vincenzo that you wish to do this thing at the end of the week," he said, careful to keep his voice low. "He agrees."
Deferens nodded. "All of the delegations will have arrived by then."
"The invitations are all out?"
"The last were sent yesterday."
"Any refusals?"
Deferens grinned. "None. The celebrity stature of our leader has given us great credibility. No one wishes to be left out. There will be a weekend of grand meetings throughout the city, presided over by Mandobar. At least, that is the plan. Of course, we have a different plan."
Sitting in his rumpled, sweat-stained white suit, Nunzio Spumoni pictured the familiar smiling face of Mandobar. That the former East Africa president was involved in something as nefarious as this was still almost too incredible to believe.
"When will I finally get to meet him?" Nunzio asked.
A thin smile. "If all goes well, never." Deferens's smile was oddly disconcerting; it gave the impression of a man with a secret. But then, he had conveyed that image since the first time they'd met. The pale man in the white suit seemed always to be guarding some precious, private thoughts. Thoughts he dared not speak aloud.