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an Italian, thought Garetsky, a house always had to be built of brick and stone. Otherwise,
     it was considered lacking in substance and unworthy of respect.
    An electronically controlled gate stood across the driveway, and Gianni Garetsky pulled up to the security phone beside it.
     Such precautions seemed a holdover from the old days. Things were calmer, more intelligent, and better organized now. The
     current trends all leaned toward legitimacy, and gratuitous violence was frowned upon by the leading
famiglia
as the worst possible public relations. These days, when a body did occasionally turn up in the trunk of a car, it was more
     the exception than the rule, and usually the work of some not very bright loose cannon.
    Generally, wiser heads prevailed, and Don Carlo Donatti was considered high among the wisest, with a law degree from Yale
     and a carefully nurtured public persona that atleast made him appear to fit in anywhere. He had been his father’s
consigliere
at twenty-five and had taken over entirely at the old don’s death two years later.
    Gianni picked up the security phone and heard it ring at the other end.
    “Who’s there?” said a man’s voice.
    “Gianni Garetsky.”
    “
Who?”
    Gianni repeated his name. Few in the new crowd knew him, and he was just as pleased to leave it that way.
    “What d’yuh want?”
    All charm,
thought Gianni. “To see Don Donatti.”
    “What about?”
    “Just give him my name.”
    “He doesn’t see anybody this late.”
    “Just give the don my name.”
    Gianni spoke softly but something in his voice must have gotten through.
    “Hang on,” said the man.
    Moments later the iron gate swung open, and Gianni drove up a long driveway edged with Belgian block. He parked the wagon
     in front of a porticoed entrance and got out under a wash of floodlights.
    A solidly built, big-chested man was waiting at the door. He looked just as unfriendly in person as he had sounded on the
     phone.
    “You carrying?” he asked.
    Gianni nodded.
    The man held out a king-size hand, and Gianni took the automatic out of his belt and gave it to him. Then he patted Gianni
     down, front to back, and felt his legs for an ankle holster.
    “Let’s see your driver’s license.”
    He checked the photo against Gianni’s swollen, discolored face and grinned. “You used to be prettier. What happened? Her husband
     come home?”
    “How’d you know?”
    “Hey, I been there.” The man nodded past the stairs. “First room on the right. The door’s open.”
    It was a big room that served as a combination sittingroom and study. The don rose from an oversize armchair beside an open fire. He wore an exquisitely tailored silk robe over
     his pajamas, and his hands fussed with an unlit cigarette in a holder.
    Gianni Garetsky went through the formal greeting ritual, then sat down farther from the fire. The heat was inside him, a slow
     burning.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Godfather.”
    Don Donatti sat looking at his face. He might have been weighing and measuring the damage, adding it up for a final total.
    “Who did this to you?”
    “Two men. They said FBI and had all the right credentials, but who knows?”
    “Where are they now?”
    “Buried in some woods.”
    The don sat in silence. He shifted in his chair, barely disturbing the robe and pajamas.
    “You got a light?” he said.
    Gianni took out some matches and lit the don’s cigarette. The man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
    “So what happened, Gianni?”
    The artist lit a cigarette for himself and began his curious devil’s tale. There was little light in the room, just that of
     a lamp and the glow from the fire, and the mood was that of a cave. By the time Garetsky finished, he no longer felt connected
     to himself.
    Donatti sighed. “You have the woman’s picture?”
    Gianni showed it to him. “Did you ever see her with Vitto-rio?”
    “I never saw any of Vittorio’s girls,” said the don flatly. “The