Uncle Carlo, who Joey had called Unk since he was a little kid when he couldn't pronounce uncle, told him the villa was built in the fifteenth century by an Italian nobleman. Fifteenth century was the 1600s, right? Joey said to himself. He didn't want to look like a dumbass. The villa was so famous, it even had a name: Santa Maria.
Uncle Carlo, based on what Joey saw, didn't look like the tough guy in charge of the Roman Mafia. He was listening to opera when Joey came in the room, his Unk leaning back in a chair behind his desk, eyes closed, the fruitcake moving his arms and hands like he was conducting the orchestra, really getting into it.
After hugging Joey and saying hello and asking about his sister, Joey's mother, and his flight over, his uncle said, "Listen."
He extended his arms, index fingers pointing at opposite side of the room where the sound was coming from.
"You know this?" he said.
Joey's parents listened to this shit too. "It's an opera." He was sure of that, but no idea which one.
"Rigoletto," his Unk said. "Act two. The Duke has returned to find Rigoletto's house empty, and is angry that his newest love is taken away from him, but the courtiers gleefully tell him of their trick."
His uncle was talking like he believed it, like it was a true story. Joey wanted to say, are you fucking kidding me? He wished the old boy would put Sinatra on and offer him a Grey Goose Martini straight up, with four queen-size olives, let him relax after ten hours in coach, back of the fucking plane, packed in a tight row like being on a slave ship.
"And the Duke," Carlo said, "learning they bring Gilda to the palace, rushes to be with her."
Joey was thinking, come on Unk, give it a fucking rest, okay? Jesus Christ.
Then, like he was reading Joey's mind, he said, " Mi dispiace, Giuseppe. You must be tired from your journey."
Fucking-A right he was tired.
"Mauro will take you up to your room. We meet for lunch on the veranda in an hour. Is enough time?"
"Sure," Joey said. That was more like it. Christ, invite him in, show a little family hospitality.
Mauro was a quiet, skinny little guy looked like he weighed about 120, with skin so dark, at first, Joey thought he was a jig, but he had the features of a white guy. Like somebody had taken brown shoe polish and covered his face. He had picked Joey up at the airport, waiting outside customs, holding up a little sign said SIGNOR BITONTE, Joey's fake name, his alias. On the way to the villa Mauro didn't say anything, not a fucking word for three and a half hours.
Now he carried Joey's suitcases up a winding staircase to his room that had a wood floor and a bed that had posts and some kind of fabric over it, looked like a girl's bed. Mauro put the suitcases on the floor and started to walk out of the room.
Joey said, "Hey, Mauro, wait, I've got a tip for you."
Mauro stopped and turned.
Joey said, "Never feed a Canadian," grinning, fucking with the skinny little guy.
Mauro looked at him but didn't react and walked out of the room.
Joey looked out the leaded glass windows, saw a good- looking babe sunning herself topless by the pool, nice taters and they looked real. Joey thinking he was going to like it here. He didn't have a choice. His father said he'd have to stay away for a while, see how it all played out.
His father had made the decision, told Joey he'd fucked up and there was nothing any of their people could do for him. He had to leave the country, move to Italy, stay with his uncle until it blew over. Joey's dad was Vito Corrado's under-boss.
Joey understood the situation, knew this business with Sharon — when and if it became known — would reflect poorly on his father, embarrass him and jeopardize his standing in the family. Getting rid of Joey would be seen as proactive, Joe P. handling the situation, taking care of it, protecting the family even at the expense of his son.
Joey told his dad what happened with Sharon.
His dad said, "What's the matter with you? All the girls in the city, you pick her?"
Joey had asked himself the same question, but he didn't pick her. "We met, started going out, she said she was separated, getting a divorce."
"You got to check the people you go out with."
Like his father knew anything about dating. Joe P. had gotten married to his mother in a Sicilian village forty-five years earlier. He doubted his dad had ever had a date in his life. Joey remembered his expression when he told him what happened, the old man's dark eyes sunken behind the thick lenses of his glasses, black horn-rims — Jesus Christ, looking at Joey like he was a little kid.
"You know how this is going to make me look?"
Yeah, he knew. That's what this was all about.
"You think we want a federal agent snooping around, sticking his nose in our business?"
He didn't want it either, but what could he do now? Nothing. So the solution was to get rid of Joey. He didn't tell his father he and Sharon had had phone conversations for five weeks and sent emails back and forth to each other. He doubted his father knew what email was. There were also phone records and sooner or later Sharon's husband was going to figure it out and come looking.
That's why he'd cleaned out the house, packed everything in boxes and had Anthony take it all to a storage place. The husband came calling, Joey wouldn't be there. And nobody but his old man knew where he was.
He'd never fallen for a girl as hard and fast as he did for Sharon. He was sure she was the one. Asked her to marry him and she said, I've got to tell you something. He remembered what she said like there was a tape recorder in his head.
"I can't marry you 'cause I'm already married. I should've told you. I'm sorry. I care about you. I really do."
He was head over fucking heels, and she said she cared about him. By the way she acted, he thought it was mutual that she was into it as much as he was. How could he have been so wrong? Joey had said, "You're married? What're you doing going out to bars?" Joey believed that married women should be faithful at all times. There were rules you followed and lived by.
Sharon had said, "I'm lonely."
Joey said, "You're lonely, huh? How many of us have there been?"
Sharon said, "Listen to me, I'm crazy about you. I really am."
That sounded a little better. If she was putting him on she was pretty goddamn good. Joey said, "If you're not happy, why don't you get a divorce?" He felt bad for her locked in a fucked-up marriage.
"I'm afraid of him," Sharon said.
Joey said, "You've got nothing to worry about, I'll protect you." He grinned, thinking he'd have a talk with the guy, tell him the way it was, the way it was going to be. He sipped his champagne, picturing the husband, a balding, out-of-shape suburban executive wearing a coat and tie. This was before Joey found out who the guy was.
Sharon looked out at the lake. He could tell she was worried. "What's your husband do, he's out of town all the time?"
"Works for the government," Sharon said.
"For the government?"
"Uh-huh."
"Don't tell me he's with the IRS." You didn't want them on your ass. They could make your life miserable.
Sharon said, "He's not."
Joey was curious now. "What's he do?"
She held up the champagne flute. "Can I have some more?"
Joey grabbed the neck of the champagne bottle and pulled it out of the cooler. He said, "Come on. What's the big deal?"
"He's a special agent in the Secret Service."
Joey stood there, mouth open, staring at her, unable to move or talk, like her words had Tasered him. When he could, he said, "Tell me you making this up?" But he knew she wasn't.
Chapter Fifteen
Dr Mencuccini said, "Impressive, isn't it?"
She gazed out across the lower level of the Colosseum, students packed in a tight group in front of her.
"Fifty thousand Romans could enter and be in their seats in ten minutes. Can you imagine that happening in a modern stadium?"
McCabe wonder
ed if he paid more attention to Dr Mencuccini than his other teachers because she was good- looking. She reminded him of an aging starlet, early forties, with a small knockout body and dark hair. She had her own style, wore scarves and coats over her shoulders, and designer sunglasses.
Chip standing behind him said, "'All gladiators up to the training area at once,'" in a theatrical Brit voice.
The students around him could hear but not the teacher.
Dr Mencuccini said, "The concrete core — with its miles of corridors and stairways — was a masterpiece of engineering."
Chip said, '"What sort of man is this leader of the slaves?' 'I don't know. I think they call him Spartacus.'"
McCabe could see students next to him smiling.
Dr Mencuccini fixed her gaze on him and said, "Signor McCabe, do you have something to add?"
McCabe said, "I didn't say anything."
"With your cuts and bruises, you look like a gladiator who fought here," Dr Mencuccini said.
Behind him, Chip said, "'Get back. I tell you, he's an expert with a Thracian sword.'"
Students around Chip were laughing now.
Dr Mencuccini said, "Signor Tallenger, do you want to come up here and entertain us?"
"Mi dispiace, Dottore," Chip said.
"Prego," Dr Mencuccini said. "Do you mind if I continue?"
"Per favore," Chip said.
She said, "To celebrate the thousandth birthday of Rome, gladiators slaughtered thirty-two elephants, ten tigers, sixty lions, ten giraffes, forty wild horses, ten hippopotamuses and twenty Etruscans. It all happened right here." She paused and continued. "Condemned criminals — and occasionally Christians — were stripped naked and thrown to the lions. The violence of ancient Rome has troubled scholars for centuries. Were the Romans exceptionally bloodthirsty?" She scanned the students in front of her. "Signor Tallenger?"
Chip said, "I defer to my learned colleague, Signor McCabe."
"Signor McCabe?"
"It was violence at a distance," McCabe said. "Safe and controlled. Like a boxing match, or a violent movie." He was aware of students around him, watching him.
"Molto bene" Dr Mencuccini said.
'"Spartacus, you know things that can't be taught,"' Chip said. '"Why a star falls and a bird doesn't. Where the sun goes at night. Why the moon changes shape… where the wind comes from."'
Dr Mencuccini, amused herself now, said, "I don't recognize the lines. What is that from?"
" Spartacus" Chip said. "Appropriate, don't you think?"
"Yes. And I think that's enough for today. I will see you all Thursday at Campidoglio. Ciao."
They walked out of the Colosseum, Chip and McCabe, and stood there surrounded by tour groups and students. It was four o'clock, classes over for the day.
Chip said, "Let's get a beer."
McCabe said, "I can't. I've got to go back to the police station, meet Captain Ferrara. More photos he wants me to see."
"Call me when you're finished," Chip said.
McCabe walked along Via dei Fori Imperiali, the Roman Forum to his left below street level. He passed the Basilica of Constantine and Maxentius and the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina and the Forum of Caesar.
At Piazza Venezia he thought about taking a cab, but decided against it and walked down Via del Corso to the Condotti area, trying to find the enoteca Angela had taken him to.
He thought it was on the corner where Delia Croce met Via Bocca di Leone. He went there looking at the back-alley intersection, remembered the bar, remembered sitting at a sidewalk table across from Angela, thinking how lucky he was and trying to make the most of it. He went inside, scanned the people sitting at the bar, didn't see a good-looking girl with streaks in her hair, and went back out. He tried to remember which way they'd gone when they left the enoteca, but he hadn't been paying much attention, his main focus was on Angela that afternoon.
He walked to Via Mario de' Fiore, took a left and then a right on Via delle Carrozze. He thought it was on the corner.
Remembered the red awnings and the rows of round tables set up outside, and the waiters in white sport coats with gold trim.
He sat at a table and ordered a beer and watched people go by. He saw Angela's friend, Enzo, come out of the restaurant with a tray of drinks and serve four well-dressed, middle-aged women. He came toward McCabe's table, carrying the tray under his arm.
McCabe said, "Enzo, how're you doing? I'm a friend of Angela's. We were supposed to meet here." He said it one guy to another. The waiter stopped and looked at him. It was obvious he didn't recognize McCabe or have a clue who he was.
"Have you phone her?" Enzo said.
"I've tried for over an hour," McCabe said. "I think she's talking to someone."
"Women," Enzo said. He turned his hand sideways, opening and closing his thumb and fingers, making a mouth.
McCabe nodded. Now they had a common bond, men waiting for women to stop talking, get off the phone. Like it was a problem all men had to deal with. "You know where she lives?"
"Near the Colosseum," Enzo said.
McCabe said, "What direction?"
"Via Cavour?" Enzo said.
McCabe knew where Via Cavour was. It ran northwest from Via dei Fori Imperiali. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start.
McCabe had seen a Budget car rental office on Via del Corso. He walked there from the restaurant, ten blocks, and rented a blue Fiat Stilo with a credit card, a Visa, his dad told him to use only in an emergency, as a last resort. He thought what he was about to do qualified. The car cost?43 a day. Not knowing how long he’d need it, he rented it for a week.
He took a left on Via del Corso and drove straight down toward the Colosseum. He’d never driven in Rome, and it took him a few minutes to get used to it, cars and motorbikes flying by him like he was in slow motion. By the time he got to Piazza Venezia he was keeping up with traffic, feeling confident behind the wheel, his Detroit rush-hour instincts coming back.
It was 6:07 when he took a left on Via Cavour, cruising the streets to the south, Via Frangipane, Via delle Carine and Via degli Annibaldi, catching glimpses of the Colosseum in the distance. Traffic was heavy and it was difficult to take his eyes off the road for more than a couple seconds at a time. It was a residential neighborhood, beautiful old apartment buildings, restaurants and shops lining the streets on both sides. He was looking for a red Lancia and a dark-haired girl with blonde streaks in her hair, which described half the women he saw. He didn't even know if the car was hers, but that's all he had to go on — not knowing her last name or anything else about her except she had an uncle who lived in Detroit.
Now he tried the neighborhood north of Cavour, taking Via della Madonna dei Monti past the Hotel Forum and Birra Moretti. There were more bars and cafes. This area looked familiar. He'd been to Birra Moretti, an Italian beer hall, one night with Chip and a group of students, drinking beer out of glass boots. There was a cafe he passed next to Hotel Duca di Alba that also looked familiar.
He'd been driving around for an hour and twenty minutes. He was thinking about giving up, thinking that what he was doing was insane. He wasn't going to find this girl and if he did, what was he going to do with her? He pulled over and parked on the street, considered taking the car back, cut his losses.
There was a map of Rome in the console between the seats, courtesy of Budget. He took it out and unfolded it. He found his approximate location, traced a line where he’d been down Via Cavour and the neighborhoods north and south. To the west was Via del Corso and Piazza Venezia. There was another neighborhood to the east he hadn't been to yet. He glanced in the rearview mirror and when the traffic was clear in both directions he made a U-turn. He drove a couple blocks and it turned into Via Leonina. Nothing.
He drove back the way he had come. If she had a view of the Colosseum, her apartment had to be closer to it. He passed the tunnel that led to San Pietro in Vincoli, a little piazza tucked back behind the buildings lining the east sid
e of Via Cavour. He parked and ran across the street and went up the steps and through the tunnel.
The square was surrounded by buildings, and had a parking lot in the center that was filled with motorcycles, hundreds of them, and cars. He walked past the university building, students standing in groups on the steps in front, talking, and a vendor truck that said BIBITE, GELATI, COLD DRINKS on a brown awning that ran along the side.
He walked down the street to Bar del Mose and went in and had a quick espresso. He came out, and went left and saw the Colosseum. He walked down Via della Polveriera and saw a red Lancia parked across the street from an umber-colored apartment building. He looked in the driver's side window. It had tan leather seats, and the front left fender was dented. He pictured it on the road that day when they caught him trying to get away. It was definitely the car.
The number of the building next to it was 44. It had a decorative black wrought-iron door with glass panels. He checked the directory, two rows of names on a brass plate: Di NelLo, Gabriel, M. Puraro, L. Terrachina, Sacelli, Liquori, Soave, J. Fabiano, G. Migliorelli, and P. Confalone.
He walked back around the block, across San Pietro in Vincoli, went back through the tunnel to his car. He drove west and took a left near the Roman Forum. The Colosseum was straight ahead. He drove past it and took another left on tree-lined Via delle Terme di Tito. There was a park, deserted now, set back behind a fence. He drove around the block and parked next to a green city trash bin twenty yards behind the Lancia. He had a good angle on the car and the apartment building. He put the window down and turned off the engine and waited. It was 7:19 p.m., almost dark.
At 8:45, he saw a woman appear down the street, coming toward him. Even from thirty yards he knew it was Angela. He could tell by the way she walked, the way she carried herself, looking good in dark slacks, a white blouse and a black leather jacket, dressed nice, going out for the evening.
All He Saw Was the Girl Page 9