“I am having an unfathomably bad day, sweetie. Um. No offense.”
“It’s fine. Sweetie.”
“It’s nothing to do with you personally—”
“It’s fine,” she insisted.)
ducked into the bagno delle donne, and emerged a few minutes later with damp but clean(ish) feet while he and the kid set up camp in the lobby, near the enormous double beverage dispenser. Oh sweet, sweet beverage dispenser, one side lemonade, the other side cold water in which floated a dozen spring strawberries. He guzzled glass after glass, until he could no longer taste vermouth barf; the resulting Mr. Misty headache, in the face of his hangover
(“Aaaaaggggghhhh—”
“Press your thumb against the roof of your mouth!”
“—ggggggghhhhh—hey, that worked!”)
was no biggie.
Anyway, there was no, repeat, no parallel between this woman’s behavior and how he related to the rest of the world in general and Blake in particular, and what was with this kid, anyway?
“C’mon,” he said abruptly when the woman rejoined him, leaving a trail of wet footprints between the bathroom and the lobby. “Let’s talk.”
“Oh, goody.”
“Let’s go over here.” He (gently) jerked his head toward the ristorante to the left of the lobby. He might be able to get a single slice of bruschetta down his gullet without dying. Once he scraped off the tomatoes and olive oil and garlic. And crumbs. And crust. Maybe. Maybe he wouldn’t die. “Have a—” He swallowed a gag. “Snack.”
Her ever-present grin reappeared. “My treat, I bet.”
“I can pay,” the child said quickly.
He could feel his face get hot. God, when was the last time he’d let someone else pay for anything? Years. “I’m not a chauvinist,” he snapped. “It’s got nothing to do with my penis.”
“Thanks for clearing that up. In front of a child, no less.”
“Well, it doesn’t!”
“I’m only a kid if you count in years. And I can pay.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you, hon.”
The child didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”
“I can’t believe I’m— Look, it’s just we were poor for a long time, so we hated when other people paid.”
She blinked, neutral. “Okay.”
“It makes sense if you know the background.”
“I think it’s nice that when you weren’t poor anymore, you treated other people.”
“Thank you,” he told the kid, then glared at the woman. She was infuriating, standing there all calm and judgmental, judging him calmly with her judge face. “Look, let’s just go sit down and you can tell me—”
“Nope.”
God, she was infuriating! “Nope, what?”
“Nope, we can’t just go sit down.”
“Why not?” he (almost) yelled.
“Because of that guy.” She pointed, and he turned and beheld a man wearing dark trousers, black belt, shiny black shoes, white shirt, dark blazer, name tag on one lapel (Matteo), small gold letters (Sicurezza) on a pin on the other. He was polite, he was professional, he spoke terrific English, and he made it clear that people who barfed and then drank half the lobby water could not linger in the bar scraping tomatoes off bruschetta unless they were paying guests.
“Well, you’re not,” she said once they’d been politely escorted back out to the sidewalk. “Guy hadda point, you gotta admit.”
“I know.”
“You’re kind of a bum.”
“Why?”
“How should I know? Poor work ethic?”
“No, I mean why do you— Do you find everything funny?” he managed through gritted teeth, his temples pounding with every syllable. God, was this how Blake felt when they argued? How could he stand it?
“Naw.” Again with the smirk. “Just stuff you do, I guess.”
“I don’t think you’re funny,” the kid said earnestly. At one point, she’d dropped the woman’s hand and was now clutching Rake’s. He found it oddly flattering. “It’s just, funny things seem to happen to you. A lot. Y’know, because…” She gestured at his (still) dripping clothes.
He blinked, sighed, and shielded his eyes from the spring sunshine. “I woke up in Venice, which is not where I was yesterday. I have no memory of the hotel. I lost my wallet. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“Yeah, I know.” She nodded at the kid. “We both do.”
“You know?”
“I mean, I got that. It’s basically all you’ve been bitching about since they fished you out of the canal. Speaking of, don’t take this the wrong way or anything—”
“Oh, this’ll be good,” he snapped.
“—but you’re kinda ripe.”
“Of course I’m ripe!” he all but screamed. “I fell in that cesspool of a il Canal Grande! E sto incazzato!”
“What?”
“It’s Italian for ‘pissed off’! I’m also a polyglot, which my twin brother thinks is a polymath!”
“Okay.”
From the kid: “Why does he think—”
“Blake thinks he’s so smart, but you know what?”
“Naw, but I bet you’re gonna tell us.”
“He’s not!”
“Yep. Figured.”
“Oh my God.” He clawed his fingers through his wet hair and shivered in the breeze. “Nothing’s gone right since I woke up.”
“You said that already.” Argh. Hateful child.
“Actually, things were going wrong with you last night, and prob’ly earlier,” her companion pointed out with aggravating cheer. She had shrugged out of her light linen jacket and was now holding it out to him. He looked at it, puzzled
(Is she going to wave it at me? Like a bullfighter? It’s not red! What kind of a bullfighter doesn’t know the red rule?)
so she took it back, stepped forward, and started drying his hair with it with the impersonal efficiency of a hairstylist. “That’s what I gathered from what you were saying, anyway.”
“Ack! Okay, this is decent of you and all, but I’m ruining your jacket, seriously.” And yet, doglike, he refused to move. He might have leaned into the jacket a little. It felt soooo nice to have that revolting water wicked from his hair. “You’re literally using your jacket to soak up the shit and germs in my hair. Thank you.”
“You say,” she sighed, “the sweetest things.”
“Aw, stai zitto.* That means—”
“No need,” she said drily. “I can guess what it means. C’mon, let’s find a new place to sit down.”
“And I’ll get ice cream,” the child announced. “My treat.”
“Right. We’ll get comfy and get ice cream and I’ll tell you what you forgot.”
“Starting with your name.” It finally occurred to him that she’d come to him when she’d recognized his voice, suffered to let him puke on her, stuck with him while he tried to gather his senses, came back to him after cleaning her weirdly long feet, and allowed the security guard to kick them both out. And all with a small, pale, black-haired child in tow.
She could have taken off at any time. Most people wouldn’t have gone near anything that came out of the canal, much less came out of the canal spitting and swearing and just generally being an enormo pain in the ass. Yeah, her constant amusement as he struggled through the worst day of his life was aggravating, and the kid was weirding him out a little, and he was beginning to suspect karma was, in fact, a bitch. This woman, though, didn’t seem to be one.
Like it or not, he was clueless
(and wouldn’t big brother love to hear him admit that)
and she, at least, had some answers. And not just about him. The kid—what was the backstory there?
“Yeah, your name,” he replied. “I forgot it. Along with everything else.”
“No you didn’t.” She reached out and tucked her hand into his damp paw. “I never told it to you. And you never asked.”
“I�
�m occasionally an asshole.”
“No, just…” The child trailed off tactfully. “Um, stressed. And a smidge snappy.”
“Now that I did know,” she said, and laughed. He wasn’t quite ready to find any of this amusing, but he managed to find a smile from somewhere.
Five
The night before …
She was in a strange city in a strange country, and the men following wanted to rob her, hurt her. She darted into a dead-end alley, then had to turn to face them. Nowhere to go.
She took the one with the knife first, reaching out as if asking for help, for mercy, got her hand around the back of his neck, and spun to her right as she yanked him forward, using the momentum to smash him face-first into the bricks. His friend was so startled, she had time to hook her foot between his ankles and toss him off-balance, and a kick to the hinge of his jaw
(ow! of all the nights to wear sandals!)
put him down for nap time.
In those few seconds, the first man had begun to stagger away, not at all happy with what was left of his nose, and expressed his displeasure with a series of nasal, blood-choked yelps. She listened and realized he was hollering for help.
“Seriously? You wanted to take me to Rapetown—or at least Robbedtown—and you’re yelling for help?”
More yelps. Disparaging remarks about her mother. She was a twat, a whore, she should bugger herself with her own ass
“Uh, what?”
and choke on her father’s cock and die and after that she should jump off a cliff
“How would that even work? Logistically?”
onto her worthless father’s cock, etc., etc.
“You boys don’t get a lot of second dates, do you? It’s tough out there. Being single. Ugh, do not bleed on me.”
She stepped back as he trotted past her, abandoning his comrade in arms/dirt. She bent, fished out the other guy’s wallet, helped herself to the cash, cards, and IDs (either business had been booming tonight or his name was Matteas and George and Carrie and he lived in Rome and New York and was also a woman in Arkansas), and left the alley in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Too bad there weren’t a couple more of them; I might’ve broken a sweat. Self-defense counts as working out, right?
Right.
Besides, it had been over a month since her last hit. Getting rusty was never smart. In her line of work, it could be fatal or, worse, a ticket to a prison term.
“S’okay, I got ’em!” an all-too-familiar slurred voice assured her, and then here came Rake Tarbell, grinning a big grin and hauling the broken-nose thug back toward the alley.
“No, no!” she scolded. “I just got him to get out of the alley; this is all wrong. Bad! You are bad!”
“Don’ worry. N’one’s gonna hurtcha while ’m ’round,” he slurred, then promptly stepped on her foot.
“Ow!”
“S’okay, baby. Rake’s here.”
“You smell like you took a shower in vermouth.”
“Nuh-uh, don’ wear cologne. S’all me, baby. That’s Eau de Rake you’re likin’.”
And the evening had started so well.
* * *
Even if she hadn’t followed him, she could have found him by listening for the yelling and laughter and splashing and, very occasionally, the tiny explosions. It had been a long day, and the only thing she had to look forward to was a longer night.
And there he was, yukking it up at the bar, hip-deep in men and women, tourists as well as locals, all intent on having a good time while ignoring the gorgeous man-made beach behind them. Lake Como: playground of the rich who were sick of Saint-Tropez but had no interest in scuba diving in Bora Bora.
Eh, cut ’em some slack. It’s dark out. Gotta be able to see to appreciate, right? Stop indulging your inner brat because you’re still on the outside. Contrary to pop culture clichés, her job didn’t always require lurking in darkness. Tonight, yeah. But sometimes she got to skulk in the daytime. She spent a whole day skulking in Boston once, occasionally stopping mid-skulk for strawberry Italian ice. That was a hack that never became a hit; the mark had seen sense, and agreed to her demands. Also: strawberry Italian ice! And the New England Aquarium!
This time of night, the sunbathing gazebos were used for, um, not sunbathing—though people were stripped down as though they were—so she kept walking, listening to the sighs and murmurs with not a little envy. How long since she’d been on a date? Or was hit on when not on the job? Or hit on during the job? Ages.
The beachside restaurants kept the drinks coming, from glass after glass of Valtellina-produced wine to limoncello to (ugh!) grappa to cappuccino ordered only by tourists who didn’t know any better. She learned quickly the best way to make an Italian wince was to order a cappuccino after lunchtime. And as she got closer to the main bar, she could hear the American.
“I thought I didn’ like vermouth, but it’s good! Or at least not terrible. D’you know, it used to be medicine? I mean, people used it like medicine? Cuz it tasted bad, I think. S’not, though. Med’cine, I mean. Think I better switch, though. Somethin’ not vermouth, so I’m not too hungover. Gotta fly back to the States. Hate flyin’ hungover. C’n I have a Rob Roy? Or a Gibson?”*
Yep, that was him: Rake Tarbell, happily drunk off his ass at nine o’clock at night, cheerful and occasionally vulgar, generous with his money and a smile for everyone: the life of the party. She’d never seen someone try so hard to convince themselves they were having a great time. And she’d been to Disney World four times.
And ohhhh, boy, he was practically hanging a PLEASE ROB ME sign around his neck. He’d caught the attention of at least two of the locals, large men with big hands and small eyes, who smiled with their teeth while the rest of their face stayed slack. Dark shorts, dark T-shirts—it was unseasonably warm for spring—and one of them sporting a too-small T-shirt, which he’d probably lifted from a tourist.
Locals … or employees of the Colorado asshole. Or independent contractors. How much did hired muscle make, anyway?
The life of the par-tay was too blitzed to notice or, if he did, see them as a threat. She wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything as a threat. Rake Tarbell was a determinedly happy fellow.
He flaunted his money
“Rob Roys! Like, all over the place! I want wall-to-wall Rob Roys for everyone! Who wants to suck down Roys with me?”
and had huge mother issues
“M’not sayin’ she’s evil, but she’s really kinda terrible, but in a loving an’ maternal way. So maternally evil. Meevil?”
which were only topped by his brother issues.
“I mean, he’s always all ‘Rake is terrible’ and I’m all ‘You’re the terrible one, you terrible brother who’s all terrible because you’re terrible!’ You know how annoying it is when the biggest, most anal, uptight asshole you’ve ever known looks zactly like you? Guy’s gotta lighten up. Gotta smile more and be a dick less.”
No question about it, Rake Tarbell was a hot mess. The best part? He had no idea how much trouble he was in. Even if you discounted the Lillith factor.
“No, huh-uh! M’cards work, they’ve been workin’ all day ’cause they work.”
Though he might be figuring it out.
“Run the other card! One of ’em’s gonna work. Run all the cards! Let’s keep the party going!”
Hmm. Might take longer than she thought.
Alas. Denied of Rob Roys, he soon staggered out of the bar, beach-bound—though what a broke drunk could do at an Italian man-made beach when it was nearing midnight she hadn’t a clue. She could imagine what the two grim fellas were going to do. Street crime wasn’t terribly common in Lake Como, which wasn’t to say it didn’t exist. And that’s assuming they were your average tourist rollers. They might be involved in something quite a bit darker. Hence, her contract.
Time to be a rodeo clown: “Thanks for the cash!” she called, knowing a shambling Rake wouldn’t turn, knowing his followers would. “I’ll just tr
y to find our car and then we can hit the next bar! It’s over here, right?” In other words, Don’t go after the rider, you big strong bulls, come after the clown. It’s what I’m here for.
Probably shouldn’t have dropped out of college. Coulda been a doctor, a teacher. Something with dignity. Or at least a steady paycheck.
So they followed her and she took care of them and one of them had quite a lot of cash and cards, which was excellent.
And … she was reassessing her mark. He was a rich, careless jerk who didn’t give a thought to anything beyond his own pleasure. Who loved being the life of the party and treated booze like it was some kind of elixir of life.
And had come to help her, though he was so drunk, he could hardly stand.
Dammit. He’s a mark. And a jerk. And possibly a father. Never forget. She couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be. Would he bother curtailing his lifestyle at all? Or just dump his daughter on a series of nannies? What about his brother, his mother, the grandmother? Would they help? Hinder? She had no clue. Families were not her forte.
“Toldja you’d be safe with me, hon.” The father of the year belched gently, and swayed like a beginner learning the hula. Which was excellent; it made that whole “never forget he’s a jerk” thing much easier.
“You didn’t, but that’s fine. Some friendly advice, pal? Maybe don’t fan yourself with hundred-euro notes at night in the open in a strange country?” Hell, Rake was lucky that the men had been a random smash-and-grab team. Could have been a lot worse, as she’d warned her employer.
“S’not strange, it’s Italy!”
“Even so.”
“Spoilsport, you’re jus’ like my brother.”
“That’s not nice,” she said reproachfully. “I know you don’t like your brother.”
“Cuz he’s the worst!” For some reason, reaffirming his brother’s awfulness seemed to cheer him, and as they left the alley, he again started toward the beach. This time, she fell into step with him. “Norm’ly I’d buy you a drink, but my cards are broken.”
“Thanks. I don’t drink. They’re not broken.”
“No, they are!”
“They’re absolutely not broken. They’ve been canceled by a third party.”
The Love Scam Page 3