She said, "Only if you let me buy one for you."
Her English was perfect and she spoke with a sexy Roman accent.
"I've got a table," he said.
"Not here," she said. "I know a better place. Do you mind?"
Did he mind? He couldn't believe his luck. He stepped over and put a five-euro note on the table and the people sitting there applauded him. He moved back to the girl, surprised by the reaction.
She said, "See, you are a hero."
They walked across Piazza del Popolo and down Via del Babuino toward the Spanish Steps, passing storefronts: Gente, Bonora, Feltrinelli and Carlucci.
She said, "What do you do when you are not pulling thieves off the back of a motorcycle?"
"Have drinks with good-looking girls," McCabe said, walking past St Attanasio, a small church tucked in among the designer shops, an odd contrast he thought. "I'm a student, and the only reason I saw the motorcycle was because I was watching you."
She gave him an innocent look.
"What school do you go to?"
"Loyola University. It's on Via Trionfale in Monte Mario."
"What do you study?"
"Art history."
"You are in the right city, uh?"
They were on a narrow sidewalk crowded with pedestrians, lined on one side by boutiques and restaurants, and on the other side by parked cars. They had to stop occasionally to let people pass, McCabe checking her out, trying to be discreet.
She caught him and said, "What're you looking at now?"
"The sights of Rome." He smiled and she did too. "What about you?"
"I can't tell you. It would spoil the mystery. You have to guess."
"You're a model?"
She gave him a look. "No."
McCabe said, "Okay, you're an actress."
"Why do you think that?"
"You remind me of Manuela Arcuri."
She shook her head. "I don't think so." And seemed embarrassed by the compliment.
"I give up," McCabe said.
She gave him her sexy look again.
"No, you can't."
"Let me think about it."
They walked along Via Condotti, congested now after siesta, strolled past designer storefronts: Missoni, Prada, Gucci, D amp;G, Valentino and MaxMara.
She stopped in front of Armani. "Is this where you shop?"
McCabe, in faded Levis and a blue Nine Inch Nails tee- shirt with red type, said, "You can tell, huh? Yeah, I'm very fashion-conscious."
'You do have your own style," she said, grinning now, "I have to say."
She was making fun of him and he liked it. She took him to an enoteca in the neighborhood. They sat outside, drinking glasses of Brunello di Montalcino, her choice, and watched people go by. She held up her wine glass, looking sexy, her brown eyes and skinny arms and nice rack, a line of cleavage visible where the tee-shirt tapered into a V.
She picked up her wine glass. "Do you like Tuscan wine?"
"I must 'cause I'm drinking it like it's beer," McCabe said.
"Take your time, savor it." She showed him how, put the glass up to her lips. "You take a little in your mouth, chew it, let it slide under your tongue and down the inside of your cheeks, taste the different flavors: black cherry, spice, a little of cinnamon."
McCabe was staring at her mouth, with those lips, an urge to lean over and kiss her. Jesus.
She said, " Parla Italiano? "
McCabe said, " Un poco. Enough to confuse myself. I go into a store to buy something and say quanto costa?. The person gives me the answer in rapid-fire Italian. I have no idea what he's saying."
"It was the same with English."
"You sound fluent," McCabe said. "Perfect."
"I grew up speaking English. Used to spend summers in Michigan.'
"No kidding," McCabe said. "Where?"
"The east side of Detroit. Have you ever heard of St Clair Shores?"
"I was born right near there," McCabe said.
She said, "I would have guessed Connecticut, or maybe New York."
"Why's that?" McCabe said. "You think I have an east-coast accent?"
"You know how it is. You look at someone and imagine where they're from? That's what I did."
Sure. Like he did with her. Thinking she was a fashion model from Milan. He said, "Why Detroit?"
"I have an aunt and uncle who live there. They would drive us north to Harbor Springs. They have a house on Lake Michigan. We would build a fire on the beach and cook marshmallows and watch the sunsets."
McCabe said, "What's your uncle's name?"
"You don't know him." she said.
"Maybe I do."
She looked at her watch again, the second time in the past ten minutes.
He said, "You have to be somewhere?"
"I am meeting a friend in Villa Borghese."
Her cell phone rang. She took it out of her purse and said, "Pronto." She listened and said, " Ciao," and put the phone away.
She said, " Mi displace. I have to go."
He said, "Maybe I should go with you. You never know, someone might try to steal your purse." He knew if she left now he'd never see her again.
"It is a long walk. Stay here. Let me buy you another glass of wine."
She was blowing him off, but in a nice way. He finished his Brunello and said, "Black cherry and cinnamon, huh? Yeah, I see what you mean." He stood up and offered his hand. "It was nice meeting you."
She got up too and moved toward him and kissed him on the cheek.
"Maybe I should take you up on your offer," she said. "You can protect me."
She smiled and he felt a rush of adrenalin, grinning, but trying not to, excited, but trying to hold it back. He'd miss Italian, his six o'clock class, but he was learning a lot in the company of this real Italian girl and figured he'd learn even more. He was going to Sicily with Chip and Brianna and a girl he was kind of interested in named Trish from New York. The train left at 8:06 that night. So he had an hour and a half to make a move.
As they walked through the narrow streets of the Condotti neighborhood, McCabe was thinking things like this only happened in movies, and he was going to take advantage of it, give it his best shot. Get her number and when he got back in town, call her and set something up. They moved past a cafe with outside tables. A waiter in a white jacket was serving drinks to a tourist couple. He glanced over, seemed to recognize her and said, " Ciao, bella."
The girl said, "Ciao, Enzo," waved but kept walking.
Chapter Five
Twenty minutes later they were at the Pincio, looking down at Piazza del Popolo where they'd met an hour earlier. This was an even better view of Rome, the city spread out, a dusty haze hanging over the skyline, the giant dome of St Peter's looming in the distance. There were telescopes set up along the balustrade, tourists taking aim at points of interest. McCabe thinking this would be the perfect setting for Chip to deliver his lines from Spartacus.
They strolled through Villa Borghese, her arm hooked around his, walking close as they passed stands of chestnut trees, holmoaks and stylish umbrella pines that looked like they were designed by Armani or Zegna. It occurred to him he didn't even know her name, had forgotten to ask or hadn't thought to. "What's your name?"
"Angela."
"That's nice. Angela what?" She didn't answer or ask anything about him. "Where do you live?"
"That way," she said, pointing north.
They passed the Temple of Diana and the G-the Monument. They walked further and McCabe could see Via Veneto below the park. He and Chip would sit at an outside table in front of Harry's Bar, watching the prostitutes come down from Borghese, beautiful girls, knockouts in stylish outfits, walking by them, asking if anyone wanted company. Chip would ask how much and then try to negotiate even though he had no intention of buying their services.
Now they were on a path flanked by thick ten-foot-high hedgerows. McCabe stopped to look at a bust on a marble pedestal, the face of a man scarred with graffiti. So
meone had drawn eyelashes, a mustache and goatee on him.
Angela glanced at the bust and smiled.
McCabe said, "Know who this is?"
"No, but I think you are going to tell me."
"Cardinal Scipione Borghesi, the guy who designed the park." McCabe realized he was showboating, trying to impress her. "I memorize a lot of meaningless historical facts, so I can impress good-looking girls I meet."
She said, "I can see that."
McCabe said, "Did you go to college?"
"For two years," she said, "the University of Turin."
McCabe said, "What did you study?"
"Business administration," she said.
They followed the path, crushed stones that wound through the park, a wooded area on the right, open space, a field of grass on the left. McCabe could see the marble facade of Casino Borghese in the distance. "Where're we meeting your friend?"
"Right here."
She let go of his arm, stepping away from him as four guys with bandanas covering their faces came through the trees, looking like Halloween bank robbers. They came at him, McCabe wondering if there was some connection between these four and the thieves on the motorcycle, coming back for revenge. But that didn't make sense. There was no way they could've followed them. Now his attention was on Angela, if that was really her name, Angela calm and relaxed, like she was waiting to see what was going to happen.
They circled around him, McCabe separating them in his mind: the big guy who was the size of an NFL nose guard, the short stocky one, the thin wiry guy with blond hair, a bad bleach job. Even with the bandana hiding his face, he recognized Fabio, the long-haired guy from Rebibbia, the one he beat on the basketball court, the one with Mafia connections they'd read about in the newspaper.
He glanced at the girl again, standing there relaxed. She wasn't afraid because she was in on it, she was the bait. But how'd they know he'd go after the thieves on the motorcycle?
McCabe was moving backward, turning in a circle, trying to watch them all. The nose guard came at him first, charging, coming straight at him. McCabe stepped right as he got close, and the big guy overran him. McCabe turned, going to his kidneys with a hard right. The guy turned and McCabe hit him with a right-left combination to the body that dropped him to his knees.
Now the other three charged him. The stocky guy threw a wild right hand that missed. McCabe juked and weaved and hit him with a right hook to the jaw that stunned him. Then somebody tried to tackle him from behind. McCabe throwing an elbow that hit him in the face and he let go. Then something crashed into the side of his head and he staggered and went down, looking up at the long-haired guy standing over him. He rolled over on his hands and knees trying to get up, still dizzy and fell over.
Chip said, "We better get on, get a seat."
Trish said, "If McCabe doesn't go, I'm not going."
Chip said, "He'll be here. Have I ever lied to you?"
"Probably," Trish said.
She gave him a dirty look.
"What kind of attitude is that? Let me get you a drink, take the edge off."
Chip finished his beer and held the bottle up, telling the bartender he wanted another one. "Last call," Chip said.
The girls shook their heads. They were packed in the loud, crowded bar in the Stazione Termini in Rome. The train for Messina was leaving in twenty minutes.
"Why don't we call school, see if he's there," Trish said.
"Maybe he's mad at you," Brianna said to Chip, "for telling your dad he stole the taxi."
"He doesn't care," Chip said.
"I would."
"You're a girl."
The bartender handed Chip a beer. He pulled two five- euro notes off a roll of bills and left them on the bar top. Now Chip and the girls picked up their backpacks, left the bar, crossed the main floor of the station and walked to Track 17. The sign said Messina. Departure time: 20:10. They found seats in a first-class car and Chip drank his beer, looking out the window. He watched a porter push a cart piled high with luggage. A conductor in a blue uniform walked along the side of the train, announcing its imminent departure. Chip looked down the boarding platform toward the station. He was sure he'd see McCabe running into the picture, but it didn't happen and the train started to move.
Chapter Six
In the dream Ray could hear a phone ringing, sounding far away at first, then close and loud. He turned on his side, opened his eyes and saw the message light flashing. It seemed like it was synched up to the pounding in his head. He looked at his watch. It was 6:50 a.m. He was on duty in ten minutes and he wasn't going to make it, Jesus, wouldn't make it if he had an hour the way he felt. His cell phone vibrated on the nightstand next to the bed. He watched it slide around in a circular motion and then stop. He was still in his clothes from the night before, lying on the bedspread. His cell phone vibrated again, telling him he had another message. He knew who it was and what it was about.
He tried to piece things together. Remembered being at the bar with Sturza. They were going to have a couple, but only a couple because they were both on duty the next morning, early. He remembered talking to a dark-haired girl sitting next to him, already on his third Dewar's and water when Sturza got up and said he was hitting it, and Ray better do the same. They had to be ready to go in seven hours.
The girl was from Indianapolis and said she was in New York for a dental convention. She was attractive in an ethnic way, and reminded him of Sharon when she was younger, dark shoulder-length hair, bangs, brown eyes and a nice body, what he could see of it.
Ray said, "Are you a dentist?"
The girl turned to her two friends who were sitting next to her at the bar.
"He wants to know if I'm a dentist," she said.
All three of them laughed like it was some inside joke.
The girl said, "I'm a sales consultant. I sell dental equipment, we all do."
Ray said, "Like what?"
'Like titanium implants, disposable fluoride trays and x-ray mounts." She perked up now. Talking about her job seemed to excite her, energize her.
"What about dental floss?" he said, having fun with her.
"That, too."
"Sounds exciting," Ray said.
"You think that sounds exciting, huh? What do you do?"
"I'm a federal agent," he said. The Dewar's loosening him up, relaxing him, making him feel good.
She gave him a skeptical look. "Yeah, right?"
Ray sipped his drink.
"If it's true, you must have a badge or something, right?"
Ray took out his ID and showed it to her, the five-pointed star that stood for duty, loyalty, justice, honesty and courage.
She turned to the other sales consultants and said, "Ohmy-god, he's in the Secret Service."
A few drinks later he remembered going upstairs with her, making out in the elevator, going to his room, she was sharing a room with Terry, one of the girls at the bar. She told him she'd never made it with a Secret Service agent. Can I see your gun? She pulled out a joint and said, want to get high? You're not going to arrest me, are you?
They smoked the joint and had another drink and he remembered the girl taking off her clothes, hugging him, great body, big breasts and olive skin.
She said, "I've been a bad girl, you better put the cuffs on me."
She held her hands out in front of her. Ray took the handcuffs out of the suit coat pocket and clamped them on her wrists. She gave him a naughty look and Ray pictured Sharon in the room at that particular moment, and it distracted him, Sharon his wife who he hadn't seen in six weeks, and felt guilty. He remembered the girl getting angry, telling him he was a fucking Secret Service homo. He unlocked the handcuffs and she walked out of the room and slammed the door.
Ray got out of bed and went to the bathroom, still drunk, splashing cold water on his face. He looked in the mirror at bloodshot eyes. He heard a horn honk and looked out the window at midtown Manhattan twenty-five floors below. He heard a k
nock, and then someone pounding on the door.
"Ray, you in there?"
He crossed the room and opened it a crack, saw Sturza in a dark-blue suit, burgundy tie and white shirt, looking ready for action, and swung it open. Sturza came in, eyes moving, scanning the room, holding the bottle of Dewar's. That's right, he'd called room service, and there was a roach in the ashtray.
Sturza said, "What're you doing, trying to get canned? You know what time it is?"
He knew, but didn't care.
"Are you flaking? Jesus Christ. I'll try to cover for you, but you know Tracey."
"You know Tracey, what?" Special Agent John Tracey, his detail supervisor said, walking in the room. "Forget protocol, Pope? I've been calling you for forty-five minutes. You don't get up, check in before detail? How long have you been with the Service?"
"Longer than you," Ray said. He'd never gotten along with Tracey who was anal, a control freak, an asshole, a few of the nicer things Ray and his fellow agents said about him.
He looked at Ray, looked around the room. "Pope, if you've been drinking alcohol again, you're through."
Ray saw him staring at the bottle of Dewar's.
"Look at you," Tracey said. "You think I'm going to put you on detail in your condition? Christ, you can barely stand up. What don't you understand about not drinking when you're on call? This is a strict breach of discipline, a violation of the Service professional code of conduct. Pope, the reason you never made SAIC, you can't follow the rules."
Ray said, "If you're finished, I'm going back to bed."
Sturza flashed a grin and shook his head.
"You're the one who's finished," Tracey said. "I'll tell you one thing, you won't be on another protective assignment for the rest of your career. That I can pretty much guarantee." His pale white face was flushed red now like he was going to explode.
Ray was called back to Washington and dressed down by the Director of Protective Operations who told him he was in trouble, a walking time bomb.
The director said, "What were you thinking? You know what on-call means. Secret Service regulations strictly forbid the consumption of alcohol at any time during a protective assignment. Violations or slight disregard for this rule are cause for removal from the Service."
All He Saw Was the Girl Page 4