Talion: A Novel

By John Nicholas Iannuzzi

"Talion". . . Retaliation . . . Revenge - a dish here served 118 years cold; grand child kidnaped by revenging grand child; retaliation sought for outrage inflicted; and in the swirl, Samuel F.B. Morse, Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, injury, President Chester Arthur, Rough Rider Theodore Roosevelt, revenge, Samuel Gompers, William Randolph Hearst manifest destiny, all butting up against a 20th Century Mafi a Don, a suave criminal lawyer, the New York City police, Wall Street,- a riveting story spanning America from the industrial revolution, the dawning of America as a world power, two presidential assassinations, the machinations that resulted in the Panama Canal, the sexual revolution, and a modern woman, head of a bustling Wall Street law firm, . . . buried alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499032819

John Nicholas Iannuzzi

In addition to being an author, John Nicholas Iannuzzi is a celebrated New York City trial attorney and an adjunct professor of law. He also breeds and trains Lipizzan horses.  

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by John Nicholas Iannuzzi.

3Library of Congress Control Number:   2014910377

ISBN:     Hardcover     978-1-4990-3288-8

               Softcover       978-1-4990-3290-1

               eBook            978-1-4990-3281-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 01/06/2015

Contents

1   Greene Street and Washington Place: March 25, 1911, 4:53 p.m.

2   The Firm’s Law Library: May 15, 1990, 7:15 p.m.

3   Albany, New York: June 2, 1870, 2:15 p.m.

4   Park Row, near City Hall Park: May 31, 1990, 4:45 p.m.

5   Randall’s Tavern, John’s Street: June 14, 1870

6   Yale, New Haven: September 13, 1870, 8:00 a.m.

7   The Den: June 10, 1990, 11:00 a.m.

8   Fordham, Bronx, New York: January 21, 1872, 9:15 a.m

9   Havemeyer and Cruikshank: February 16, 1872, 9:01 a.m.

10   West Greenwich Village: June 18, 1990, 8:45 p.m.

11   New York Central Boardroom: January 30, 1874, 10:45 a.m.

12   Chambers Street, NYC: December 3, 1876, 11:00 a.m.

13   Gramercy Park: April 14, 1879, 9:00 p.m.

14   Supreme Court, Part 35: August 17, 1990, 11:30 a.m.

15   Little Italy: March 18, 1956, 3:25 p.m.

16   Grand Ballroom, Fifth Avenue Hotel: February 14, 1880

17   The Firm Office: August 4, 1880, 10:30 a.m.

18   My Lai Delta, Vietnam: August 4, 1971, 15:40

19   The Firm Office: May 31, 1881, 5:00 p.m.

20   Stephen and Celeste’s Home: February 14, 1882

21   East River Pathmark Store: August 4, 1990, 6:11 a.m.

22   The Firm Office: October 13, 1881, 9:45 a.m.

23   Wall Street, New York City: November 11, 1883, 6:45 p.m.

24   Peter Howard’s Home: March 15, 1889, 6:30 p.m.

25   Delmonico’s, New York City: April 21, 1889

26   Central Park West: September 15, 1990, 7:15 a.m.

27   Church of St. Francis Xavier, N.Y.C.: November 21, 1891

28   Central Park: September 22, 1990, 7:13 a.m.

29   Lower Broadway: Monday, September 12, 1894

30   Central Park West: Saturday; September 22, 1990, 11:15 a.m.

31   The Firm’s Office: January 10, 1895, 9:00 a.m.

32   Washington DC: September 13, 1894, 6:30 p.m.

33   1 Wall Street: Monday, September 24, 1990, 9:25 a.m.

34   The Rappalyea Home: New Year’s Eve 1895

35   Little House on 2⁹th Street: September 12, 1895

36   Old Chelsea Post Office: Monday, September 24, 11:30 a.m.

37   Murray Hill, New York City: November 20, 1897

38   Aboard the USS Yucatan: June 18, 1898

39   Criminal Courts Building: Monday, September 24, 9:20 p.m.

40   Washington DC: April 15, 1901

41   Panama, Not Nicaragua: December 5, 1901

42   Finding the Bunk: September 25, 1990, 6:45 p.m.

43   Central Park West: Tuesday, September 26, 1990, 10:30 p.m.

44   General Sessions Court, New York: December 4, 1911

45   Veterans Club: Wednesday, September 26, Midnight

46   The Rappalyea Home: December 7, 1911, 8:15 a.m.

47   Veterans’ Club: Thursday, September 28, 1990, 7:00 p.m.

48   The Campus, Yale University Graduation: July 13, 1914

49   Claudia’s Apartment: September 30, 7:45 p.m.

50   The Rappalyea Home: May 25, 1923

TO CMBI

Thanks For The Memories, And The Kids.

This, then

the

Lex Talionis

But if injury ensues,

you shall give life for life, eye for eye,

tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,

burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

Exodus 21:23–25

1 Greene Street and Washington Place: March 25, 1911, 4:53 p.m.

It was quitting time. Concetta could hardly contain her excitement. In a few minutes, she was going to receive the first pay envelope of her life.

Kate and Margaret, two of the sewing machine operators at the Triangle Shirtwaist Company where Concetta had worked as a helper for the last week, were standing, stretching after sitting at their workstations sewing shirtwaists all day. Cutters and sewing machine operators across the large open room were rising from their worktables, preparing to quit for the weekend. Margaret and Kate were Jewish girls who spoke a language Concetta had never heard before. Both had been very kind to her, patiently showing her where everything was: the ladies’ room, the cloakroom, and where to pick up the piece goods from the cutters so the operators could sew them into shirtwaists. They even took the time to show Concetta how they prepared their machines for sewing in the morning, how to fill the bobbin, and thread the needle. Concetta eagerly watched everything they did. She was determined to master the sewing machines quickly so she could advance and make higher wages.

Shirtwaists, or, simply, waists, were women’s blouses, part of the new style of less cumbersome clothing that was more suitable for women who were streaming in ever-greater numbers into the workforce. Out of the total 1911 United States population of ninety-five million, five million women had left their homes to enter the world in which their husbands labored every day. Charles Dana Gibson immortalized this thoroughly modern woman wearing skirt and blouse in his famous drawings of the Gibson Girl.

Concetta Mandolo was fifteen years old. She’d come to America three months ago with her mother, her older sister, Maria, and her two-year-old brother, Anthony. Her Father, Babbo, had emigrated a year before and found them a new home on Mulberry Street in the section of New York City known as Little Italy. She and Mama had been amazed to find a beautiful porcelain bathtub in the kitchen of their apartment. A bath! In one’s own home, with water that didn’t have to be fetched from the fountain in the square. There was even an indoor toilet in the middle of the public hallway, shared by the four apartments on the floor. America was, truly, a wonderful place.

Concetta had felt so excited and grown-up last week when Babbo said she could take the job at the Triangle Shirt Waist Company. Of course, he insisted on walking her to and from the factory each day; no, he wouldn’t allow his beautiful Concetta to walk in the streets alone. This morning, Babbo told her that since she was going to collect wages that she had earned herself, she was grown-up enough to go to work and return home entirely on her own.

Margaret motioned that Concetta should stop picking up the scrap materials around the workstations and follow them to the cloakroom.

Concetta happily looked forward to what Babbo would say, the look on his face, when she gave him the dollar she planned to contribute from her wages to the household expenses. On the way home, she was going to stop at Mr. Spitalari’s store on Spring Street to buy something nice for Mama; perhaps that green-and-red silk kerchief—she thought it was real silk—that was in the window. She hoped she had enough money to buy it after deducting the fifty cents she was going to save in the little leather change pouch Mama had given her.

The happiness within Concetta surged from her feet through her entire body, spreading across her face in a big grin. She glanced at Margaret and Kate self-consciously as she entered the cloakroom behind them. Margaret began primping her hair in front of the mirror. She saw the reflection of Concetta’s smile.

"Vus machster?" said Margaret, turning.

Why you— Kate struggled with English then shook her head.

"Quando …" Concetta shook her head, trying to find the right words. She rubbed the tips of her thumb and forefingers together.

"Ahh, gelt, said Margaret smiling, nodding. Eine moment", she said assuringly. All three giggled.

As Concetta turned to take her coat off a hook on the side of the room, there was a sound, a voice, a loud voice! Was it a shout, a scream? Screaming? Kate and Margaret became motionless, listening, straining to hear. Concetta twirled, staring steadily at the door to the workroom. She said something rapidly in Italian, motioning to Margaret and Kate. They stared at Concetta, then at the door. Concetta repeated the Italian with urgency, pulling open the door to the workroom.

A haze of black smoke filled the upper portion of the workroom. Girls were screaming.

"Mein Gott!"

The three girls ran out into the workroom. On the Greene Street side of the workroom, flames leaped from the scrap boxes under the cutters’ worktables to shirtwaists hanging from finishing racks above the sewers’ tables, spreading sideways to other hanging waists, leaping forward to the next row of waists, then down to other scrap bins and workstations. The flames were devouring shirtwaists in flares of flame, crackling, roaring toward them.

On the roof, Isaac Harris, one of the owners of the Triangle Shirtwaist Company, stared over the parapet wall. He, Max Blanck, the other owner, and Max’s two daughters had been in the showroom on the tenth floor when they smelled the smoke and fire. Dragging the children by the hand, Isaac right behind, Max dashed out of the office to the stairway, pulling the door open, joining a mad dash of workers from the floor below stampeding to the roof.

Through billows of black smoke, Harris could see fire trucks in the street below and people across Washington Place staring up. The fire ladders only reached to the seventh floor. He saw a woman from a window on one of the floors below leap out to grab the rungs of a fire ladder; she missed and plummeted downward. Firemen aimed water hoses at the building, but the water arced only up as high as the sixth floor and splashed uselessly against the facade of the building. Wordlessly, Isaac sank to his knees next to Max, who was sitting on the roof, staring trancelike ahead, hugging his two daughters.

This is a disaster, Isaac said, weeping. Soon as we get off this roof, first thing—you listening? Max nodded. "First thing we do when we leave this building is say nothing, zuch gonish. We say nothing, to nobody, not before we talk to Anton Rappalyea—"

Who? Max’s eyes were not focused.

Rappalyea. Anton Rappalyea. Our lawyer, he said, looking directly into Max’s eyes. You hearing me?

Max nodded. Rappalyea, he repeated, hugging his daughters more tightly to himself. God willing we get off this roof.

Seeing the Greene Street side of the workroom filled with flame, Margaret and Kate had run to the Washington Place stairway. Concetta followed them instinctively. Other girls were screaming, running toward the windows. One girl with black hair stood stock-still in the middle of the aisle, her eyes staring wildly, jabbering prayers. Kate reached the Washington Place door and began pulling the doorknob, screaming in Yiddish. Margaret stood next to Kate, shaking frantically, staring at Kate’s hands on the doorknob. The door wouldn’t open. Concetta put her arms around Kate’s waist and pulled as Kate clung to the doorknob. The door would not budge. Suddenly, Margaret’s hair burst into flame. She beat her head frantically, trying to put out the flames, falling to her knees. The collar, then her entire dress, flared into flame. Kate spun around in horror, running blindly into the black smoke toward the Greene Street side. She pulled off her coat, grabbed some waists from an overhead rack, and covering her head with them. Concetta held on to a sleeve of Kate’s dress, following her through the dense smoke. Concetta tripped over a sewing machine bench, flailing the air, grabbing Kate as she fell forward. Kate turned and kicked Concetta away, then disappeared into the smoke.

Concetta crawled on the floor in the direction Kate had run. Ahead, through the orange and flame-suffused black smoke, she could see light, daylight, an exit. She could feel the air becoming cooler as she moved toward the light. She crawled faster. A flaming shirtwaist fell from an overhead rack, landing in a plume of flame on Concetta’s head. She screamed, stood, tore at the shirtwaist as it burned her hair, her face. She ran blindly for the daylight ahead of her. The air was cooler, the light brighter. Her knees hit something just as she reached the light. She caught a glimpse of a fire truck below as she fell forward through the window.

"Babbo, Babbo. Aiuda me."

2 The Firm’s Law Library: May 15, 1990, 7:15 p.m.

The entire executive floor of Walker, Rappalyea, and Ingersoll had been transformed by the soft light from silver candelabra set on tables throughout the two-level law library, its adjoining conference rooms, and corridors. Ordinarily silent, the library was filled with chatter and laughter. Waiters in white jackets, ties, and gloves passed among the guests, carrying salvers of champagne flutes or finger foods. Outside the large arched windows, the dark night that surrounded New York was pierced by thousands of lights from buildings and homes stretching to the horizon. In the sky, a long corridor of approaching landing lights reached back to infinity. Red and white marker lights attached to helicopters moved across the top of the city.

Portraits of the three founding partners of Walker, Rappalyea, and Ingersoll were hung on the paneled walls of the library, gazing down on the evening’s proceedings. Nurtured carefully by successive managing partners, the firm had now grown into a respected, midsized firm, able to wield influence on either side of the political aisle in Washington and Albany. There were twenty-one partners, forty-two associates, and a host of administrators, secretaries, and clerks.

Enjoying the view? Sandro asked Claudia, the namesake of her grandmother Claudia Howard Rappalyea, wife of Anton Rappalyea, one of the founding partners. She was holding an empty champagne flute as she stared out a library window.

Sandro Luca was thirty-nine, dark haired, well dressed, and one of the small coterie of lawyers considered the best criminal defense lawyers in New York City, which, as far as most of them were concerned, meant in the entire world.

I wasn’t actually looking at anything, Claudia replied, just thinking of my grandfather. Claudia was tall—in heels, she was slightly taller than Sandro—dark haired, jogging svelte, with dark eyes that were warm and kind yet, at the same time, mirrored confidence and intelligence. She wore an elegant bright yellow linen suit, white silk blouse, and was holding a small black patent leather purse that matched her shoes.

What about him? asked Sandro.

Sandro and Claudia first met fifteen years before, when they both attended New York Law School. Claudia had come from Yale undergraduate. Although she could have studied law at Yale or Harvard, Claudia wanted a New York State law school that offered a hands-on New York law approach rather than the more universal reach of the Ivies. Sandro had attended Fordham, Rose Hill undergrad, then New York Law School. His Father, who was graduated from Fordham Law, had been disappointed Sandro did not choose Fordham—but Sandro preferred New York Law because it was closer to his Father’s office, where he clerked three days a week, learning the nuts and bolts of his craft at the same time he studied statutes and citations. Shortly after they met in class, Sandro and Claudia began to share a study group, then films after class, dates, then weekends, later yet, trips to Paris and Tuscany, and just about everything except marriage and office space.

After passing the Bar, Claudia entered the brown, almost white, shoe Wall Street law firm of Walker, Rappalyea, and Ingersoll, the law firm her grandfather had helped found more than one hundred years before, working her way, like all new associates, through the ranks, rising to head the Mergers and Acquisitions Group. She had wanted Sandro to join her on Wall Street, but Sandro, whose Father was an active criminal lawyer at the time, had fallen in love with the criminal law long before he fell in love with Claudia—God’s work, he called it, hammering out the copper bottom of the Constitution, representing little-known defendants in empty courtrooms with, usually, only the judge, the jury, and the Constitution in attendance. Sandro, in turn, had tried to persuade Claudia that they’d make a good defense team, staving off the juggernaut of justice from crushing helpless people as it moved blindly, inexorably, forward. Just as Sandro was wed to the lawyer tradition of his family, Claudia’s grandmother and namesake had long before arranged a match for Claudia. She was destined to be the first woman to head a major Wall Street law firm.

I was wondering if he ever envisioned his granddaughter becoming managing partner of the firm.

He’d be very proud, said Sandro. Can I get you a refill?

Love it.

Sandro walked to one of the serving bars. Claudia watched him as a bartender poured two flutes of champagne. He wore a white linen, double-breasted suit, a light-blue tie with white polka dots, with a flourish of blue silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He was good looking, Claudia thought. All the other lawyers in the room looked like lawyers, with dark pinstriped suits and rep ties. Sandro looked like he belonged on a yacht on the lagoon in Venice. Claudia smiled into Sandro’s eyes as he walked toward her carrying two champagne flutes.

Thank you, kind sir, she said.

Although the spirit had yet to move either of them toward marriage, perhaps, Claudia thought, the time had come. After all, she wasn’t getting any younger. What if he drifted away? Then again, if she was worrying whether he would drift away, perhaps the spirit still hadn’t moved her.

Here’s to you, Grandfather, Claudia said, lifting a glass to a portrait on the wall.

Grandfather, repeated Sandro, lifting his glass as well.

Hear, hear, said Pierce Martin, the longest-serving active partner in the firm, lifting his flute to join the toast to the portraits. I didn’t know your grandfather, Claudia—not personally. I came to work for your Dad, right out of Yale Law, class of ’50. But your grandfather’s reputation and traditions live in every nook and cranny of this office.

Like the Pierce-Arrow car, Pierce Martin was always referred to by his full name. He was handsome, in a straight up and down, clean and scrubbed WASP way, wearing a madras dinner jacket with satin lapels and a winged collared shirt.

When I first came to work with your Father—we were over in the Woolworth Building then—lawyering was different. Being a lawyer meant something, said Pierce Martin. You had to know your stuff. The judges were judges, real characters, some of them, but good lawyers who would chew you up and spit you out if you didn’t measure up. Nowadays, with the computer, cutting and pasting cookie-cutter complaints, court calendars controlled by statistics in the Office of Court Administration, lawyers aren’t lawyers. They don’t draft legal instruments, they make a mark around the kitchen sink and throw everything they can find into it.

You get the picture that Pierce Martin has yet to cotton to the electronic age? Claudia said to Sandro.

The give and take with other lawyers, thrusting and parrying intellects, in court or out, that was fine lawyering, continued Pierce Martin. It was a craft then, not a business. Teddy Roosevelt was one of your grandfather’s clients. The Panama Canal flowed through this office. Did you know that, Mr. Luca?

Sandro’s fine, sir.

Pierce Martin shrugged off the informality. "Lawyers don’t have the respect—no one does—these days. I’m afraid civility has disappeared from our lives. In Europe, we’d be doctors, Dottore Luca. Here, we’re Joe, and Johnny, and Freddy to secretaries and clerks. You call someone on the phone, and the operator calls you by your first name. Rubbish!"

I did not know the Panama Canal flowed through this office, Mr. Martin, said Sandro.

It did. Her grandfather was instrumental in getting the Panama Canal into Panama, which permitted the United States to grow from an agrarian state to the biggest damn industrial power …

The firm didn’t do all of that, Pierce Martin, said Claudia.

I concede we can’t take credit for turning the U.S. of A into a world power, but the Panama Canal, you bet. Hearst, Vanderbilt, both the Commodore and his son, Jay Gould, Grover Cleveland, Chester Arthur, all walked through our halls. Samuel F. B. Morse—Stephen Walker’s—Pierce Martin pointed to Stephen Walker’s portrait on the wall—uncle, the American Leonardo, invented the telegraph. Edgar Ingersoll—Pierce Martin nodded toward the portrait of the third founding partner—died at Kettle Hill accompanying Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders.

Do you get the idea Pierce Martin is fiercely proud of the firm? said Claudia.

And of its new managing partner, Pierce Martin added. See, we’re still breaking ground, Mr. Luca. The first woman to be managing partner of a Wall Street powerhouse law firm. Hear, hear. He lifted his flute to Claudia then looked around. I think it may be time we have just a little ceremony in your honor, he said to her.

Do we have to? Claudia asked.

Most definitely. Everyone is waiting with baited breath to hear from you. Just a little something.

I really don’t want to make a speech.

Nothing much, said Pierce Martin. But it wouldn’t be complete or correct if we didn’t hear a little something from you tonight.

Always complete and correct, said Claudia.

The only way. Pierce Martin turned toward the guests. Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, he said, raising his voice. The conversations around the room began to quiet. Someone ssshhhd loudly; the crowd silenced. At the specific request of our new managing partner—he turned toward Claudia; several people clapped—the festivities tonight are to be long, the speeches short. More applause. However, I think it appropriate that we raise a glass to the firm’s founders, to Anton Rappalyea, Stephen Walker, and Edgar Ingersoll, and to Claudia G. H. Rappalyea the Second, our new managing partner, carrying on the long tradition of our firm.

Hear, hear was heard around the room. Everyone raised their glass.

"I think it’s eminently appropriate to tell you that it is not because Claudia Rappalyea is the granddaughter of one of the founders of our firm that she has been elected managing partner. Nor because she has now been appointed regional counsel to the Feminist Majority Foundation—although, I must say, she is a shining example of that organization’s aim to empower women in every sphere"—

Hear, hear was heard from several feminine voices around the room.

—bringing the talents of women everywhere to the attention of the chauvinist world of Wall Street and beyond—

Hear, hear, sounded even more feminine voices.

I see we have some of those talented women here among us. Pierce Martin smiled. There was laughter around the room. Rather, it is Claudia’s singular abilities of leadership and dedication, combined with a searing intelligence, a razor-sharp trial rapier that has caused her to be chosen the guiding light of our firm, to guide us all into the future. Ladies and gentlemen, said Pierce Martin, turning toward Claudia, raising his glass higher, to our new managing partner.

Cheers and applause filled the library.

Claudia smiled and stepped forward, her dark eyes surveying the room. I’m truly honored to be chosen managing partner by my peers. She turned toward the portraits of the founders, raising her glass. Granddad, Stephen Walker, Edgar Ingersoll. I see this position not as a sinecure, but as a responsibility, a responsibility I intend to fulfill, to carry the tradition you started at Walker, Rappalyea, and Ingersoll into the future, with vitality, vigor, and verve—she turned back to the guests—Those are all the vees I could think of. There was laughter. Claudia stepped back. The speech was over. The guests hesitated, cheered, and slowly, conversations around the room resumed.

Excellent speech, said Sandro. Claudia laughed softly. I don’t know about you, he said softly, but I can only eat so many of those itty-bitty canapé things. They seem to make me hungrier. Right now, I’m starving. Is it possible to scram out of here and go someplace to eat real food?

I just can’t leave in the middle of the festivities, said Claudia. Remember, I have to be complete and correct. There are a lot of people I still have to say hello to.

Well, get going. Talk fast. Pick any place you like. Crystal Room at Tavern on the Green? he said. You know you can’t resist that.

You’re right, Claudia laughed. Except we were there last night.

We’ll go anywhere you like. Italian?

I adore Italian, as you probably know. She smiled softly into his eyes.

Well, go ahead, go meet and greet, and then we’ll slip out one at a time. I’ll meet you in the lobby.

Give me a half hour.

Twenty minutes, said Sandro. I’m starving.

Just then, across the room, applause and louder voices, cheers, swelled from the crowd close to the library entrance.

Somebody must have arrived, said Pierce Martin, gazing at a swell that was moving through the crowd toward them, with an accompaniment of clamor.

Claudia and Sandro followed Pierce Martin’s gaze.

Oh my god! I can’t believe it, exclaimed Pierce Martin, looking at Claudia then moving forward to vigorously shake the hand then embrace a thin, gray-haired man wearing a double-breasted, brass-buttoned blue blazer. He was holding the hand of an older woman behind him whom he had led through the crowd.

Dad. Claudia’s eyes teared over. Mother. She bolted forward to the elderly couple and embraced and kissed each of them over and over again. How on earth did you get here? I just spoke to you in Palm Beach, what, a few hours ago?

The crowd of smiling faces surrounded the embracing family.

The modern miracle of Jet Blue, said a smiling eighty-seven-year-old Anton Rappalyea Jr. wearing rimless glasses and a big, if tired, grin. We made a last-minute dash to the airport right after we spoke, and here we are. Had to join in the celebration of the new managing partner. Claudia hugged her father, looked in his face, smiling, then hugged him again, then her mother. I can’t believe it, she exclaimed.

Ladies and gentlemen …, started Pierce Martin.

Loud ssshhhs were issued to the room. Smiling happily, Claudia stood between her father and mother, her arms around their waists, facing the crush of people.

I have the great pleasure—honor, actually—of presenting to you our esteemed retired chairman Anton Rappalyea Jr. and Marguerite Rappalyea, the father and mother of our managing director. I still can’t believe my eyes, Pierce Martin said to Anton Jr., shaking his hand vigorously again.

I can hardly believe it myself. It was Marguerite’s idea, replied Anton, looking at his wife.

The crowd was ecstatic, shouting greetings, people slicing between others to shake Anton’s hand, greeting and nodding to Mrs. Rappalyea.

This is absolutely fabulous, Claudia exclaimed to her father. You sounded so tired when I spoke to you.

I’m even more tired now. I thought running for planes was behind us, love, he said across Claudia to his wife.

Except for special occasions like this, she replied.

Oh, I’m so happy, so happy. Claudia turned to Sandro, who was standing just behind the trio. Dad, you remember Sandro.

Indeed I do, Anton said, turning, grasping Sandro’s hand, smiling. Still hammering on that copper bottom of the Constitution, young man?

Indeed I am, sir, Sandro smiled. I could always use some expert help if you decide to get back into the traces.

You never know—he smiled—you never know. Pierce, see if there’s a spare chair.

Absolutely, absolutely, a chair, someone, called Pierce Martin.

Marguerite, you remember Sandro Luca, Anton Jr. said to his wife.

Of course. How are you, dear? she said. They kissed cheeks.

Fine, ma’am, fine.

I was just about to go through the room to meet and greet, Dad. Now we can do it together. Claudia swung her father’s hand in hers. And then, she said, moving closer to whisper to him, Sandro and I were going to go somewhere to eat. Let’s say hello to everyone, and then all of us go to dinner.

Chairs were brought for both Mr. and Mrs. Rappalyea.

I can do one or the other, not both, not tonight, said Anton. I’m really tired. Why don’t we do the meeting and greeting here, you two go out to dinner. We’ll all have dinner tomorrow night. Hello, Roger, how are you? Anton said, shaking the hand of one of the older partners. And Stuart. You’re looking great, he said to another.

You don’t look any the worse for wear yourself. The two men laughed together.

Mrs. Rappalyea, in her turn, was shaking hands, kissing, greeting other partners and associates, longtime secretaries. The crowd milled around the seated dignitaries, effusively greeting and talking with them. Claudia stood back, holding Sandro’s hand, smiling widely, happily.

How did you find this place, Sandro? We’ve never been here before, said Claudia. They were in Il Nido, a restaurant on York Avenue and 74th Street. The food was delicious, she said, sipping the Moscato d’Asti Sandro had ordered when the owner offered to buy them an after-dinner drink.

Some clients recommended it. Sandro picked up his Moscato, clinking his glass with Claudia’s.

The carbonara was wonderful, said Claudia. How was your risotto?

More than wonderful, said Sandro.

More than wonderful?

The risotto was wonderful, and I had it while I was here with you, looking at you, delighting in the idea that we’re together. That made it more than wonderful.

You know—Claudia smiled—I was thinking to myself when we were back at the office, when you were picking up some champagne for us, you really do have a way about you.

Thank you, ma’am, I really do try. Sandro smiled.

Wasn’t it absolutely fantastic that my folks flew up from Palm Beach just on a whim to be here?

Absolutely incredible. Your father looks great—so does your mother, I meant that,. bBy the way;, maybe he wants to come and handle a case or two with me.

You never know, said Claudia. You can’t keep an old fire horse quiet once he hears the fire bell. He’s still full of energy and still loves the law.

By the way, thanks for telling me that you’re now Counsel, or whatever Pierce Martin said you were, of the feminist movement.

Not the feminist movement, and not Counsel—Regional Counsel of the Feminist Majority Foundation, a satellite organization focused on advancing women’s equality.

Well, they’ve been very successful if you’re any measure of their success.

Glancing across the restaurant over Sandro’s shoulder, Claudia’s gaze settled for a few long seconds on a large round table near the front where three men in suits and ties were seated. Sandro, is that Dante Terranova over there?

Sandro turned. It is indeed, he said. He must have come in while we were eating.

The waiter handed a leather folder with the dinner tab to Sandro. Without looking at it, Sandro returned the folder to the waiter. Tell Mr. Terranova I want to send him a bottle of Peppoli. Add it to my bill.

Yes, sir.

Make sure you mention Peppoli.

Yes, sir.

He is rather handsome, said Claudia, in a certain kind of way.

The waiter went to the table where Dante Terranova was seated and said something. Dante looked back toward Sandro. He smiled, nodded, and raised his glass. Sandro raised his glass in return.

You run into people you know everywhere. Either you went to school with them or represented them, said Claudia.

Small city when you get to know it.

The waiter returned with the revised check, and Sandro paid it. As they made their way to the door, Sandro walked to Dante Terranova’s table. Dante stood. Counselor, he said, shaking Sandro’s hand. Hello, Counselor, he said, smiling at Claudia. You remembered the Peppoli, he said to Sandro.

One shouldn’t forget good wines or good friends, not necessarily in that order.

Terranova laughed, looking at his companions. You know the Counselor, he said to the other two men. They both nodded. His lady is a Counselor too.

The two men looked at Claudia and nodded again. She smiled.

How are you doing? Sandro asked Dante.

They’re keeping me busy, I guess you been reading about it.

I have indeed.

They keep prosecuting, I keep dodging. That’s the life. He shrugged. Listen, how’s that case with Tony B. going? He’s a good friend of mine, you know.

He’ll be fine.

You mean that?

I do.

Atta, Counselor. Always been a good friend to a lot of our friends, he said to the other two men. They both nodded agreement.

Thanks for the wine. We’ll drink a toast to you two. Dante shook hands with Sandro. He nodded and smiled at Claudia.

Who’s Tony B.? Claudia asked as they walked to the front door.

If you really insist, he’s called Tony Balls, but Dante is too much a gentleman to say that in front of you. He’s a client of mine out on bail on an attempted murder case.

Tony Balls? That’s really someone’s name?

More a description than a name.

Claudia laughed as they reached the street. A cab was passing on York Avenue. Sandro raised his arm to hail it, but the driver didn’t see him and continued ahead. Whistle, he said to Claudia.

She put two fingers to her mouth and gave out a quick, high-pitched whistle. The cab’s brake lights lit immediately.

You have ways about you too, said Sandro, laughing. I never have been able to do that.

"You want to come up to my place for a schlaf mutze?" Claudia asked.

"I’d love too, liebchen."

They alighted from the cab in front of Claudia’s building at 66th Street and Central Park West. The doorman opened the iron-filigree-framed glass outer door. Good evening, Ms. Rappalyea. Sir. A package’s been delivered for you, he said to Claudia. I gave it to Isaac. He put it outside your door.

Thank you, Ralph.

Claudia and Sandro started across the mirrored and marble lobby to the elevator.

Evening, Miss, said Isaac, the elevator operator, standing at the ready inside the wood-paneled elevator. I left a package that came for you on the table outside your door.

Thank you, Isaac.

Claudia sat on the red-velvet covered bench against the back wall of the elevator as it rose. At her floor, Isaac opened the brass scissor gate, revealing a small vestibule. Opposite the elevator was a red lacquered door with a large circular brass knocker. Overhead was a Venetian chandelier—one that Claudia and Sandro bought together and shipped from Murano. A small table and a mirror that matched the chandelier were to the left. On the table was a shoe-box-sized package wrapped in brown paper.

Looks like one of my clients sent it, said Sandro.

Why do you say that? Why would one of your clients send me a package?

The penciled block letters. Mail from the prisons often arrives addressed like that. Must have been hand-delivered.

I guess—there’s no address, no return address. Just my name.

Sandro picked up the package and put it to his ear, listening. At least it’s not ticking.

’Tain’t funny, McGee, said Claudia, taking the package. She opened the red door with a little circular key. A light in the interior went on automatically. Pushing the door open with a gentle push of her rump, Claudia held the package in her two hands, studying the handwriting. She shook it a couple of times.

"Maybe it’s from one of your clients", said Sandro.

We don’t have those kinds of clients, thank you, replied Claudia as she began to undo the brown wrapping on the package. She walked across the foyer and switched on the lights to the den. Lemoncello or Moscato d’Asti?

The den was decorated with an animal motif, with safari pictures on the walls and stuffed animal pillows on the couch. A faux zebra skin was on the floor.

I’m in a northern kind of mood—Moscato. What about the anti-abortion people?

What about the anti-abortion people? said Claudia.

Sending you the package.

Are you purposely trying to give me the jitters? Claudia looked at the package more closely. She picked up the telephone, which had a direct intercom connection to the lobby.

Isaac. This is Ms. Rappalyea. Do you know who delivered this package?

No, ma’am. It was a messenger service. Fellow with dark-rimmed glasses on a bicycle with a black bag over his shoulder—Ralph, what did that messenger guy’s bag say on it? she heard the doorman say. There was a muffled reply. He was from a Precise Messenger Service, something like that.

Thank you. Claudia hung up the phone. It’s all right. Mad men don’t send packages with messenger services, said Claudia, tearing the brown paper wrapper. It was a Henri Bendel box. If it’s from Bendel’s, it can’t be all bad. She smiled, taking hold of the edge of the cover of the box. Hmm, the cover is stuck, or something, Claudia said, exerting a bit more effort. The cover popped open with a metallic snapping noise.

Claudia gasped and then screamed, A hand grenade! She tossed the box with both hands through the doorway into the foyer.

Sandro lunged toward Claudia and, in one motion, pulled her down to the floor behind the wall to one side of the doorway. He lay on top of her, moving one hand to cover his head. They heard something metallic rolling on the marble floor of the foyer.

Oh Christ, he said. Their bodies tensed as they awaited the explosion.

The rolling stopped. There was total silence in the foyer.

We can’t get out of here—just stay put, he said. The two of them lay huddled together at the base of the den wall. They waited in that position for what seemed an eternity. Nothing happened.

Sandro held Claudia down as he lifted his head, trying to see past the doorway from where they lay. He could see only a sliver of the marble floor outside.

They waited longer. Still nothing but silence.

Stay there. Sandro got to his feet, staying close to the wall.

Don’t go out there, said Claudia rapidly. It might go off any second.

A hand grenade would have gone off by now, said Sandro.

How do you know that? Maybe it’s delayed. Don’t go out there.

Sandro squatted down next to Claudia, his back against the wall. Claudia sat up, her back against the same wall. They stayed in that position for ten minutes, which, while waiting for a hand grenade to explode, felt like ten hours. Sandro crawled to the doorway, cautiously looking out into the foyer. He could see the grenade on the floor near the front door. The box was a couple of feet to the left. He scrutinized the grenade, angling his head. Then, hesitantly, he crawled a little closer to the doorway.

Son of a bitch, he said, standing.

What? What is it? said Claudia.

There’s a hole in the bottom of that grenade, and a note that I can see hanging out of the box.

Sandro went out into the hallway slowly and picked up the grenade. It’s been hollowed out. There’s no explosive inside.

Are you sure?

Sure.

Claudia came to the doorway, looking out as