Shallow Graves

turns, the retail areas gave way to narrow streets with small homes, which in turn gave way to wide streets with large homes. One of the wide streets matured into a boulevard, the center strip less impressive than Commonwealth Avenue in Boston , but with big shade trees far enough south and close enough to the ocean to be showing the full leaf stage of spring.
    Zuppone eased the Lincoln into a long driveway that curved gracefully past high hedges toward a white Greek Revival mansion, fluted pillars supporting the roof over the main entrance. He parked behind a Mercedes and a Volvo, the piano music dying abruptly as he turned off the engine, the air vibrating inside the car.
    Primo got out before I did, the door thunking solidly against the frame as he closed it. He made sure I was still with him, then walked up the flagstone path to the side entrance. He rang the bell but pulled open the door without waiting for anyone to say or do anything.
    I followed him through and into a huge kitchen, the pans all copper and polished. They hung from rings in their handles over tiles the color of dried blood. The tiles covered the work areas of the counters as well as the floor.
    As Zuppone stepped behind me to close the door, probably the tallest Vietnamese woman I’d ever seen stood up from a stool. There was a cigarette burning in a crystal ashtray in front of her, at least half a dozen smoked ones in the base of the tray.
    The woman self-consciously touched her hair, swept up in a bun with jewelry combs. Her cheekbones were high, her lipstick light. She wore a bao dai, the traditional long, slitted dress of her country, but the slit was conservative and the dress itself was black, not a gay print. A mother in mourning.
    She said, “My husband and the brother of my husband are in the den.“
    As we went by her, I said, “I’m sorry for your loss.“
    The woman dropped her gaze toward her feet. Her eyes started to close, but the left lid went only halfway down as the right closed completely. As she looked back up, I realized the left eye was gone, the brown and white egg in its socket a beautifully wrought piece of glass.
    I felt a chill as Zuppone led the way through the first floor of the house.

    From across the den, they looked like twins standing in front of adjoining mirrors at the fun house. One was stocky, with coarse black hair in clots that didn’t stay put. His jaw seemed about one generation removed from cracking bones around a cooking fire. He wore a shirt and tie, but the tie’s knot was wrenched almost halfway down his chest, and the sleeves were turned up twice, revealing forearms thatched with black hair. As he drained a glass of what looked like Scotch, he made you think of why Webster put the word “guzzle“ in the dictionary.
    The other guy was slim and five inches taller, maybe six one. The tide on his hair was going out, front to back. His features were more delicate, like the altar boy who goes on to play guard for the CYO basketball team. I guessed the suit to be in the seven-hundred range at Brooks Brothers, a Repp tie still knotted tightly at the collar. There was no drink in his hand or anywhere nearby.
    As Zuppone and I got closer, I realized the stocky one was about my age, the slim one a little younger despite the hairline.
    The stocky one said, “This him, Primo?“
    “Yes, Mr. Danucci.“
    I thought, Jesus Christ.
    The stocky one put down his glass. “The name registers with you, don’t it.“
    My eyes went to the slim one. He seemed mildly amused but not inclined to show it much.
    The stocky one said, “Look at me, Cuddy.“
    I did. “I thought you’d be older.“
    The slim one said, “You’re thinking of our father.“
    I said, “Tommy Danucci was your father?“
    The stocky one said, “Is our father.“
    Tommy Danucci. Tommy the Temper. One of the mob bosses you heard about but never saw, directing things quietly from the backroom instead of splashing across the front page. I remembered whiffs of him coming up during the media coverage of the Angiulo cases, but I thought he’d died in the mideighties.
    The slim one said, “I think you’re entitled to an introduction, Mr. Cuddy. This is my brother, Joseph Danucci. My name is Vincent Dani.“
    I said to Dani, “You were Mau Tim’s—“
    “Tina!“ thundered Danucci. “My daughter’s name was Tina! Use it.“
    Nobody said anything until Primo said, “Boss, can I freshen that up for you?“
    Danucci was breathing