***
At five o’clock sharp I strolled into the church with El at my side. We began our cruise around the perimeter, starting from the left per Fonso’s instructions. A handful of tourists following our same path made the two of us less obvious, as did a few older women seated in pews, quietly chatting behind their opened palms. I glanced to the far side where four men dressed in casual clothes were kneeling, just as Fonso had told us. Other than their dark hair and olive complexions, which could’ve set them apart as gypsies, or Italians, Spaniards, or any number of other Southern Europeans, the men could’ve passed for ordinary tourists; or as locals to those who didn’t know any better.
“Fonso should’ve given us their names,” El whispered as we circled around to the outer aisle where the men had stationed themselves: two with rosaries; one in a trance; the other with chin resting on hands clasped in prayer.
“It’s not as if we’ll be hanging out with them,” I said.
“True, but I prefer putting a face with a name.”
“How about this: Matt, Mark, Luke, and John. One, two, three, four, now take a good look and implant each face into your brain.”
“Matt, red t-shirt; Mark, blue; Luke, brown, and John … pot belly. Okay, we can leave now.”
“Did it ever occur to you they might change clothes.”
“Stop it, Margo. You’re confusing me.”
Spoken like a true Savino, make that more Mom’s side of the family. She would’ve loved El’s reasoning. Not that she would ever hear about this incident from my lips. Or, from El’s, who held back more than I ever did, but then over the years there’d been so little she had to confess. Some experiences in life are better left unshared with Moms. Dads, too, but ours had died five years before. Still missed him and being Daddy’s Little Girl.
Chapter 24
Shoulder Stand
When Margo and I walked out of San Giovanni Battista the late afternoon of Monterosso greeted us with a slight dip in temperature. How Lorenzo had spent his afternoon remained a question mark with me although no doubt he knew how Margo and I had spent ours. I half-way hoped, better yet expected, to find him waiting, well-dressed and so European. No such luck. Instead it was his Zio Bernardo Cozzani who greeted us with that irresistible smile. Even Margo took to him, which didn’t surprise me, given her penchant for anyone and anything Italian. He latched onto her first, taking her hand into his and pressing the back of it to his mouth for a light kiss. The veins almost popped through his expressive hands and made me wonder about the rest of what must’ve been a sinewy body. Good grief, the man would never see ninety again. I couldn’t believe my own thoughts, the attraction I felt when he then kissed my hand and lingered there until I pulled away.
As usual he spoke in Italian, which Margo interpreted as Lorenzo being otherwise occupied had sent his uncle to entertain us.
“Bernardo has invited us to dinner,” she said with a grin. “What do you think?”
“There’s safety in three more so than two?” I asked, tongue in cheek. Anything to inject a bit of humor into our situation and to make up for the moodiness I’d inflicted on Margo.
“Agree. Besides it sure beats rattling around in that apartment … not that I don’t appreciate Lorenzo’s hospitality but he’s not there and we’re here.”
As with Lorenzo, Bernardo Cozzani was a respected fixture in the village. Every encounter with a local required some type of acknowledgment, from a simple exchange of nods to kisses in the Italian way or robust handshakes and pats on the shoulder. After twenty minutes of bona-sera greetings we finally stopped at a trattoria with outside seating and only one empty table. Reserved, just our luck, I pictured another back room, another sinister meeting with gypsies dressed like tourists that I still didn’t trust. Wrong again, Signore Cozzani had already reserved the empty table for the three of us.
We sat down and the waiter appeared with a bottle of wine, compliments of the house. Bernardo asked permission to order on behalf of Margo and me, a relief since I wasn’t in the mood for agonizing over another plate of this or that. Good choice. What I thought would be a meal fit for a geriatric tract turned into five courses and three more bottles of wine, an event that went on for at least three hours and only started to end with the last bit of setting sun, a sight that will stay burned in my memory for as long as I can hold it there. As will being party to a scene I’d love to erase from the absurd portion of my brain. That of getting caught in the absurd crossfire of Bernardo and Margo playing footsies under the table while they chatted in Italian, more like flirted from what little I understood of Italian erotica. It only got worse when Bernardo stood and buttoned his jacket in spite of the warm evening. After excusing himself, he headed for the restroom. In a matter of seconds Margo pushed back her chair and got up with a wiggle that left little doubt of her intentions.
“Excuse me,” she said with a wink. “I feel the need.”
“No way,” was all I could say.
Yes, with Margo there was always a need to be fulfilled and a way to fulfill that need. She hurried off to the toilette or wherever they’d agreed to meet while I sat alone at the table, resisting the urge to drum my fingers. Instead, I surveyed the crowded scene of strolling tourists, hoping to spot our bodyguards. None of which I could make out, unless they were disguised as sandy-haired German tourists in Birkenstock sandals or just plain Americans in high-end Nikes. As in Jonathan from Iowa and his buddy Trevor, who just happened by no more than eight feet from our table, and appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation that seemed out of sync with their behavior I’d witnessed earlier.
To my surprise and perhaps a need for Made in America I initiated the first contact, with a wave of fingers and cheerful call out. “Jonathan, over here. It’s me: Ellen.”
Jonathan jerked his head in my direction. He almost tripped over his feet, ending the discussion with Trevor. A few quick strides brought both guys to my table. A brief exchange of hugs followed, more in the reserved style of Americans than in the Italian way, which suited me just fine. Although at that moment I could’ve used a hug from Lorenzo instead of chitchat going nowhere.
“Don’t tell me your sister deserted you,” Jonathan said.
“Hardly, she’s powdering her nose.”
“Do women still do that?” Trevor asked.
“Last time I checked they did,” said Jonathan.
“I’d ask you to sit but Margo and our gentleman friend will be back any moment.”
“Not a problem,” Trevor said. “We’ll get up when they return.” He pulled out a chair and sat, as did Jonathan who snagged two clean glasses from a passing waiter. Trevor filled them from a bottle sitting on the table.
“Are you still having fun?” Jonathan asked.
“More than I ever dreamed possible.” I didn’t go into the scary stuff, imagined or otherwise.
We made small talk until Margo returned with her face flushed but otherwise showing no sign of spontaneous sex. I didn’t know if I should laugh or threaten to tell our mother who would’ve been appalled beyond words. Margo blessed the guys with light pecks to the check and Trevor almost fell out of his chair when he gave it up to her. Bernardo soon followed, with an added spring in his step and a smile I didn’t think possible from one so … so, mature.
Margo introduced our host who didn’t seem to mind the prospect of competition young enough to be his grandsons. After all, he’d enjoyed the attention of two ever-so-grateful females for an entire evening. And knowing Margo, I was confident that she given him fifteen of the best minutes he’d experienced in quite some time. Or, not, with these Italians anything was possible. Or so I’d been told.
While Bernardo settled the bill and Margo chatted about Cinque Terre with the Americans, I checked the outside pockets of my handbag to make sure Lorenzo’s keys were still there. No, not that pocket … or that pocket … yes, that one.
Memo to self:
There is such a thing as having too many pockets.
“How about one more stop,” Jonathan said. “Nothing says sweet like cold beer to end a hot, summer evening.”
“Unless it’s Sambucca with coffee beans,” Margo said. Her comment came as no surprise to me. Nor when she added: “After all, we are in Italy.”
“Hot or cold, whatever turns you on,” Trevor said.
Evidently not Trevor because Margo came back with, “It’s been a long, tough day, and though I can’t speak for El, I’m so bushed I could fall asleep standing up.”
That’s my Margo. She’d rather make out with an older-than-dirt Lothario than make time for a pair of Americans too ordinary for words.
“Then let us walk you home,” Trevor said. “A night with this kind of wow factor shouldn’t go to waste.”
This time I spoke up. “Taxi, please. My leg is killing me.”
“Signore Cozzani has already arranged for one,” Margo said with a grateful squeeze to his hand. She stood up, pulling me with her. “Here it comes now.”
The taxi pulled up, prompting a round of hugs and kisses, this time to include Jonathan and Trevor whose extended hug turned into an awkward squeeze that did nothing for me. Unlike the one from Bernardo, which to my embarrassment, I found most intriguing: like uncle like nephew. One glance over Bernardo’s shoulder showed me a look of annoyance pass over Trevor’s face, as if I cared. Then Bernardo moved from me to Trevor—no hugs, just another exchange of handshakes that ended when a tourist accidentally stumbled into Trevor and couldn’t get through apologizing in what sounded like an Irish brogue. Another thing I was growing to love about Cinque Terre, the international atmosphere of friendly camaraderie.
Two quick beeps from the taxi driver ended the evening farewells. Jonathan hurried to the vehicle, opened the back door, and I slid in first.
“What about tomorrow?” he asked, his words following Margo as she joined me. “If you have nothing better to do, meet us on that concrete slab above the beach, around ten in the morning, okay?”
“Our treat,” Trevor said. “Whatever turns you on.”
Or off since I could feel Margo nudging me with her foot. “Can’t think straight right now,” she said. “If we’re not there by ten-thirty, don’t wait any longer.”
As our taxi pulled away, I made a mental note of the driver’s name and photo displayed on his official I.D: Giovanni Colombo. “Ask the driver how long he’s lived here,” I whispered to Margo.
“He’s too short,” she said.
“What’s that got to do with his residency?”
“Not a damn thing. He’s too short to be the guy who tried to kill me.”
I looked over my shoulder, checked out the rear view scene.
“Any sign of Matt, Mark, Luke or John?” she asked.
“I suppose one of them could be jumping from rooftop to rooftop.”
“Only if they were stunt men in a movie,” Margo said. With that she leaned forward and said something to the driver, to which he responded with a string of words and gestures too fast for me to understand.
“He has another fare to pick up,” Margo said. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
“A likely story, what if he heads out of town?”
“Two against one, we’ll open the doors and take a leap of faith.”
It became a non-issue as soon as the driver picked up his second fare. Wouldn’t you know: another couple who couldn’t speak a word of Italian. Nor English, so Margo couldn’t help out even if she hadn’t dozed off and started that infernal snoring again. After a scenario similar to the night before, but minus the regurgitation stops for Margo, our driver finally delivered the couple to their hotel.
Ten minutes later he deposited Margo and me in front of Lorenzo’s building. When Margo tried to pay the driver, he showed his palm and told her Signore Cozzani had already taken care of it. That much I understood but should’ve had my head on straight instead of waiting for the taxi to disappear down the street. Only then did I start fumbling around in the side pockets of my handbag.
“Make it snappy,” Margo said. “I feel like a sitting duck out here.”
“The keys are supposed to be here but they’re not.”
“Great,” Margo said. “The damn things must’ve fallen out. They’re probably sitting on the floor of the taxi.”
“I don’t suppose you have Bernardo Cozzani’s phone number?”
“Why would I?”
“Isn’t that what close friends do, exchange phone numbers?”
“Should the need arise, he knows where to find me. Did you get the name of the restaurant?”
“Not exactly, of course I didn’t, Margo. Did you?”
“Call Lorenzo, call him right now before we take one more step into the dark. Maybe he keeps an extra set hidden somewhere.”
Lorenzo, yes, I should’ve thought of him right away instead of playing games with Margo. I found his number on my cell’s contact list and pressed the button. He didn’t answer until the fourth ring.
“Elena? Is everything all right? I had an emergency in La Spezia but I am now on my way back.”
I felt like such a fool, telling him I’d lost the keys. “By any chance do you have another set hidden someplace? Or perhaps a neighbor has one.”
“My neighbor went to Genoa for several days but I do keep an extra set on the ledge above the door. Is Margo there with you?”
“Where else would she be,” I said with more sarcasm than he deserved. “I suppose one of us will have to stand on the other’s shoulders to reach the keys.” I pointed to the door, one with Old World charm that had to be at least fourteen-feet high and prompted Margo to blow me a raspberry. I already knew who’d wind up on the bottom, which maybe wasn’t such a bad place to be.
“I regret …” Lorenzo said before cutting out on me.
“Lorenzo … talk to me. Any idea when you—”
“Sorry … not hear …”
“Ask him about the gypsies?”
“Too late. He must’ve hit a dead zone.”
“Dead zone, ugh,” Margo said. “That could be us unless we get that door open.” She hurried toward it with me on her heels. “Damn, El, this takes me back to our cheerleading days.”
“Your cheerleading days.”
“Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting you got cut.”
“No, you keep forgetting I didn’t go out for cheerleading.”
“Not to worry, as you may recall, I was a flyer and got my start practicing on your shoulders.”
“Not once did you ever say thanks.”
“Okay, thanks. Now get over here.”
She positioned me to face the door, about an arm’s length from it, and issued her first order. “Okay, assume the position.”
I bit my lip, spread my legs, and squatted, all the while grateful that Lorenzo wasn’t there to see this. Margo stood behind me and straddled her legs over my shoulders.
“Oh … my … god,” I said through a groan. “Twenty pounds added to twenty years does make a big difference.
“Don’t start on me, El. I know what I’m doing. Now cross your arms in front of your chest.”
I crossed my arms and tried to envision Margo during her cheerleading days but for the life of me I could not.
“Steady, El, steady.” Margo positioned her feet onto my cradled arms and told me to stand up.
“I don’t think—”
“Yes, you can. Just concentrate. Now straighten out those legs.”
“O-o-o-h, ah-h-h-h.” With an unbending of the knees, I lifted myself into a standing position. A satisfying accomplishment, that is, until it prompted me to wobble, backwards, and sideways before leaning forward with a smack against the door. Not bad, I didn’t feel a thing.
“Ouch, you idiot, that was my head,” Margo said.
“And those are your shoes digging into my ribs.”
“No way can these Jimmy Choos be digging into you.”
“And yet they are. Okay, they aren’t but I don’t wa
nt Monterosso’s street dirt ground into my clothes.”
“Sorry ‘bout that. Be nice and slip the flatties off for me.”
I did, and dropped them off to the side.
“Okay, hold on,” Margo said. “Big move, I’m going up, I’m going up.”
“Blessed Mother.”
“Shut up. Steady, steady.”
“Dear god.”
“Not now, El … okay, I’m up. Hold my ankles tight. Not that tight. That’s better.”
“I can’t do this, Margo.”
“You can’t, what about me? Not finding anything yet. Move to the left. To the left El … answer me … hel-lo-o, anybody home down there.”
Chapter 25
You Won’t Believe This
“El, to the left … the left, dammit …. Don’t make this any harder … never mind.” No response other than fingers brushing against my right ankle. Steady, girl, steady, this time I told myself because El was probably too scared to speak. The least she could’ve done was to follow a simple order. No wonder she couldn’t make it in the convent, let alone cheerleading. The keys, dammit, if only I could find them before her legs buckled and I wound up cleaning cobblestones with my tongue. Stretching as far to the left as possible, I slid my hand along the frame until I located a metal object. Yes, success at last. With the elusive keys snuggled into the palm of my hand, slowly, ever so slowly I regained my position.
I glanced downward, did a double take but managed to keep my balance before looking down a third time, hoping not to confirm what I didn’t want to believe I’d seen before. Crap, just what we needed, the return of last night’s bastard. And judging from his dark form wedged into El’s, I imagined cold steel pressed against her throat. What now? Had I hurled myself onto the bastard, I would’ve risked him cutting El’s throat or me getting impaled onto the upturned knife in his hand. Either way, whichever came first, El and I were both royally screwed.
As for our gypsy bodyguards, where were they? Or for that matter, Lorenzo—emergency, my ass and El’s, just wait until I tell Mom. That is, if … nope, I was not going there. We should’ve let the American geeks escort us home. Whatever decision I should’ve, could’ve made became a moot point when I heard the sounds of scuffling below, followed by punches and groans. Even worse, my lofty perch began to sway ever so slightly.
Italy to Die For Page 15