Anthony DePaul Copyright  2005 by Anthony DePaul

Chapter Seventeen

“We are the world’s first police force and the best,” his Dad told him over and over again.

It was ML’s idea to build a thirty-three foot long bar in the Lodge house in Northeast Philly. Each foot represented one degree of their non-Masonic order. The wooden eight point cross had been hand carved in Edinburgh and shipped to the Lodge as a gift from his family in Scotland. They were proud that Morton was named police commissioner. If they knew the truth, his father would rise from his grave and nail him to that very cross. He ordered a seventh Glenlivet neat.

The click of pool balls from the table behind him tempted him to play but the alcohol blurred his vision enough to remind him that he needed eyeglasses.

Age does not become me.

Il Segreto plied him with scotch and steak and lobster. “Come join us and your Knights will complete the triangle within the circle of the Philadelphes. It is a union of the small people who have been ordered about for centuries. Lift your people up or suffer the weight of the powers that look down on people like you and I. It is so much better to go through life drinking Glenlivet than Teachers.”

ML agreed and the triangle was complete.

The ring of his cell phone startled him. He needed an emergency like he needed a toothache.

“Commissioner here!”

“Hello!”

“I have special information for your ears and eyes only. This bit of information could make you a hero and our next Mayor.”

“Go on! I’m no fool.”

“You are a fool if you turn this down. Either I give this to you or Dorian Wilde. You choose.”

ML was a cautious man but the idea of losing out to Dorian Wilde was bait he could not resist especially with a belly full of scotch, the kind that raises testosterone to flood level.

“Yer on! When and where?”

“Ditch your driver and meet me in half an hour at the old waterworks behind the Art Museum.”

The caller went on another minute with words that made ML listen intently as though he heard Christ’s own gospel.

The caller hung up. ML flipped the cell off. He thought about not going to the meeting. But what did he have to fear? He was the Commissioner and a Knight and a man who fears no one. He guzzled the last shot. The scotch slid down his throat like warm nectar.

His wobbly legs held up his torso as he brushed through the cluster of Lodge members.

“I’m off, my fine lads.”

“Off to save the city are you?” asked the man who bought the drink.

ML wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulder. “Tis the duty of the Knights to make the world free and safe. Never forget that!”

He opened the door as the lads cheered his words. A pang of guilt shot through his heart for he had forgotten those very sentiments. The scotch numbed him from the brisk wind. Pocky opened the car door.

“Home?” asked Pocky.

“Take me to the Art Museum, the rear entrance. Drop me off and wait with the lights off. Keep your gun handy. I may be old but I’m not stupid. Ask no questions. Just do as yer told.”

Pocky gunned the engine, “Aye, Boss”

Twelve minutes later, the steep steps and sandstone arches and columns of the Art Museum loomed above Benjamin Franklin Parkway like a vision of a Grecian Temple. They passed to the right and entered the empty parking lot behind the Museum close to the Schuylkill River. The river ran past the Museum and broke into a fast moving waterfall at the foot of the waterworks. ML scanned the parking lot but saw no sign of the caller.

“Pull up in the corner. I’ll walk from here to the waterworks. If you see or hear anything suspicious, come a hellin’”

“Right. My gun is loaded and ready.”

ML squeezed Pocky’s shoulder blades. “That’s a good lad. I can count on ye.”

ML longed for a scotch. His head had cleared and the cold night air nipped his ears. He lit his pipe and walked around the Museum. The breeze from the river chilled him to the bone but he pressed on. No one in sight, he feared the caller had made a fool of him. If so, there would be hell to pay. A clump of trees and hedges shielded the waterworks from the Art Museum. ML moved toward the open area so no one could sneak up on him. He turned a slow three sixty. He felt that he was in a time warp, a vortex with no motion just an emptiness amid the stony buildings and the dark foliage. A rustling in the woods perked stirred the silence. He puffed on his pipe with one hand and clutched his pistol with the other hand.

The woods shook as a familiar figure emerged.

“Over here, Commissioner,” said the caller.

ML edged toward the wooded area, grateful that they sheltered him from the wind.

“Get out of the wind,” said the caller.

ML trudged ahead. The caller looked harmless.

“It’s colder than a dead man’s body,” he said.

The caller laughed. “You have such a way with words.”

ML stopped dead in his tracks. A twenty-two pistol was six inches from his chin.

“What is the meaning of this? I am the Commissioner of Police. You can’t scare me and if you pull that trigger, my lads will hunt you down and slice you into small pieces. Now put the gun down and we’ll sort out our differences like adults.”

ML slowly reached for the gun.

“Good night, Commissioner,” said the caller.

The shot exploded through ML’s nose and pierced his brain. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The caller hurried away as Pocky yelled, “Boss! Boss! Where are you Boss?”

Chapter Eighteen

The media frenzy rivaled the furor over the Kennedy assassination. The Philadelphes thrived on secrecy. Killing Miles was a calculated risk but with a domestic and non-political twist to the killing, the risk was plausible. Miles was also a threat. He’d have delayed their take over by eight years if not destroy the Triangle all together.

ML’s murder was an act of war against the Triangle. Damage control was essential. The words of Machiavelli leaped out.

“A prince need trouble little about conspiracies when the people are well disposed, but when they are hostile and hold him in hatred, then he must fear everything and everybody.”

Had the blacks killed ML in retaliation for Lincoln’s death? Had Dorian anything to do with the killing? Or had a member of the Triangle turned on another member?

Il Segreto called Talarico. There was no answer despite explicit orders for him to remain in his room. If there is no obedience, then there is no true loyalty.

The persistent ring gave way to the answering machine. Il Segreto fastened the voice modulator. “Dove e tuo? Quando ritorne, telefono pronto!”

Il Segreto paced the office as the Fox news channel special report blasted out a “Fox News Alert”. The broadcast showed the old waterworks in the background. The isolated spot was a trap that ML was too experienced to fall into. He knew or trusted the murderer. Il Segreto’s angst welled up in a cold fury. There was an enemy out there and if someone was out to smash the Philadelphes or to take power, that person needed to be found and treated as a traitor. What is one more murder?

The reporter noted. “The oddity here is that the same man, Police Officer Andrew Miller, nicknamed Pocky discovered both the Mayor’s body and the Commissioner’s body. That is one heck of a coincidence.”

“Yes it is,” said Il Segreto.

Machiavelli knew that “fortune is a woman, and it is necessary to conquer her by force”.

Il Segreto turned off the television. A list of possible explanations for ML’s assassination registered in clear relief like a lesson on a blackboard. Dorian Wilde topped the list.

“I’m not crying. Are you?” he said.

“Hardly. I wonder who did it?”

Dorian could not mince words. “So do I? Alice, the news said the wound looks like it came from a twenty-two.”

“So? Oh, you think I killed the prick. Hah. I went straight home after I left you. My head hit the pillow at eleven and I never moved until I had to pee at five-forty.”

Dorian dared not challenge her lie over the phone. He wanted to look into her eyes. “That’s good to hear. I enjoyed our dinner. We need to keep talking about the child.”

“It’s not a child yet. But I don’t want to argue with you at six in the morning. Marian and I are due to meet with the Mayor at seven so I must run. Call me tonight.”

“Dinner?”

“Not a good idea. Ciao!” she said and hung up.

Dorian could not envision Alice committing murder. Nate was a more likely candidate. But if he pursued Nate as a suspect, would the trail lead him back to Alice, improbable though it appears. Alice’s tone about meeting with Marian and Grace was not the voice of contempt or resignation. She may as well have said she was meeting them for lunch. The key question was why any one would want to kill ML except Nate? Certainly Nate had revenge for a motive but Dorian did not believe ML was the actual triggerman. Besides, given the confrontation earlier in the day, it was not rational for ML to meet a man who may want to kill him.

He checked his server. The bugs were still working. He’d be a fly on the wall if the three women met in Grace’s office. The microphone was on and the recorder was in place for the seven o’clock meeting. They’d talk and he’d listen and record.

He called Sophie.

“Hello Boss. Have we moved to South America? All the politicians are targets. Nobody’s safe.”

Dorian was surprised by Sophie’s concern. He’d never seen her afraid except in a matronly way. “Buenos dias, Senorita Sophia. We are in a battle zone for sure and I have a mission for you. I am forwarding three files to you. Each is an illegal wiretap of three prominent individuals. Your mission is to download the tapes to a file and read them. If you see any thing suspicious, print a transcript.”

“Why can’t I just listen to them?”

“Because you can print all three at eleven hundred words a minute and I want a hard copy record so reading kills two birds with one stone.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Muchas gratias, Senorita! Call you later.”

“Don’t get killed. I need the job,” she said.

“Don’t sweat it. I am not a city official. Besides, you’re in the will. You’ll get enough to run to Florida with a thirty year old stud.”

She laughed, “In that case…”

“Manana!” he said and hung up, glad to hear she was less concerned.

Dorian made a fresh pot of coffee. His phone rang. He let voicemail take the call. “Mister Wilde. This is Derek Lane from CNN.”

Three more media people called before the seven o’clock meeting. He settled into his recliner and took the phone off the hook.

Alice, I hope you know what you’re doing.
Alice carried a bag of four bagels, cream cheese and butter into the meeting in Grace’s office. The expansive office was cool thanks to a controlled energy system that regulated temperatures during off peak hours. The thermostat was still set at sixty-two degrees.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored business suit, impeccably neat and alert, Grace greeted her with a friendly smile as she took the bag from Alice. “How did you get these sinful things past security?” asked Grace. “The coffee is ready. Pour yourself a cup. In fact, freshen up mine too. I’m doing decaf these days. I’m wired all day and all night.”

Grace’s tight butt and firm body engendered a perpetual jealousy in Alice as well as a twinge of guilt that her efforts to stay fit diminished each year. Six years older than her, Grace could probably out run her and she wore a dress size that an eighteen year old would beg for.

Grace sat at head of the table beneath a print of the Art Museum. “Marian is running late. Joseph is dropping her off. She didn’t want to trust the trains from Chestnut Hill to get her here by seven. I see you’ve brought two rye, one bialy and one egg. Which do you want?”

Alice placed two cups and saucers on the place mats. “I’ll take a rye. Marian likes egg. The extra was just in case you invited someone else.”

Grace offered an unusual smile. “You are always thinking ahead. You’d make a good chess player. My mother taught me the game. She said checkers was for peasants. I used to wonder why we weren’t peasants, living on the third floor of a South Philly row house.”

She sat across from Alice, her hands wrapped around the cup. The morning sun trickled through the overcast enough to glimmer off Grace’s glasses. The specs and the sunlight could not hide Alice from the piercing eyes that windowed a mind sharper than an ice pick.

“I’m glad we have a few moments. We need to get to know each other better. Off the record, how is Estelle?” said Grace still smiling.

Alice felt a warning siren scream from deep within. In time of peace, prepare for war. “She seems fine. She is very excited about the baby. It’s given her a reason to fight for her life.”

Grace’s smile faded to her customary deadpan expression. “Children do that to people. My sainted mother never married before or after me. She devoted every waking hour to raise her love child. Estelle’s baby will never know its father but it will have a name.”

Alice could not resist countering Grace’s euphemism. “The baby may also have a convicted murderer for a mother.”

Grace raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Ah, I guess you’re right. On the record, how is the plea bargaining going?”

Alice buttered her bagel and dunked one end in her coffee. “My guess is that after Kelly hears the news on ML’s murder, he’ll reject the plea. ML’s shooting opens up the conspiracy theory especially because Pocky Miller was at both murder scenes. His presence will look like a corroboration of the frame up to a jury despite the physical evidence.”

“I see,” said Grace. “You have your work cut out for you”

“Sure do!”

Grace must have been up all night but every hair on her head was in place. There were no bags under her eyes and her tint of lipstick was fresh, her business suit unwrinkled. The woman rolled out of bed looking like a soldier dressed for a parade.

“You know,” said Grace. “You and Estelle and Marian and I have a lot in common. We all went to Penn. We were in the same sorority. We were all law students. We are all only children who either lost their fathers early in life or never knew them. Odd, isn’t it?”

Alice finished the first half of her bagel. “Well, Marian is married and Estelle married a black man. There are some points of separation.”

Grace snickered. “If I had a choice between being married to a dead man and Joseph Goodway, I’d rather be the widow. I’d be more alive.”

“Like your mother?” asked Alice.

Grace stared for a moment before answering, “Yes. Just like her.”

The door swung open to Marian, bundled like a grizzly bear in a fur coat large enough to warm a family of four. A maroon hat was pulled down over her ears. “Sorry I’m late. God, I did not sleep.”

She shed her coat while Alice poured her a cup of coffee and laid the egg bagel on a paper plate. Grace noted the courtesy and smiled approvingly.

Marian settled into the seat. Her bulky sweater made her shoulders wider than a linebacker’s with pads on.

“I just talked to the police. They are grilling Pocky Miller. He is Johnny on the Spot to two murders. And they think he knows something.”

Grace folded her arms and stood as if to say, I am in charge. “The public will instinctively draw a connection between the two murders. Lincoln’s funeral today makes a perfect backdrop for the connection. We need to minimize the political impact. We need to keep the Feds out of our investigations. We need to name a successor to ML. We need a plea agreement from Estelle. That will settle down the conspiracy gossip. Alice thinks Estelle won’t plea. Well, it is your job to get that plea as fast as you can. I’ll pick a successor. Marian, you get Pocky out of jail. He is no guiltier of murder than any of us. I have a Press conference scheduled for nine. I will tell the Press that our beloved Commissioner was killed in the line of duty and there is no connection to the Miles killing. I’ll blame it on organized crime. They make the most plausible scapegoats. That story will give us time to regroup. Comments?”

Marian took out a hanky and waved it. “There won’t be any tears for killing that brute. The police hated him as much as the public. His murder will probably go unsolved. I say this because the Crime Scene Unit found no physical evidence except for the twenty-two bullet in his head. The odds of finding the gun are nil. If worse comes to worse, we can ask the boys down town to cough up a dupe for a few favors. It’s been done before to ease the pressure. A local hood gone berserk acting on his own can be sold especially if he’s Italian or black.”

Alice fumed from her neck down. “What about the real killer?”

Grace paced behind her and planted both hands on Alice’s shoulders. “That is the job of the police. We are only discussing contingencies from a political perspective. Don’t be naïve, Alice. We run the City. We are in power and you work for us. You are one of us. Right?”

Grace dug her fingers into Alice. The grip pinched her shoulders but Alice held back the cry for release. “Absolutely!”

Grace eased her grip. “Good. Then we are all agreed. Alice, get a plea even if it means no jail time. In fact, suggest or at least hint that a self defense plea may work.”

“What about Judge Moon?” asked Alice.

Grace tapped her fingernails for few seconds. Alice could almost see the wheels turning in Grace’s mind. “Honest men are always a problem. I’ll talk to His Honor. He’ll understand that the name of Lincoln Miles needs to be protected so the City can heal and the blacks will keep their heroic vision of him. We’ll indicate that he was under enormous pressure and over medicated causing him to temporarily lose his sanity. We’ll make a martyr out of him. Hell, I’ll rename Broad Street after him if I have to.”

Grace glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have a meeting with Nate Stern in five minutes. Get cracking and call me on my cell later today after the funeral. Let’s say five thirty sharp.”

“Got it,” said Alice grateful to leave.

Marian took her arm. “Let’s go out the back way.”

Alice did not like Marian taking her arm. She’d had enough of people commandeering her. She paused and slipped free, earning a scowl for her efforts.

“Good idea,” said Grace.

After listening in, Dorian was breathless. Grace made the CIA look like boy scouts roasting marshmallows around a campfire. He chugged on a bottle of water and waited for Nate’s arrival. The caller ID read “Joseph Goodway”.

“Good morning Mister Goodway. To what do I owe this surprise?”

“I just left Marian at City Hall. I’d like to have coffee with you. Are you available to discuss a business matter?”

“Uh, sure. But I have a conference call with a client that will last a half hour or so. Is nine a good time for you?”

“I will ring your buzzer at nine.”

“Perfect.” Dorian hung up. What did he want?

He waited for Nate’s visit feeling that maybe Nate would let something slip about ML’s murder.

Nate arrived at Grace’s office four minutes late.

“Good morning Ms. Mayor.”

“Good morning to you Mister managing Director. Coffee is over there. Oh wait. You’ll want tea.”

“Forget it. I’m fine as is. What do you want to do about this surprise?”

“I’d like to personally choke to death whoever shot ML. We need a friend in that job. Any idea who did it?”

“He was in my office yesterday. Dorian Wilde accused him of involvement in Jerry’s death. ML denied it and I dismissed it as hocus pocus by the boy wonder detective.”

“You were right to do so. Now here is my plan. We need an ally in the Commissioner’s job. The blacks will want one of their own. We’ll appoint Ernest Downs right after the ceremony today and announce the appointment. But you explain to Downs that after six months, he’s going to resign for health reasons. He’s also going into private business as a security consultant for your company at a salary of two hundred grand per year. He’ll do nothing to earn it except stay out of our way and to keep his brethren in line. The ploy gives us time to recruit a successor from the Scottish Knights. Maybe Desmond Mac Donald will fill the bill. He has ambition and likes to gamble. We’ll get him in enough debt to drown. Then he’s ours.”

“You should have been in the Six Day War. You’d have conned the Egyptians and the Syrians into fighting each other. I like it.”

“Good. By the way, you didn’t buy what Wilde was selling at all did you?”

Nate cackled, “The goods he peddles I wouldn’t buy for two cents cheap.”

He bought it, thought Dorian, but he’s smart enough to not trust Grace.

“I’ve got to get ready for the press conference and the funeral. Talk to Downs after the funeral luncheon at the Four Seasons. Get a couple of bourbons in him to soften him up.”

“He’ll play ball,” said Nate.

“Are you up to the task? You look like hell.” Grace sounded more curious than concerned.

“I’m ready for anything. See you Mister, I mean Ms. Mayor.”

“I’m counting on you.”

The door slammed. Grace muttered aloud, “I wonder why you look so tired Nate. Were you out late?”

The door shut a moment later.

Dorian took off his earphones. Grace maneuvered quicker than Allen Iverson on a fast break.

Dorian brewed fresh coffee for Goodway’s visit. Ten minutes later the buzzer announced Goodway’s arrival.

Dorian barely recognized Goodway dressed in a Russian style wool hat and brown overcoat with the collar drawn up tight over a chocolate scarf. The characteristic sunglasses were fogged by the heat but he did not remove them.

“Welcome,” said Dorian. There’s a closet over there to hang your coat. I’ve set up coffee in the den. There’s a nice view of the river from that side.”

Goodway unbuttoned his coat, removed the hat and set them on the arm of the sofa. Dorian offered a Kleenex for the glasses but Joseph refused and said, “Thank you. I won’t stay long.”

They sat on opposite ends of the table. Goodway pulled out the microchip and laid it gently on the table. “My cleaning lady has a passion for dusting. She found this little gadget on the water cooler. I thought you might know what it is. Maybe you know the owner too.”

Dorian held the bug under the track lighting. “Oh it is definitely a listening device. It’s typical of a Federal operation. You know, the FBI, people like that. Actually, I’ve seen this model myself. What do you want me to do with it?”

Goodway stifled a yawn. A thin wire protruded from the stem of his eyeglasses around to the back of his head to the other stem by the opposite ear. At first, Dorian thought it was a listening wire. But it was more of a strap to hold on the glasses. What did those eyes reveal? Goodway sipped the coffee.

“Mmm! Quite good! Starbucks?” asked Goodway.

Dorian did not believe the compliment was sincere. “My own blend. I import Lavazza from Italy and mix it with Maxwell House and a touch of espresso.”

Goodway took another sip and tilted the cup toward Dorian. “Interesting. You use three blends to make one cup. A triangulation of coffee! I always believed in numerology and the magic power of the number three.”

Dorian clicked his coffee cup to Goodway’s cup. “Great minds think alike! I always like blends. Blended scotch is my favorite drink.”

Goodway set the cup down and craned his neck as if he was bored. “Yes. I also believe in blends. Oh I have alerted certain friends of the need to dust their offices today in case this infestation has spread. Nate called me a moment ago. He found a bug. Fortunately Marian did not. I guess they exterminated the bug. The Mayor was in a meeting. Now if I find the root cause of the infestation, I’ll order that cause to be exterminated.”

Dorian slapped the top of the table. “You should do that. I wonder if our Police Commissioner was exterminated too.”

Goodway stood and looked out the window, his back to Dorian yet Dorian felt the man was still looking at him. “You and I are very much alike. We are self-made men who live by our own rules. We see society as an opportunity. Both of us are private men though you do occasionally ham it up with the media. Personally, I find them detestable.”

Dorian interrupted. “I don’t wear sunglasses indoors.”

Goodway’s back stiffened. “You are curious about my idiosyncrasy. A thoughtful man may think that I am not hiding anything. I watch the poker players on ESPN. They use the sunglasses to gain a psychological advantage over their opponent. I too use them so the windows of my mind are closed. Call it an edge.”

Dorian refilled both cups. “My good looks help me charm old ladies. That’s my edge.”

Goodway sighed. “Ah the games we play. In truth, I was badly scarred as a boy. My eyebrows are gone. My eyelids are hideously red. I look like a man with two beets for eyes. I only tell you this to relieve your curiosity and to teach you not to judge a man by what you think his motives may be.”

Dorian nodded. “Point well made.”

Goodway held his pose. “As I say, we are alike in many ways. Ayn Rand understood the value of men who resist the established order. Her hero was an outcast, a rebel and yet an architect of a new order within the old order. We carve out our own destinies. I don’t mean to run on or repeat myself. I just want you to understand that bugs are amateurish short cuts to the truth. To understand a human being you need brains and wisdom.”

Dorian stood beside him. “Okay Professor. Help me understand why your friends killed Jerry Stern?”

Goodway did not move or flinch. “You like direct questions. I will give you a direct answer. I killed no one. Jerry Stern was killed by a street hood.”

Dorian folded his arms and stared down at the street. “Jerry Stern was exterminated. He was a human bug that wanted no part of the Philadelphes. Jerry took his religion seriously. He wanted no part of Camorra or the Scottish Knights. He was innocent and naïve and like the Biblical lamb, you bastards destroyed him.”

Goodway edged away from the window but Dorian did not pursue him. “You are an eloquent but misguided man. But you do make excellent coffee. That may be your saving grace.”

Dorian wanted to rip the glasses off of Goodway’s head. He wanted to smash the old man’s skull against the wall. He wanted to expose the ghoul to the world.

“Are you going to Lincoln’s funeral today?” asked Dorian.

Goodway reached for his coat. “No. Marian will represent us. Are you going?”

Dorian felt that his movements were best left unannounced. “Who knows? I liked Lincoln. I warned him he was in danger. He didn’t listen to me.”

Goodway turned toward Dorian. “That is a pity. One should always heed warnings.”

In one rapid movement he removed the sunglasses. The blotches that used to be his eyes seared Dorian’s mind. “See what acid can do to a man who does not listen to warnings,” he said.

Dorian stood firm under the relentless, devilish leer. He stepped back but the repulsive visage held him in a hypnotic vise.

Goodway pressed close to Dorian. “Look at your future in my past. The world is evil. The only way to survive is to make your own rules and destroy all who oppose you. Am I clear?”

Dorian’s stomach tightened. “Quite clear.”

Goodway replaced the glasses. “I must be going. Call me some time. You and I need to get to know each other better. We are, after all is said and done, kindred souls.”

Dorian escorted him to the door. Goodway offered his hand which Dorian shook grateful to rid his home of the man.

For a full ten seconds, Dorian stood at the closed door. He had seen evil in men before but not in the sanctity of his home.

The phone rang. He let it go to voicemail. “Boss, this is Sophie. The thingamajig recorder crapped out. I can’t get any signal. What should I do? Call me.”

He picked up the phone. “Sophie, it’s me.”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“I just spent a half hour with the devil. Forget the recorders. They’re all dead as ML McLain. Peek out your window. Has the funeral procession started?”

“Broad Street is jammed with cops on horses. A parade is moving north. The Mummers ain’t this colorful,” she said.

“Stop exaggerating. Lock the doors. Don’t let anybody inside including the mailman. When you leave, go out the back way.”

“Is this old broad in danger?”

“Maybe.”

“I hope you get it. Now just watch yourself. I will call later.”

“What do I do now that you scared me into peeing my pants!”

“Try Depends. Good bye!”

“Mazel tov!”

Dorian sighed, “Mazel tov to you too!”

Talarico sat at the corner table of a restaurant, espresso and pastry in hand. The Society Hill Towers loomed above the town homes. Dorian lived there high above the ordinary men of the city. The eagle thinks he is invulnerable. But even the eagle must visit the ground.

I will trap him and kill him with as much pleasure as I tasted in killing Stern and Spaventa.