THE DOGS of ROME

by Conor Fitzgerald

  “Good, isn’t it?” mumbled Kristin, breaking the reverent silence that had descended as they allowed the candied fruits, chocolate, cheese, and sponge cake to quietly dissolve in the heat of their mouths.

  “It’s more than good. People should come here just for this,” agreed Blume.

  All too soon, it was gone. Blume rubbed his thumb in the sweet white trail left on his plate and stuck it in his mouth. Kristin was intently cleaning off all residues with her middle finger.

  “We could order another,” suggested Blume.

  Kristin giggled, which he found disconcertingly out of character.

  “Marcello!” called Kristin.

  The waiter responded like an eager cocker spaniel, and bounded over to the table, radiating smiles solely at Kristin.

  “Il conto, per piacere.”

  Annoyingly, very annoyingly, when Marcello came with the bill, he handed it to Kristin, and before Blume could protest, she had put a gold American Express on the platter.

  “How much was it?” he demanded, trying to read her surname on the card. It was upside-down to him, and seemed to spell out Holmquist.

  By way of response, she handed him the check: 126 euros. “The wine was particularly dear,” she said.

  Kristin went up to the desk to key in her number and sign the stub.

  Blume went to the bathroom. Kristin was waiting for him on the street outside.

  His alcohol-fueled policeman’s swagger was slightly more pronounced as he walked down the laneway toward the brighter, noisier, and dirtier streets ahead. He’d make a move on Kristin before they reached the intersection.

  But he delayed a fraction too long, and when they reached the end of the lane, a large group of young people and two motorcyclists, conscientiously not going against the one-way signals on the road by driving on the sidewalk instead, caused them to separate for a moment, and when Blume turned around again, she had moved as if to go left and he as if to go right.

  “I’m going this way,” she said, in a tone that excluded all possibility of invitation.

  “How am I supposed to pay for the dinner? Can I see you again?”

  There, that was unambiguous.

  “I’ll phone you,” she said, with a smile that suddenly and very briefly revealed where future years would etch themselves into her face.

  “You don’t have my number.”

  “You’re in the book, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m ex-directory.” He started hunting his pockets for a pen and paper. He always, always had a pen when he was working. Now he didn’t.

  His bag was in his office, damn it. “I’m not in the book,” he repeated in case she had missed the danger of the situation. He had given Pernazzo his last card. What a fucking waste. He pulled out used tissues, plastic wrappers, scraps of paper no good for writing on, and dropped them on the wet ground.

  “Calm down, Alec. Just tell me your number. I’ll remember it.”

  Blume gave her his number. She repeated it.

  “OK, I’ve got that memorized. I have a great head for figures.” Without waiting for him to reply, she turned and walked off. She went through the noisy crowd like a white-sailed boat cutting through a darkening lake.

  It was only as he took off his jacket at home that Blume remembered the peanut butter label from Pernazzo’s kitchen. With a mounting sense of dread, he began searching his pockets. Surely he hadn’t thrown it away when he was looking for . . .

  Gone.

  22

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 29, 10:30 A.M.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Blume sat with Paoloni in a metallic-pink Fiat Punto on the sidewalk outside the PAM supermarket in Magliana. It was a ridiculous color. The idea, apparently, was that it didn’t look anything like a police vehicle, which would be the case if it had a woman with shopping in it. Instead, it contained two grumpy grown men watching traffic.

  Blume was still thinking about the label he had dropped on the street.

  Pernazzo’s squealing about chain of evidence had been right insofar as it probably would not be admissible in court, but if the label had been traceable back to Clemente’s supermarket, the case was as good as closed. Why had he not placed it in an evidence bag when he got back to the car? Too much of a rush to get to Kristin, and then he had drunk too much wine, talked too much, and literally thrown a piece of case evidence on the street.

  It was time he quit drinking.

  Theirs was just one of hundreds of cars jutting out at all angles from the sidewalk as if thrown there by a bad-tempered child. Wedged in between an Iveco flatbed truck and an off-white, massive 1970s Mercedes that may have been abandoned there for good, they had a clear view of the street, the supermarket, an Ambroveneto bank, a bakery and a newsstand, and a twelve-story apartment block in which, Paoloni promised—and Ferrucci had confirmed from his computer—Alleva lived. They were waiting for Zambotto, who was accompanying a junior officer, and Ferrucci, who had apparently had difficulty persuading the superintendent- mechanic that he had a legitimate need for a car. Or was old enough to drive.

  Blume wondered if Pernazzo had been fooled when he said they would be watching him. Hardly likely if he ever listened to the police unions and hierarchy complaining on the radio about their lack of resources.

  Blume pulled the Motorola Tetra radio handset out of his jacket pocket and studied it. It looked like it was on. He handed it to Paoloni. “I can’t turn this thing on.”

  “You needed to rekey and switch to DMO,” said Paoloni.

  “Right,” said Blume. “You do it.”

  The door to the front of the apartment block opened, and a man with a pink top of some sort came out. Blume couldn’t make out the features from where he was, and had not thought to bring binoculars. The man walked quickly.

  Ferrucci’s voice came out of the Motorola again. He had apparently decided to speak excitable Greek. “I have Alpha One quitting Charlie One. Alpha One out of Charlie,” he said.

  Before Blume could ask him to talk properly, Ferrucci began to make sense: “Subject does not appear to be carrying any object. Light yellow pants, pink polo shirt, baby blue pullover knotted over chest, soft brown shoes. Wallet in his back pocket. No visible weapons. Hand in pocket.”

  Ferrucci had only seen pictures of Alleva. So there was always a chance it was the wrong person.

  “That’ll be Alleva,” said Paoloni. “He likes pastel colors, baby blue sweaters, that kind of stuff. It’s sort of his trademark.”

  Ferrucci came back on the radio. “I have subject gone right, right; no hesitation, unaware; nearside turn number one not taken, number one is not taken; subject proceeding straight. Nearside turn number two taken.”

  As Ferrucci finished his commentary, Alleva lifted his face and Blume recognized the piggy features.

  “Subject checking road. Now scoping back towards six o’clock,” continued the radio commentary.

  “What do you think?” asked Paoloni. “Is Ferrucci high?”

  “Leave him alone. He always gets landed with the paperwork. This is all very exciting for him,” said Blume. “Even if it is a total waste of time.”

  “What was the name of your suspect again?”

  “Angelo Pernazzo.”

  “And you think we should visit Pernazzo after this?”

  “Yes. Before he figures out he’s not being watched.”

  Ferrucci’s happy voice interrupted them. “Crossing road, committed to turn, now unsighted to me, unsighted to me.”

  Blume handed Paoloni the Motorola. “Why don’t we just get out and grab the bastard now?”

  “Better not try it in this neighborhood,” said Paoloni. “We don’t want to draw much attention to it anyhow.”

  Ferrucci said, “Our man got into a black Land Cruiser.”

  Blume turned on the engine.

  Paoloni held the radio to his ear and reported. “Zambotto and his partner have picked up the target. Zambotto agrees it’s Alleva. They’ve taken up the eyeball on the L
and Cruiser. We’ll come in as backup and Ferrucci can be tail-end-Charlie.” He put the radio down between the two seats, hooking a strap over the handbrake. “I’m putting this on hands-free now.”

  Blume moved onto the road, almost taking out a motor scooter that was overtaking an Opel station wagon that was overtaking a bus. Their car was now perpendicular to the traffic lane, blocking all vehicles coming from the left. The motorists on the right started speeding up to prevent them from completing the maneuver. The cars to their left started up a horn concerto.

  Paoloni said, “That was subtle.” He picked up the Motorola. “Zambotto, tell us where to go.”

  “Via della Magliana, north—go up to the intersection, hang a right.”

  Two minutes later, Zambotto confirmed that Alleva’s Land Cruiser was continuing due north on Via Oderisi da Gubbio.

  Blume reached the same road about thirty seconds later, and slowed down. Then Zambotto reported that the target had turned right and was moving east toward Piazza Fermi and Via Marconi.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Blume.

  Paoloni seemed to be trying to get a cigarette out his trouser pocket.

  He stopped struggling long enough to say, “Why? What’s wrong with that route?”

  “Too roundabout. Don’t like it,” said Blume “He has to turn right once he’s on Via Marconi, which is southbound only at the intersection, but then maybe he’ll take the first left, double back and continue north. That’s where his mother’s house is. It’s OK.”

  A light blue Nissan Micra cut in front of Blume, flashed its hazard lights, and sped off.

  “That was Ferrucci,” said Blume.

  “I got the eyeball,” came Ferrucci’s voice. Blume could hear his delight. “Piazza della Radio,” continued Ferrucci. “Looks like he’s trying to find parking. I’m pulling over. Wait. Subject is making another round of the piazza. Maybe he’s looking for parking. What do I do?”

  “Stay there, Ferrucci. Don’t follow him out of the piazza, though he’s probably made you already.” Blume said to Paoloni, “Alleva’s mother’s house is farther away down towards the river. What’s he doing circling that piazza?”

  “It’s Sunday morning. Porta Portese market is on,” said Paoloni. “It’s one of the last places available for parking.”

  “I still think he’s circling because he knows he’s being followed,” said Blume.

  Zambotto’s voice came on the radio. “We’ve reached the piazza, too.”

  “OK,” said Paoloni. “If Alleva leaves, you follow. Ferrucci, you stay.”

  Zambotto replied almost immediately, “He’s leaving the piazza, headed back where he came from. We’re following.”

  “I should stay here?” Ferrucci sounded disappointed, and no one even bothered answering him.

  A few seconds later, Blume saw the Land Cruiser speed past him on the opposite side of the road. Following at a safe distance was Zambotto. The central divider prevented Blume from making a U-turn and following.

  “OK, Zambotto, we’ve lost him. You may as well follow him wherever he’s going now.”

  “He’s stopped at the intersection. Either he’s turning left or . . . no, he’s done a U-turn. He’s coming up behind you now.”

  Blume watched his rear-view mirror. The Land Cruiser was coming down the road at speed, weaving in and out of the traffic. He let it pass him, then accelerated into its slipstream. No point in subtlety now.

  “This is like a chariot race in the Circus Maximus,” said Blume. “Let’s end it. When he gets back to the piazza at the bottom of the road, move in and stop him, Ferrucci.”

  Paoloni cracked open his window and tried to slot the cigarette end through it. Blume pressed the accelerator to the floor to close the gap on Alleva’s vehicle.

  “Jesus,” said Paoloni, as the wind blew the cigarette end back into the car.

  Blume pressed the palm of his hand on the top of the steering wheel and twisted it leftward and rightward as he weaved between a Smart and a number 780. “Tell Ferrucci to stand by.”

  Paoloni stopped hunting for his burning cigarette. “Stand by for what?”

  “To head off the target.”

  “Stand by, Ferrucci,” Paoloni said. “Target headed back your way. We are now in pursuit.” Paoloni bent down to see what had happened to the remains of the cigarette.

  Putting his hands at a twenty-past-eight-position on the steering wheel, Blume accelerated again and came racing up behind a blue van. The van driver began to move over to block them, Blume put his hand on the horn, kept it there, then began to overtake. The blue van moved farther sideways.

  “Motherfucking cunt,” said Blume bursting into English. “Get the—the FUCK out of my way.”

  “I understood almost every word of that,” said Paoloni. “He’s not moving over.”

  “We’re going to arrest that bastard in the van,” said Blume. “Get his number.”

  “Closed his exit!” came Ferrucci’s voice. “Looks like he’s going to—no, wait, there’s a person here wants . . . Motorbike helmet.”

  “Ferrucci. What . . .”

  But Blume never finished his question.

  Behind his ear, he heard a thick metallic clunk as the pre-tensing mechanism in his seatbelt engaged, and he felt himself being lifted upward. The very front of his mind seemed to snap a photographic still of the rear end of Alleva’s vehicle, which had come to fill the entire windscreen. The bumper on the Land Cruiser was higher than the front of the Punto and was everywhere to be seen, rising in front of him, massive. He noticed that Paoloni was tilting forward, head first, toward the floor. The spare wheel on the back of the Toyota was like a silver target. It had a black bull painted on it.

  Then, with a violent convulsion, the seat spat Blume toward disintegrating squares of glass in front of him. The seatbelt did its job, and angrily snapped him back down, wrenching his shoulder, cracking his collar bone, slicing into his waist like a violin string, jerking urine out of his bladder. It was only after the tremendous noises had passed that Blume realized how loud they had been.

  He did not remember closing his eyes, but he seemed to have missed the moment when the car in which he was traveling turned into something else. He was sitting in the open air, and could hear the wind ringing in his ears. He was free above, but below, the car was clutching him tightly around the legs, reluctant to let him go. Struggling, but not as much as he had feared, Blume managed to free his right leg, then his left. Both were still attached to his body. He was completely free of the car. Looking back in, he could see Paoloni’s glistening, upside-down, angry face. The Toyota in front of him throbbed. Its engine was still running, but the smoked glass and height prevented him from seeing inside. He limped over to the passenger door and yanked it open. Even as he did so, he realized how foolish this was, and braced himself to receive a bullet point-blank through the head. He had not even pulled out his own weapon. But the driver’s seat was empty. Reeling with relief overladen with a sense of enormous frustration, Blume moved with exquisite muscular pain toward the front of the vehicle, trying to get a line on the fugitive.

  Then he heard three cracking sounds. At first he thought they had to be in his head, the aftermath of the accident, but the sounds had a definite locus that was outside the rush and roar of his own thoughts. There was something in the sound that was mechanical, powerful, and full of death. Blume now identified them as pistol shots, and he instinctively began to crouch as he tried to move toward them. He moved his right hand across his body as he sought his service pistol, but as he did so, he felt his left knee beginning to buckle. To stop his stumbling from turning into a fall, he sought to balance himself by throwing his arms out, like a tightrope walker caught in a gust of wind, and forgot about going for his weapon. He concentrated his eyes on the ground. Moving from the black tarmac of the road to the white concrete of the sidewalk, he noticed that what he had thought was sweat dripping from his forehead was a steady red stream of blood. He held
his hands out and kept his eyes on the ground, staggering on. Footsteps were thundering behind him, and several figures overtook him, shouting as they went. All in Italian, he noticed. He could remember clear American voices making gleeful shouts in the long evenings after school. Now he found himself here, like this.

  Blume continued to move forward, though he no longer knew why. At one point, his knee had given way, and, as he fell, his body swung around, and he saw the Fiat Punto in which he had been traveling smashed into the back of the Land Cruiser like a crumpled red rose.

  Paoloni and Zambotto had appeared from nowhere, overtaken him, and now seemed to have reached their destination, for they were standing perfectly still side by side like two communicants waiting for the priest to arrive with the host. Blume, staggering, retching, dripping, and moaning, felt like a drunk at a baptism as he came up behind them. They were contemplating a Nissan Micra whose passenger side window was shattered.

  Inside, slumped sideways, head in the driver’s seat, lay Ferrucci, his hand outstretched in what seemed to be a self-deprecating gesture. Don’t mind me, I’ll just lie here with my white face on this darkening seat.

  Ferrucci’s temple was pierced by a star-shaped wound. On the way in, a single soft-nosed bullet had tunnelled a concave point of entry like the withered black sepal at the base of an apple.

  Blume joined the silence. In the lull, he recalled the sound of a motorbike, which he had been listening to as it raced away. Only now that the sound was gone did he realize he had been hearing it at all.

  Paoloni turned around to say something, and Blume saw fury in his eyes.

  He felt his legs buckle, and the pavement, sensing its chance, rose up and gave him a merciful blow on the back of the head.