CABALLO Salvatore Difalco Edouard sat in his armchair, his face obscured by the crimson pillow he held to it. The pillow smelled of lavender, an oddity since he possessed no lavender or anything that carried the lavender essence. Indeed, he hadn’t smelled lavender since his mother was alive. Behind him stood a table, draped with a heavy green-patterned cloth and surrounded by bridge chairs. Just the night before he had hosted a poker game at that table. Men had sat around it,