Pronto

by Elmore Leonard

  He said, "Ten-thirty we turn on the TV and watch Colpo Grosso, a nudie game show, Wheel of Fortune with tits. There's all kinds of nudity here, on TV, in the advertising, on magazine covers. I mean even on the news magazines, Panorama, L'Espresso." He said to her, "You could've made a lot of money here in your day."

  "My day," Joyce said.

  "You know what I mean. When you didn't mind taking your clothes off."

  They were in the formal garden now, as frayed as the inside of the house, waiting for a good soul to rake and prune. Joyce saw a way to keep herself busy if they were stuck here. She followed a path of crushed stone to the concrete railing at the edge of the yard. Harry reached her as she looked down at Rapallo crowded around the bay, at terraced farmland, the autostrada coming out of holes in the hillside, the road winding up from Rapallo that they'd taken. Three kilometers as the crow flies, Robert Gee had told her on the way -- Robert most of the time looking at his rearview mirror -- but close to twelve kilometers following the scary curves without railings and the long, sweeping switchbacks. They passed through a village Robert said was San Maurizio di Monti and approached Harry's place from above, looking down at red tile roofs, the villa and several farm buildings close by. Robert Gee said, "Home at last," and Joyce said, "Wow," impressed. There was even a swimming pool, but no water in it. Robert said it leaked, needed work. He pulled the car into the structure nearest the house, a long shed with heavy wooden doors, its earth-colored stucco chipped and crumbling to show bricks underneath. Harry brought her out of the car saying, boy, was he glad to see her, taking her in his arms saying everything was going to work out now. She got to say, "Harry, they're here," and that was it until he was ready to, what, listen and accept the facts? She wasn't sure what his game was; he didn't give her time to think. He said, "You're here and that's all that counts." She told him she didn't have clothes with her, her luggage was still at the hotel; and she'd left her purse with her passport, all her money, at the cafe. He told her not to worry about it. She said, "How do I get home if I don't have a passport?" He told her she could stay here with him. Harry was different: trying to act unconcerned, or believing that if he didn't think about those guys or talk about them they'd go away.

  They were in the garden, not one of the high-ceilinged rooms, and he still seemed smaller.

  Joyce watched him.

  His gaze moved from Rapallo. He said, "Sant'Ambrogio is over that way, just past the edge of town. Remember my telling you about it? Where Ezra Pound lived for a while?"

  She kept looking at him as he stared into the distance.

  "Harry, there are people here who want to kill you."

  He didn't say anything right away and she knew she had him, trapped against his view. So he took his time, coming around to look at his villa for a moment before, finally, he turned his head to her and she could see his eyes.

  "Who's here?"

  "There's a young guy with muscle, broad shoulders, he looks like a bodybuilder."

  "It sounds like Nicky Testa, Jimmy Cap's bodyguard. You didn't see the Zip?"

  Joyce shook her head.

  "I suppose he could've sent Nicky," Harry said, "told him to pick up some guys over here." He thought about it and shook his head. "No, Nicky's too dumb. He wouldn't be able to communicate. The Zip was told to handle it, so he's either here or he's coming."

  "There were three other men in the car," Joyce said. "I'm sure of that. And there's Raylan."

  "You brought a whole convention with you," Harry said, "didn't you?"

  That sounded more like the old Harry, who could piss you off without even trying. "Raylan's here," Joyce said, "because you told him a story one time you'd never told another soul in your life."

  "I did?"

  "In Atlanta, that time at the airport."

  "I might've told him."

  Not ready to admit it. Joyce let it go. She said, "What about Jimmy Cap? Did you tell him?"

  Harry shook his head. "I'm positive I didn't. Or the Zip. I've never sat down with those guys where I'd tell them any kind of story. You know, we were never sociable. Raylan, I don't know. Maybe I told him."

  "He came up to me," Joyce said. "He was there, he saw those guys and they saw him."

  Harry waited. His eyes didn't move.

  "He wants to talk to you."

  "I bet he does. He have court papers with him?"

  "He's here on his own."

  Harry shook his head. "He's a weird guy."

  "He wants you to go back with him."

  "I hope you set him straight."

  "I told him you wouldn't," Joyce said, "but it's different now. I don't mean you should go back, but talk to him. You might need him."

  Harry hesitated, then grinned. "He have his cowboy hat on? No, I don't need him. 'Cause I don't see how they're going to find us." His gaze moved past her as he spoke.

  Joyce turned enough to see Robert Gee coming through the garden. She waited and said, "Harry doesn't think they'll find him." Speaking to a friend she'd gotten to know on the ride here from Milan, a man she trusted.

  "I was about to mention," Robert Gee said, "I think you all ought to be in the house. There's a stretch of road up there where you can see right down to where we're standing."

  "They have to look for me in town," Harry said, "before they ever come up that road. I know where you mean. You can see the garden, but it's like that" -- Harry snapped his fingers -- "for a split second. You'd have to know where to look, and you'd need a pair of binoculars to identify anybody."

  Robert Gee said, "You want my advice?"

  "Okay, what?"

  "Go on in the house. The only time you come out here is after it's dark."

  "My bodyguard," Harry said to Joyce. "And my cook. The one keeps me alive and the other tries to kill me with pasta carbonara."

  Joyce was watching Robert. Neither of them smiled. Robert said to Harry, "I'm not fooling. Maybe you're thinking, your age you can act brave, like you don't give a shit what happens to you. Or I'm wrong, I don't know where your head's at and shouldn't try to guess. But I'm here too. You understand? I'm here and now Joyce is here. We saw those people Joyce say want to kill you. I know they serious. You understand? So we have to be serious. They ever come in here with guns they gonna shoot everybody they see. You know them. Am I right about that or not? How these people are."

  Joyce watched Harry, frowning now like he was squinting into the sun. Overdoing it.

  He said, "What're you trying to say?"

  As though he didn't understand. Putting on an act.

  And Robert seemed surprised. "What I just said. I didn't make it clear enough for you? I'm trying to get you," Robert said, "to be serious about this and come in the house, do what I tell you. See, you not thinking about anybody else here, like Joyce and myself, if these people find out where we are and come in the house, like I say, with their guns."

  Harry kept frowning at him.

  He said, "You know a certain amount of risk goes with the kind of job you have. It's why you carry a gun. Am I right in assuming that?"

  "Always," Robert said. "I understand sticking your neck out for pay there's risk. What I don't like is having to stick it out farther than I'm getting paid to stick it out."

  Harry grinned.

  "Now we're getting to it. What you're telling me is you don't think what we agreed on, five bills a week, is going to do it. You want to renegotiate, on account of you see now you might actually have to earn your money. And if you don't get what you want, you take a walk. Is that how it is? I'm asking," Harry said, "'cause I guess I don't know you as well as I thought I did. You take these other people now, that kind I've known all my life. You pay them to do something, they do it. You can take their word."

  Robert was shaking his head now. Joyce thought he seemed tired as he said, "You're missing the point, Harry," and she was sure he was right. He said, "Maybe you're missing it on purpose, wanting to argue. Wanting to act like you aren't scared, so you talk tough
, like you don't care. I can understand that, Harry, the tendency why you do it. But I ain't gonna stick around if you keep it up, 'cause then you're not careful and it gives those guys more of a chance. You know what I'm saying to you?"

  "I know," Harry said, "exactly what you're saying. It's like the price of umbrellas goes up when it rains. Right? I don't meet your price, you take off, you're a free agent."

  Joyce wanted to hit him.

  Robert was shaking his head again saying, "Harry, money's got nothing to do with it. It's all how you're acting."

  "You can shop around," Harry told him, ignoring what he'd just said. "Go see those guys that're looking for me.... Maybe they'll pay your price."

  Robert said, "Man, you're worse off than I thought." He turned to walk away.

  And Joyce said, "Wait." She said, "Harry, you're drinking again, aren't you?" She watched him turn to her taking his time, getting his answer ready. Now he cocked his head.

  "Why do you say that?"

  Giving her his serious, interested look. Robert Gee was waiting to hear too.

  She said, "Well, I know you are."

  He said, "Wait now. Whether I am or not, I want to know why you said it."

  She said, "Harry, for God's sake, because you're serious and trying to sound logical, pretending to be clever, and it's not you. I can tell by now when you're acting."

  "You're not saying I'm drunk."

  "No, you're what you used to call maintaining, drinking just enough to take the edge off, keep your central nervous system from getting out of hand. Remember when you used to say that?" Her expression turned almost to a smile. "I'm not saying you shouldn't be drinking, I'm only saying you are."

  "I did have a few last Sunday," Harry said. "I was having trouble, you know, talking to people, I couldn't get going, so ... I didn't have any martinis, just plain Scotch and water. They don't know how to make martinis here anyway. That was Sunday. Since then, during the past week I haven't had more than two on any given day and a couple glasses of wine with my dinner. Ask Robert. I was my old self again after going through a -- what would you call it? -- a period of adjustment, settling in?"

  "While you were being your old self," Joyce said, "did you happen to tell anyone where you live?"

  Chapter Fourteen.

  Sunday evening Raylan went in the hotel lounge for a drink, not knowing what he wanted. He had learned already they didn't have Diet-Rite or Dr Pepper or had ever heard of them. Mountain Dew either. They had Coke, Pepsi-Cola, and 7-Up. Raylan sat at the old dark-wood bar seeing himself in the mirror and asked for a Pepsi, no ice, poured a glass, drank it half down, and felt his eyes water with the sting. He was tired.

  He'd shown the front-face half of Harry's mug shot at all the cafes on the Via Veneto and got a few waiters to nod, yes, the American. The assistant manager of the hotel said, "Yes, the American with the same name as the river in Tuscany, though spelled a different way in his passport."

  No one recalled Harry saying anything in particular and it surprised Raylan, knowing Harry to be a talker. He hadn't asked anyone in the bar, since Harry didn't drink. But then thought, Well, you hardly drink and you're in here. So he showed the mug shot to the little guy behind the bar and right away got a nod.

  "You know him, huh?"

  "Yes, of course, Sr. Arnaud."

  "Same name," Raylan said, "as the river."

  "Yes, he was here, oh, three weeks I think. Come in here every afternoon for the tea. That was the first two weeks. The third week, no. He change to whisky." The little guy smiled. "And became a more friendly person."

  "Harry was drinking hard stuff?"

  "Sr. Arnaud, yes, Scotch whisky."

  That didn't sound good.

  "You know what happened to him? Where he went?"

  "I think to stay in his villa." The little guy turned, pointing to a window across the room and said, "Up the mountain," waving his arm now, "by Montallegro. Drive up in a motorcar or ride the funivia. You know the Santuario, where it is?"

  No, but Raylan sure intended to find out. First thing in the morning he'd rent a car. The bartender didn't know if Harry had bought the villa. If he did, there would be some record of ownership in a government office. Wouldn't there? The bartender said the villa was between Montallegro and Maurizio di Monti, a big place you see far off from below and then close from above. He said the reason he remembered it was because Sr. Arnaud had drawn a map on a napkin to show where the villa was located and how you could see the orange trees in the garden if you went by on the road above slowly. Oh, and a persimmon tree. Two or three turns in the road above Maurizio di Monti, that was where you looked down. The bartender said Sr. Arnaud was very proud to have this villa. Raylan asked then why wasn't he staying in it before? The bartender didn't know the answer to that one.

  Raylan thought of something else. He said, "I've seen orange trees growing around here. Some out in front of the hotel."

  The bartender said, "Yes?"

  "But you serve canned orange juice in the morning."

  He went to his room and tried calling Buck Torres, forgetting it was Sunday afternoon in Miami Beach. Torres had given him his home number, so he tried that and ended up leaving a message on the policeman's machine, self-conscious doing it, talking to a person who wasn't there. He had supper and was back in his room before Torres got home and called, wanting to know first of all where he was, insisting.

  Raylan said, "I know you can find out anyway from the number," and told him he was in Rapallo, as was the Zip, the guy with him, and some friends from here, it looked like, but there was no sign yet of Harry.

  Torres said, "How do you know he's there?"

  "I give you my word he is," Raylan said. "The reason I'm telling you all this, I wonder if you'd call the local cops, the city police, not the carabinieri, and tell them the situation, that a man is gonna get killed if they don't do something about the Zip and his guys. See, if I tell them," Raylan said, "by the time they got done interrogating me Harry's liable to be dead. The other thing, while you're talking to the cops, ask them to find out if Harry owns property here. Under his real name. I'm no good at stuff like that. Okay? And let me know as soon as you can? I spoke with the Zip. I told him Harry was set up, that he never skimmed in his life. The Zip don't care, he still wants him. Can you tell me why?"

  "Try and figure those people out," Torres said. "Listen, you remember I told you we found a sawed-off shotgun? Was in a dope house. We got the guy who brought it in and sold it for twenty bucks' worth of crack, two bottles. The guy said he picked it up in a parking lot in South Beach, behind the Delia Robbia. He said a guy in overalls was laying there; he thought he was asleep."

  Raylan said, "Can you put the gun in the hands of the victim? What's his name, Earl Crowe?"

  "We're pretty sure it's his. It's got his prints on it. I think it's going to be enough for the state attorney to turn Harry loose. I know he wants to."

  "I can't wait to tell him," Raylan said. "If I can find him."

  They were winding down.

  He said, "The emergency number here is one thirteen instead of nine eleven. In case you wondered."

  Torres said, "What's he doing in Rapallo? Why there?"

  "A friend of his lived here on and off," Raylan said. "You ever read Ezra Pound?"

  Torres said, "Who?"

  They got Nicky a red Fiat and gave him Fabrizio as his driver. The guy's stomach touched the steering wheel. He was okay though. Quiet, Nicky thought, for an Italian. He told Nicky he'd lived in New York, actually Brooklyn, a couple of years, but didn't like it too much and returned to Milano. Talking to Fabrizio, asking what different words meant, Nicky found out the Zip had been calling him a mama's boy, a pussy, an asshole, a queer -- the Zip's idea of being funny. Fabrizio said, "So what're you gonna do about it? Forget it."

  They found out Raylan Givens was staying at the Liguria and were at the hotel by eight o'clock Monday morning. Nicky went in hoping to catch the marshal in the dining ro
om having breakfast. Walk up to him and say, "Now it's my turn," the same way the guy had said it when he shoved the gun in his groin. Have him looking up from the table, put three nines into him, one in the head and walk out. Only the marshal wasn't in the dining room or up in his room. Shit. The desk clerk said he had asked directions to the Avis car rental office and left the hotel only a short time ago.

  Fabrizio knew where it was, on della Liberta, not far. So, okay, if couldn't nail the guy at the table eating he'd do it on the street, a drive-by, only making sure the guy saw who it was.

  Fabrizio said, "You do this before?"

  Nicky said, "Don't worry about it."

  Fabrizio said he'd do it if Nicky wasn't sure. He said he had killed five people when he was in New York, three of them with a pipe bomb. If Nicky wanted to use a bomb they were easy enough to make. Throw it in the guy's car. Nicky said he was doing this one himself, no help. He looked at Fabrizio, man, what a slob, wearing the same ugly gold sport shirt three days in a row. Nicky, wearing his black leather jacket with a white T-shirt next to his body and pressed jeans, couldn't believe how some guys didn't care what they looked like.

  Fabrizio spotted him. He said, "There, you see him? Wearing the hat. A cowboy, uh?"

  Walking along the left side of the street ahead of them. Wearing a dark suit today and the hat, always wearing that hat. Nicky said, "That's him," getting excited. "Go around the block so you're coming back the other way."

  Fabrizio didn't get it. "Go around the block?"

  "So I'll have him on my side of the car. I don't have to shoot past you."

  "Get in the backseat."

  "I'd still be shooting across the street. I want him close." Nicky got a good look at the marshal as they drove past him, Jesus, wearing that hat and cowboy boots with it. They were coming to an intersection.

  "Via della Liberta," Fabrizio said. "The street where Avis is, to the left."

  Nicky said, "Go past it and make a U-turn and come back. So we get to him before he gets to the corner."

  He leaned forward to reach around with both hands and pull the Beretta stuck in his waist, pressing against his spine, as Fabrizio gunned the Fiat through the intersection and into the next block before he braked; then had to wait for cars to pass before making the U-turn. Nicky racked the slide on the Beretta. He was ready. But as they crossed the intersection again Fabrizio said, "Where's the cowboy?"