“Okay, you’ve made a believer of me,” I told him. “But first, a quick trip back to Lorenzo’s so I can pack a few things.”
“Same here,” he said. “Shall we meet at the train station in …” He paused to check his watch. “Say, one hour?”
An hour, easy enough for Jonathan, his hotel sat across from the boardwalk. “I’ll ask the desk clerk to call a cab,” he said, “one that will wait while you pack your bags.”
“You think of everything.” Nice. There’s nothing like a man who takes charge.
***
I left the cab waiting in front of Lorenzo’s building while I unlocked the outer door, much easier with the key already in my hand than first having to do a shoulder stand to retrieve the spare overhead. Thinking about the asinine scenario now was more amusing than having to deal with it that night. That night had only been last night, enough time elapsed for me to have some fun before El and I decided to move on. Unless Lorenzo convinced her otherwise which I had a feeling he would.
Hurrying up two flights of steep stairs reminded me not to bring a bag heavier than I could carry or roll back down. Damn, I hadn’t thought about bringing the cabbie with me. Couldn’t think of everything and too excited, I guess, over a budget-priced trip presented to me by Jonathan from Iowa who had the potential of becoming the best happening on this trip.
By the time I’d reached the third level, my lungs were sending out an SOS for air and giving me a good reason to reconsider joining that pricey gym back home. The door to Lorenzo’s apartment was slightly ajar so I pushed it all the way open. Inside, a trail of clothing El and Lorenzo had been wearing hours before made its way across the living room and stopped with a pair of boxer shorts and bikini panties this side of the closed door to his bedroom. Behind that door came the sounds of lovemaking mixed with Lorenzo’s coaxing words and El’s hesitant laughter. Good for you, Sis, I wanted to tell her, words that would have to wait until a more appropriate time. I tiptoed to our bedroom, okay mine, and packed enough items to last three days, more than I needed but one could never be too prepared. Hardly the time to give El a call, I thought, better to leave a note.
E,
Ran into Jonathan, of all people who’s not as bad as I first thought. We’re taking the train to Rapallo and from there a boat to San Margherita and Portofino where he’s promised to wine and dine me. Gotta go, cab’s waiting. See you in a few days.
Take care and have fun.
M
Chapter 30
No Time for Tears
“What’s that?” Lorenzo’s tongue was circling my ear, giving me goose bumps I did not want to stop. “It sounded like a door closing.”
“Your sister must have changed her mind.”
“And if she heard us, went out again.” No longer inhibited by years of self-imposed modesty, I didn’t bother covering myself when I left Lorenzo’s bed and walked into the lounge area. There on the dining table was a note from Margo that I quickly read.
Jonathan from Iowa, hardly a match made in heaven but neither was the mama’s boy or the nonagenarian. Bernardo, not even a one-night stand, more like a fantabulous sneeze, Margo would’ve said.
I wrapped the table runner around me and padded out to the balcony in time to see her running down the street while pulling her overnighter, its wheels bumping and wobbling over the cobblestones.
“Margo,” I called out but she didn’t hear me.
By then Lorenzo was standing behind me, Margo’s note crumpled in his hand. “What happened to the taxi?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
With that, he hurried back inside, grabbed his phone and made two calls, the first to Fonso and the second to Dante Novaro. Although Lorenzo spoke in Italian so fast the words melded into one long, indiscernible string, their meaning I had no problem grasping. Margo was heading for trouble, if trouble hadn’t already found her.
It became a race as to who got dressed first and Lorenzo won, but only because my hands were shaking so hard I’d put on my top backwards.
“Please, Elena, it would be better for you to stay here,” Lorenzo said.
“And do what? This is my sister you’re talking about, and I have no intentions cowering in the corner while … while … damn, I don’t even know what’s going on.”
With that I started to cry, more out of fear for Margo than any frustration I now felt.
“We do not have time for tears,” Lorenzo said. He gave me the pristine handkerchief from his pocket, shoved my purse into my chest, and pulled me out the door. I don’t even remember going down the stairs but as soon as we walked into the bright sunshine, I reached for my sunglasses and stepped into the backseat of a waiting police car that Nicco Ricci was driving. He activated that eerie siren, stepped on the gas, and we headed down the street.
“Wait!” I yelled. “What about Lorenzo?”
“We’ll meet up with him later. In the meantime please buckle up, shut up, and allow me concentrate on doing my job while Lorenzo does his.”
Chapter 31
Scream like a Banshee
I could not believe the idiot driver had the nerve to take off without me. When I first got into this same taxi at Jonathan’s hotel, he told the driver to wait for me. When I got out at Lorenzo’s, I told the driver to wait for me. Both times said driver nodded to the affirmative. So what did the driver do? He must’ve gotten a hair up his ass while I was dragging my suitcase down the stairs because when I stepped outside all I could see was the taxi’s rear end cruising down the street. I ran as fast as I could, yelled as loud as I could, but did my efforts make one iota of difference. No.
What the hell, I gave up the chase, banged the suitcase handle into its chamber, and sat on the upturned end to catch my breath, again. For the second time in ten minutes, damn, this was so un-Margo. Good thing Jonathan had given me his cell number. Having opened my cheap phone, I pressed talk and when he answered, I wasted no time explaining my situation. While he was scrambling to come up with a solution, it became a moot point.
“Hold on,” I said. “You won’t believe this but another taxi just pulled up.”
“Wait, Margo, maybe you should—”
“Too late, Jonathan, you are so not backing out of this.”
“That’s not what I meant. Don’t—”
“Keep that thought for a few more minutes. The driver’s got my suitcase and I’ll see you in a jiff.”
I climbed into the backseat of this taxi-to-the-rescue, only then realizing I’d be sharing it with another passenger, a tourist on her own. Good for her and those dark sunglasses, but me first. I had a train to catch.
“Scuzi,” I said to the driver, “stazione ferroviaria e la fretta.”
“Si, si,” he replied.
Wow, that was easier than expected. What’s more, my backseat mate didn’t seem to mind. She smiled but said not a word. Okay, by me, mindless chitchat with dumpy women, not my cup of tea or morning grappa, depending on the location and situation. On this day and at this hour in Monterosso, I’d have done whatever it took—sing songs, tell jokes, part with a few euros, anything to get me to the train on time. Traveling by auto through any centuries-old street meant for pedestrians could be a bitchy nightmare but unlike some cabbies this one never lost his cool and when he turned onto a side street, I buckled up, allowed myself to sit back and relax, knowing this minor glitch in my day would soon be history.
Jonathan, who would’ve thought how quickly we had connected, especially with so little in common other than age-within-range and Midwest background combined with don’t-mind-my-funkier-than-your attitude. Attitude, yes, that pretty well summed up our common ingredient, one I could live with, at least for the remainder of my Italian holiday. I was riding high with anticipation of the Italian Riviera adventure when this strange sensation hit me. No more pedestrians, as in where the hell did everybody go.
Having released my seatbelt, I leaned forward, tapped one forefinger on the driver’s shoulder, and
in a voice wavering between anger and desperation, I said, “Scusi, stazione treno. Now!”
Without turning around or speaking to the rearview mirror, he spoke in English I had no problem understanding. “No, Signorina Margo Savino. You will not be going to the train station. Not now, not ever.”
“In that case, let me out.” I reached for the handle, but before I could open the door, its lock clicked shut. Leaving the tourist area gave the driver an excuse to step on the petro and me a bounce back to the seat. I looked to Dumpy Woman for support. Instead she tore off her sunglasses. One brown eye and one blue, all I could think was El’s Gypsy with the Evil Eye and me without an amulet. Now what was that gesture? Whatever, I gave her the good old American Bird instead. She expelled a high-pitched cackle reminiscent of a Disney animated feature. Except this was no PG-rated movie, not even an NC-R, Adults only. Most definitely, this was reality at its worse and not at all suitable for me. My first reaction and the most obvious was to get the hell out as fast as possible. But dammit, the back door still wouldn’t open. However, a tiny crack in my brain did, reminding me this driver must’ve been El’s second gypsy. Two against one, damn. And when I saw Dumpy produce the dreaded knife, I did what any All-American, barely-trained-in-martial-arts female would’ve done. I pressed talk on my phone.
Boy oh boy, did I ever scream, loud and clear. No way was I leaving Planet Earth without a fight like none I’d fought before. Dumpy lunged toward me. Using my Florentine handbag as a shield, I heard the sickening sound of pricey leather ripping. Better the skin of a dead animal than any form of mine. I shoved back, along with a banshee scream that caused Driver to swerve, and me to fall on top of Dumpy. Jonathan was yelling from his end of the line, just the incentive I needed to use my phone to bop Dumpy in one crossed eye. Her foot shot up, kicking Driver in the back of his head. He swerved again, this time losing control of the taxi while I careened back and forth with Dumpy, playing this deadly game of Who’s on Top and Who’s Got the Knife. Except the knife never left her hand, not even when the taxi came to a crashing halt, its horn blasting away with one continuous wail, so effing eerie the damn thing gave me the worse headache of my entire life. Or maybe my death, minor details not worth arguing over if I had made my final exit from Planet Earth.
Chapter 32
Beyond the Barrier
Nicco Rizzi drove through streets I’d not seen before, all the while making and receiving phone calls I couldn’t understand, a wake-up call to never leave home again without speaking the language of any country I planned on visiting. Another trip to Italy after this one was up in the air and would stay there until I knew Margo was … safe, any deviation from safe I couldn’t live with. If only I hadn’t been so wrapped up in Lorenzo; and before Lorenzo, if only she hadn’t been so wrapped up in Giorgio. History now, at least the Giorgio part, Lorenzo was another story, one yet to be resolved.
“What about Margo,” I asked Nicco. “Is she all right?”
“Please, signorina ….”
“Call me Ellen, or Elena.”
“Please, Elena, shut up.”
“Sorry.”
“Not another word.”
One corner after the other, Nicco took on two wheels and came back down on three. I kept my mouth shut and squeezed my eyes even tighter, any moment expecting a fiery death to take both of us. Add to that the police siren assaulting my ears. I covered them with my hands but couldn’t rid myself of the insanity. After the next two-wheeler, Nicco slammed on his brakes so fast my neck jerked and my head rattled. I held it tight but not tight enough to keep my hands from shaking after my head settled down. When I opened my eyes, what I saw sent me into panic mode and Nicco out of the vehicle.
“What about Margo,” I shouted to his back.
Instead of answering me, Nicco waved a pair of surgical gloves he’d pulled from his jacket pocket.
Fifty feet away, the remains of an accident unlike any fender-bender I’d seen throughout Italy. What once had been a vehicle would never again cruise through the streets of Monterosso or any other village for that matter. Had there been time, I’d have taken it to give up my breakfast. Instead I hopped out and followed Nicco to where steam poured and hissed from under the hood of what I now realized was a taxi. Inside the mangled mess came a silence that spoke volumes: no moaning, no groaning, no cries for help. Tourists had already gathered; make that Fonso and his brigade disguised as tourists. Fonso, gypsies … oh my god. Connecting this taxi to my sister took all of fifteen seconds, longer than it should have but long enough for me to see Fonso turn into a hot-bloodied gypsy capable of running faster than any other person on the scene. First to reach the wreckage, he pulled out the driver and kicked his lifeless body and kept kicking until two policemen shoved him aside. Meanwhile, Nicco gave a hard yank on the rear door to open it. After maneuvering to get inside, he stayed there for a while before backing out. Blood covered the front of his shirt and the gloves he’d put on earlier.
“Margo!” I tried to run but my feet wouldn’t obey my brain. Or so I thought before realizing it was Lorenzo holding me back, his arms protecting me in a way I couldn’t appreciate at that moment. Tears splashed from my eyes, making me think of Margo who never cried in public unless she was wearing waterproof mascara.
“Let me go.” With a twist of my arms, I freed myself from Lorenzo’s grip. “My sister needs me.”
“Do not bother with the taxi,” he said. “Margo is not there.”
“Meaning what, Lorenzo, meaning what?” I pushed him away with one determined fist. “She’s dead? She’s alive? She’s injured or on her way to Rapallo.”
“If she were dead or seriously injured, do you think we would still be standing here?”
“I don’t know because I don’t know you, at least not the real you.”
“Nothing has changed between us, I am what I have always been.”
“Then take me to her. And no more games, Lorenzo. I mean it. She better not be dead.”
“Trust me, Elena.”
“Not until I get answers.”
“First things first, which requires my speaking with Fonso.”
“Not without me and no more secrets.”
I didn’t put up a fight when Lorenzo took my arm, in fact I welcomed the warmth of it, the sensation of his skin touching mine, invoking memories so recent I still tasted him on my lips and in my mouth. Together we walked toward a small crowd gathering behind a barrier the police were setting up. On the way we passed by the wreckage. Nicco was kneeling beside a passenger he must’ve removed from the back seat, both of them covered with more blood than one person could afford to lose. A female, I thought, but not Margo. She would never have worn such klutzy shoes. Make that one shoe, the other was missing.
As soon as we reached the barrier, Fonso came forward and would’ve hugged me had I not moved closer to Lorenzo, so close a thread could not have slid between us.
Fonso smiled like a Cheshire cat wearing a baseball cap. “Ah-h, Signorina Elena, do not despair.”
I did not return the smile but demanded to see my sister.
“Si, si, please come with.” He snapped his fingers and the gypsy brigade surrounded Lorenzo and me.
Lorenzo whispered another, “Trust me,” along with a, “trust them.”
Really, trust a highly respected seducer of at least one aging virgin, okay this was Italy. But what about a highly respected widower whose wife was still alive; and what about a band of gypsies dressed like the Keystone tourists. My instincts told me I should walk to the edge of the barrier, stand beside the nearest police officer. Better yet, scream for Nicco who might come running with his bloody shirt and bloody gloves. Or tell me to shut up as soon as he saw Lorenzo. But this was about Margo, my main concern, my only concern.
“Elena, are you with me?”
I sighed but only from within, and said, “For now, yes.
Still clinging to Lorenzo’s arm, I let him and his gypsy in-law-out-law lead me through the gr
owing crowd of curious onlookers. The blast from one more siren announced the arrival of an ambulance. I turned my head, as would any certified rubbernecker have done. The lack of urgency when the emergency crew exited their vehicle told me they already know the injured were beyond saving. Lorenzo patted my arm, his way of urging me forward, even though each step distancing me from the wreckage became more hesitant than the one before.
When we turned into an alley, the brigade backed off, leaving me with Lorenzo and two strides ahead of us, Fonso.
My feet turned to clay, preventing me from taking one more step. Still, I remained calm when I asked, “How much farther?”
“No more than the blink of one eye,” Fonso said from over his shoulder. He stopped at a bar so obscure I would’ve passed it without a second glance. A cardboard sign stuck in the window was no more than an afterthought and hardly worth the faded lettering that rendered it unreadable. Fonso tugged on the door, tugged again until it squeaked open, and with a sweep of his hand, he motioned me inside.
“Go to your sister, signorina,” he said. “To keep her waiting any longer would be sign of poor manners, even for an Americana.”
Chapter 33
What Accident?
“You first,” I told Lorenzo.
“How many times must I tell you to trust me?”
“Until I know for certain that I can.”
He released his grip on my arm and exchanged it for my hand. I should’ve ignored the strength of his fingers, the warmth of his palm. Instead I reveled in the comfort of his leading me into an ante room and from there through a wood-paneled bar. Its main source of lights came from flickering candles held upright in round wine bottles covered with straw baskets reminiscent of those Italian restaurants located on The Hill in St. Louis. But these patrons were none like I’d seen in St. Louis. These patrons had the look of gypsies, the dress of gypsies. The music of gypsies—pass the guitar and castanets, I could barely hear myself think. The women had scarves tied around their heads, gold dangling from their ears, bracelets jingling from their wrists. Not one of them crossed her eyes or stuck out her foot to trip me as we passed by. Some of the men wore gold earrings and puffed on their cigarettes. If not cigarettes, their cigars; one sucked on a pipe wedged in the corner of his mouth. Man or woman, they all acknowledged Lorenzo with a nod, a wink, or subtle gesture, some spoke a few words though not in Italian but rather what I took to be the Roma I’d heard from Fonso and his men.
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