the murder of Carla DeCarlo, the olive grove, any subsequent buildings and the business itself would revert back to him as the sole owner. I had to read that over several times before it sunk in.
Then as if my body reacted before my mind could take hold of this disturbing information, a tiny ripple of panic swept through me as my stomach roiled, and my chest began to tighten. If ever I needed a drink it was at that moment. I took a deep breath, pulled out some cash, stuck it under my essentially untouched plate of delectable looking fare and left the restaurant. I had to get home. Now! I had to know if this document was legal, and if it was, what did it mean for our company? For the family?
For me?
I raced home as fast as I could without getting a speeding ticket or causing some massive pileup. As I approached our olive orchard from the road, I could see that the family Spia was out in Mom’s front yard, apparently holding that meeting she had talked about.
Mom’s yard served as our usual meeting and party place. It was about half an acre wide, with a cluster of olive trees for shade that everyone was now standing or sitting under, drinking wine and participating in the animated conversation. Their attention abruptly turned to someone in the group. I couldn’t tell who, but arms moved about, hands sliced the air and gyrating body language told me they were in a tizzy. Most of the time everyone got along, but there were occasions when tempers flared and all hell broke loose.
I pulled my pickup in closer to the fence and hoped for calm, but from the looks of what was already going on, I couldn’t tell if the gestures were of the friendly variety or the “may you rot in hell” type.
Just about everyone who worked on our land was there, which was unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. Normally they’d be tending to their shops. Seeing them all together in the front yard in the middle of a work day was not particularly a good sign.
The friends and family who worked on the land considered it their personal small town. We even had our very own mayor, Uncle Ray, my mother’s honorary brother. In my naïveté, I used to refer to him as Godfather, until he put me straight one day and told me in no uncertain terms should the word Godfather ever be uttered in the same sentence with his name. Uncle Ray had done his time in a Federal pen for racketeering—he ran a highly profitable plumbing business in New York City with no real plumbers—but rumor had it racketeering was the least of his undertakings.
Mom had built a sort of one-street town on the land when she first took it over, hoping the charm and ambiance would attract more tourists to our olive products. Little did she know some of our more notorious relatives would want to take up residency and call it home.
Mom owned two rows of attached two-story buildings, which consisted of small storefronts on the first floor, and a few one bedroom apartments on the second floor. She collected rent for both, but the revenue from the businesses stayed with the shopkeepers. Each business boasted an Italian motif, and was run by various relatives, honorary relatives, adopted relatives, divorced relatives and a sprinkling of friends. It had been difficult to get all the permits to create an independent small town of sorts, but with Uncle Benny’s help she was able to eventually pull it off.
The orchard or farm, as we sometimes referred to it, served as a means for everyone to pursue more legitimate goals, not that anyone’s past was ever mentioned. It was a way to stay connected with each other and avoid having to find a new identity in the outside world.
I made sure there was no skimming, money laundering or racketeering. Once a month I went over their books, and if I found anything that didn’t quite add up or if somebody began pulling money out of their freezer, the family would band together and kick him or her out, which we’ve had to do on one or two occasions.
There was a time when the Feds would tap our phones and hide in parked vans and watch the place, but that stopped years ago when Mom walked right out to a parked van and began pitching the benefits of olive