The Man From Rome

by Dylan James Quarles

  Louisa pounced, grabbing hold of the man’s collar, and flipping him over. Viciously, he swiped a silvery blade in her face. Recoiling to the gasps of the crowd, Louisa dodged the knife, and fell back among the upturned tables. Scrambling away, the Greek tried to make a break for it, but Louisa recovered before he could. Scooping up a nearby chair, she threw it at his wide, sweat-stained back.

  A shower of splintering wood exploded with a crack. Reeling, the Greek stumbled. Louisa closed on him again, heaving a second chair high over her head. Bursting apart in an exclamation-point of shattered slats, it crashed across man and laid him flat.

  “Don’t move,” Louisa warned, breathing hard.

  Covered in bits of broken chair, the Greek reached pathetically for his knife. Louisa stomped on his hand, and kicked the blade away. She drew her pistol.

  “Are you stupid?” She yelled. “Are you trying to get shot?”

  At the sight of Louisa’s gun, a ripple of murmurs came from the onlookers. A teenage boy took out his phone and snapped a picture. Whimpering, the Greek rolled painfully onto his back and sucked his bruised fingers.

  “What do you want with me?” He moaned. “I haven’t done anything wrong. You’re a maniac.”

  “Shut up,” Louisa said flatly. “I know you stole a body from the morgue today, plus you just tried to cut me with a knife. Tell me what you’re playing at—tell me why!”

  The Greek shut his eyes, tears leaking from the corners.

  “No,” he whimpered. “It’s wrong, you don’t know. I’m innocent.”

  Smelling his panic like a bad aftershave, Louisa moved to exploit it. Most people who ran from the police did so out of an instinctual fear of predators. That said, given what the Greek had done to try and escape from her, Louisa guessed that his fear wasn’t rooted in instinct. It was rooted in experience.

  “My friends are going to tune you up real good for trying to cut my pretty face,” she spat. “They’re going to fucking kill you when they get you down to the station, do hear me? You’re a dead man.”

  “No,” the Greek moaned. “No, no.”

  “Yes,” Louisa nodded. “Unless maybe I decide to save your skin. You might have something I want.”

  “M—money?” Stuttered the Greek.

  “I want a name,” said Louisa. “I want the name of the man who helped you steal that body.”

  Sniffling, the Greek looked up at her hopefully.

  “The American?”

  “No, not the fucking American!” Louisa cursed, kicking him in the leg. “The other person in the van, you idiot, the Man with golden eyes—who is he?”

  Instantly devoid of color, the Greek struggled to a sitting position and tried to back away.

  “Hold it!” Louisa shouted. “Hold it right there.”

  Advancing, she kept the gun barrel on him, poised and unblinking. Someone behind her snapped another photo.

  “Tell me who he is,” she demanded. “You know who I mean.”

  “I can’t,” the Greek whined.

  “Yes you can.”

  The Greek shook his head, his eyes misting with tears.

  “If I told you—we would both end up dead!”

  Louisa halted.

  “W—what do you mean by that? Who is he? Did he kill that girl? Is he involved?”

  Shaking his head again, the Greek clenched his jaw shut.

  “Tell me!” Snarled Louisa.

  The Greek trembled fearfully and began to moan. Out of time and patience, Louisa glanced over her shoulder at the growing crowd and decided to take a gamble. Thumbing back hammer on her pistol, she lowered it to the Greek’s kneecap.

  “I will make this very simple for you,” she said. “You will tell me what I want to know, or I will pull this trigger, then I will ask you again.”

  “You can’t do that!” The Greek cried. “Someone stop her! Help! Help!”

  Louisa pressed the barrel against the bone of his kneecap.

  “Don’t you see this badge I’m wearing? I am the law here. No one is going to help you. Now give me a name.”

  “I can’t give you a name,” the Greek choked. “I don’t know it all right? I don’t know his name.”

  “What do you know?”

  About to answer, the Greek thought better of it and bit his lips.

  “Very well,” Louisa sighed, pretending to ready herself for the spray. “Have it your way.”

  She glanced at the thickening crowd.

  “You might want to back away, everyone—I’m afraid this is going to get messy.”

  “Wait!” Screamed the Greek in disbelief. “Wait, don’t shoot me! Ok—ok! I can tell you one thing! One thing! Please…”

  Louisa relaxed internally; thankful the man hadn’t called her bluff.

  “What is it?” She said.

  Eyes flittering, the Greek searched the air before his face.

  “I can tell you where you’ll find him tonight—where he plans to dine. But that’s all I know! He tells me nothing—nothing!”

  Though she knew the Greek likely had much more information than that, Louisa decided not to press her luck. Someone would have called the police by now, and they might arrive at any moment.

  “Talk,” she hissed. “And do it before I change my mind.”

  XVII

  Standing on the veranda, Mr. Hannity leaned against the stone banister and watched the four brothers below. Doing circles—an exercise he had invented—they practiced fighting multiple assailants by sparring in pairs that wove around a large figure-eight chalk-line. Whenever their paths intersected, the pairs would switch sparring partners, thus honing their ability to transition targets amidst the blur of combat.

  Smiling with his cracked lip, Hannity watched Notus simultaneously block a kick from Eurus while dolling a sharp jab to Boreas in the confusion of the change-over. Effortless in his movements, the boy spun away from the fray, engaging his new sparring partner, and continuing along the line as if nothing had happened.

  “Pretty damned good,” Hannity said to himself. “Pretty God-damned good.”

  He had only showed the brothers how to do circles an hour before, and already they were making it look like less of a fight and more like a choreographed dance. They were monsters—these brothers, virtuosos of violence.

  “You look a sight,” said Adalina, arranging lunch on a nearby table.

  Hannity shrugged and came over to pluck a piece of bread from her basket.

  “I’m alright.”

  “But your face,” she worried. “It looks painful.”

  Bending, Hannity stared at himself in the distorted mirror of a silver carafe. Like stage makeup, two black eyes, a split lip, and a deep cut on his eyebrow darkened his reflection.

  “I can take a beating pretty well,” he said, touching the butterfly bandage on his eyebrow. “And you did good with this dressing here. Probably won’t even get a scar.”

  Adalina shook her head and sighed disapprovingly.

  “There’s no reason for it,” she said. “No reason at all.”

  Hannity went back to the banister and watched the brothers again. Looping around and around the figure-eight, they struck, blocked, and moved with the fluidity of venomous snakes.

  “Where’s the boss?” He asked. “He should really see this.”

  Adalina uncorked a bottle of wine and inclined her head in the direction of the garden.

  “Mr. Cosimo is in his sanctuary. I was just going to fetch him for lunch.”

  Following her glance, Hannity smiled.

  “I’ll get him,” he said. “No problem.”

  Down on the lawn, he strolled passed the brothers.

  “Lunch time, grunts—go help Adalina.”

  Becoming as placid as dolls, they stopped fighting and turned to file up the veranda.

  Hannity stifled a laugh of amazement and walked on. Following a gravel path, he made his way down the hill toward the ivy-clad walls of Cosimo Bruno’s garden. Cicadas buzzed in the pi
nes overhead, and the air smelled faintly of earth. Lulled by scenery, Hannity lapsed into to thought. When he arrived at the garden, he made to knock, but noticed that the door was already slightly ajar. Using the toe of his shoe, he pushed it wide enough to peak inside.

  Seated upon a wooden stool, Bruno sat before the old olive tree. Though surrounded by the tattered remains of his once-lovely oasis, he appeared serenely unaware of the destruction. Repeating a string of unintelligible words over and over, he seemed to be praying, or perhaps chanting. Unable to make out what he was saying, Hannity stepped inside the door and listened harder. Suddenly, a small, yellow bird dipped down from the radiant sky and landed on the lowest branch of the olive tree. Bruno ceased his muttering and stood up.

  “There you are,” he said. “I’ve been calling you for some time.”

  At first thinking the boss was talking to him, Hannity stiffened. And yet, before he could respond, the bird cocked its head to the side and spoke clearly in a woman’s voice.

  “Cosimo.”

  Hannity’s eyes widened and he felt a familiar jolt of reality. His mind snapped back to the night the brothers had been born.

  Bowing quickly, Bruno addressed the little bird.

  “Domina,” he said. “We—we have a problem.”

  The bird opened its beak and the voice spoke again.

  “Tell me.”

  “He knows. He’s onto us.”

  “Is he?”

  From where Hannity watched, he could see the boss hesitate before nodding.

  “Yes, I think so. He—he’s already killed two of my informants. They were polizia. Their Comandante is not happy.”

  The bird hopped to another branch and fluttered its wings.

  “Money,” it said. “It is your greatest strength, Cosimo. Use it.”

  “I am paying the police,” Bruno snapped. “I’m paying them a lot, in fact. More than I’d like to.”

  “You mistake command for council. Do as I say.”

  Bruno put his hands up. In one, his box of seeds rattled.

  “Forgive me. I am merely concerned that quello Vecchio has discovered our plans too soon. My sons, they—they aren’t ready yet, Domina. Not yet. They need more time to train.”

  Blinking its beady eyes, the bird studied Bruno.

  “The Spartoi reach their prime in a matter of days, Cosimo,” it replied. “They are ready. However, if you truly believe you require more time to train them, you shall have it. I only hope you are doing your best in insure victory.”

  “Yes,” nodded Bruno. “I am, Domina. I have my best man with them now.”

  The bird chuckled silkily.

  “That is good,” it said. “For when I return, it will be to send your sons into battle. Prepare, Cosimo—too common is the weakness of man that he regrets the price he paid for glory.”

  Spreading its downy wings, the bird looked skyward. However, instead of taking flight, it gave a slight tremble, and began to hiss. Deflating like a balloon, it became a husk and dropped to the ground.

  Bruno straightened his back and squared his shoulders.

  “They say that Nero sang while Rome burned,” he proclaimed to the empty air. “So too shall I, Domina, so too shall I—for you.”

  From his vantage point in the open doorway, Mr. Hannity prickled all over with excitement. The boss had said he was taking orders from someone else, and so he was.

  XVIII

  All day long, Cato had pounded the cobblestones in the dry, fall heat. After showing Leta’s photo to every hostel clerk, night guard, and cleaning person he could find, he was starting to worry that he had hit a dead-end. Leta, it seemed, had been like a ghost even before her untimely death.

  As the purple shade of night began to bleed down from the top of the earth, Cato paused on the corner of a busy boulevard and lit a cigarette. Studying the map, he looked for any dots he might have missed, any avenues unexplored. A little ways off, a waiter lugged a chalkboard sign onto the sidewalk and crouched down to write dinner specials. Cato glanced over distractedly, then lurched with surprise. Digging out his stolen cell phone, he checked the time.

  8:42PM!

  Swearing under his breath, he returned his eyes to the map—this time looking for the fastest route to the broken sword.

  …

  Louisa arrived outside La Spada Spezzata at two minutes to 9PM. In a thigh-length pencil skirt, and a sleeveless blouse the color of robin’s eggs, she drew the attention of every man on the street. Like a rare gem in a city full of plain diamonds, she walked to the restaurant’s entrance and went inside.

  Waiting behind a polished wooden counter, a black-tuxedoed host greeted her without looking up.

  “Reservation?” He said, gesturing to a ledger book.

  Relieved that her gatekeeper was a man, Louisa leaned on the counter and shrugged.

  “I didn’t make one. My papa said if I’m nice to you, you’ll let me have a drink at the bar.”

  The man stopped what he was doing and set his pen down.

  “Well,” he said in a revised manner. “That depends. Who is your father?”

  Louisa smiled.

  “I’m not supposed to say. He’s tired of me dirtying his good name.”

  The corner of the host’s mouth twitched.

  “May I?” She asked, eyeing his pen.

  “Uh—here.”

  Allowing their fingertips to brush, Louisa accepted the pen and wrote Nunzio’s phone number in the corner of the ledger book.

  “I see,” chuckled the host. “In that case, I guess you do have a reservation. Come this way, topa.”

  He went to an etched-tin door, and opened it. Beyond, a flight of carpeted stairs ascended to the second floor.

  “I get off late,” he warned. “I’ll call you.”

  Thrilled that her ploy had actually worked, Louisa took the stairs with a practiced grin.

  “I get off all night.”

  The host’s eyes bulged, and he put a hand to his heart. Imagining the look on his face when Nunzio answered the phone later that night and not her, Louisa stifled a laugh. On the landing above, a waitress met her with an arched smile.

  “Bar?” She asked, glancing at the wide-eyed host below.

  “Bar,” Louisa smiled back.

  The dining room of La Spada Spezzata was large and open. Checkered along three walls, beautifully molded picture windows twinkled with Rome’s city lights. Gathered around sumptuous tables, large groups of happy, laughing patrons feasted on plates of bone-in lamb shank, pepper grilled chicken, and pork tenderloin.

  Following the hostess to a gilded bar, Louisa did her best not to gape. Whoever the golden-eyed Man was, he certainly had good taste. She sat at a small, round table, just to the right of the bar.

  “What will you have?” Asked the hostess.

  “Wine,” Louisa said absently. “No wait, whiskey.”

  “Whiskey?” The girl repeated.

  “Yes,” nodded Louisa. “I’ll have your cheapest whiskey.”

  …

  Out of breath and with a sharp stitch in his side, Cato reached the restaurant at 9:15PM. Pulling open the outer door, he went into a small waiting room and was met by a smugly happy-looking man in a tuxedo.

  “Reservation,” the man asked from behind his counter.

  Mind racing, Cato couldn’t remember if the Benefactor had coached him on this or not. Moreover, what name would such a reservation be under—Benefactor? Man? Dominus?

  “Uh,” said Cato. “Cato Fin?”

  The host gave a uncanny twitch and went over to a tin door.

  “Cato Fin,” he bowed. “Someone will meet you at the top of the stairs. Enjoy your meal, sir.”

  Cato cracked a weak smile.

  “Thanks,” he said, patting the waiter’s arm as he went up.

  “Prego,” the man returned hollowly.

  …

  From her vantage point at the bar, Louisa saw Agent Cato Fin appear at the top of the stairs. Face sweaty
and hair askew, he looked disheveled and out-of-sorts. Greeted by a waitress, he was taken to a table in the corner of the dining room, an area momentarily obscured to Louisa. However, like Moses at the Red Sea, heads parted and she was briefly treated to a view of Cato’s companion.

  Her breath caught in her breast, and her eyes widened. Reaching for her whiskey, Louisa took steadying drink.

  …

  “You are late,” said the Benefactor.

  “Yeah,” Cato mumbled, pulling out his chair. “I know, I’m sorry—”

  “And you look like a street urchin.”

  Cato peered down at himself and saw that his suit had suffered from the events of the day. His jacket was crumpled, his shirt un-tucked, and his slacks dusted with grime.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Oh indeed,” the Man echoed. “At least tell me you found the room.”

  Cato hesitated then took out the map.

  “I checked all the spots—I swear, but no one’s seen her. Look, I think Leta was too clever to stay somewhere so obvious, don’t you? What about couchsurfing.com, or Air BnB, or something like that?”

  The Man listened dispassionately, then sighed.

  “You could be right,” he said. “I am—out of touch with certain facets of modern society. We’ll reexamine our course of action after dinner. It’s possible I overlooked something.”

  “Thank god,” Cato exhaled with a laugh. “I was really hoping you’d say that. So what’s good here? I’m fucking starving.”

  Softening into a smile, the Man’s features brightened.

  “One can never go wrong with the artichokes. And then of course we must have fiori di zucca, and coda alla vaccinara—oxtail in a sauce of red wine, chocolate, and tomatoes.”

  Cato felt his stomach grumble.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “What about wine? Corallina says you’re a walking encyclopedia on the stuff. I can barely tell the difference between red and white.”

  He laughed and glanced up, but saw that the Benefactor was no longer listening to him. Hot and alert, his eyes had become focused on the stairs.