by John Case
Today it was thronged with holiday travelers from everywhere in the world. The coach of a Finnish bowling team, his players massed behind him, argued with a stern Italian woman who sat behind a plastic counter under a large red question mark. A diminutive Indian couple wove through the crowd, tugging the largest suitcase that Lassiter had ever seen, a sky-blue plastic crate lashed together with bungee cords. Wearing chadors, a squadron of Arab women sat in their robes on the tiled floor, surrounded by children, while Italian businessmen and tourists surged this way and that, pushing and dragging their belongings through an incredible din. Passenger agents darted from line to line, clipboards in hand, asking the same questions over and over again as they affixed tiny stickers to hand luggage. Security guards lounged in pairs, or sauntered this way and that, automatic weapons slung from their shoulders. Lassiter ignored it all as he made his way out of the terminal in search of a cab.
The day was gray, cold, and heavy with a mist that almost, but never quite, coalesced into rain. Lassiter found a cab, negotiated a rate, and sat back in his seat, resting his eyes on the bleak housing projects and light industrial slums that fanned out from the airport on the way into town. Italy can do better than this, he thought.
Italy did. His hotel, the Hassler Medici, hunkered above the newly restored Spanish Steps, its windows gazing out over the Via Condotti, Babington’s Tea Room, and the local McDonald’s. A long-haired boy and girl were standing in the street outside the hotel, handing out flyers to passersby. Lassiter took a flyer, and got a grazie in return.
When he registered at the front desk, the tuxedoed clerk apologized to him for the petitioners, and explained their presence. After centuries of abuse, the steps had decayed to the point where they must be repaired, at enormous expense, or declared ruins. After many delays, the renovation had been undertaken, and when the repairs had been made, a ribbon-cutting ceremony was held. But once the tape had been snipped and publicity photos snapped, the steps were declared closed. Lest they fall into disrepair yet again.
The idea made the desk clerk apoplectic. ‘They fix them, and then they make sure they never have to fix them again! They want to make the steps a museo.’ A cynical laugh. ‘But of course they forget! They are steps, they are there for a reason.’ He shook his head. ‘Today – they are open. Tomorrow?’ His hands flew up. ‘I cannot promise.’ He smiled and extended a key. ‘Welcome to the Eternal City, Mr. Lassiter.’
His room was big, quiet, and expensively furnished. When the door closed behind the bellboy, he sat down upon the bed and, woozy from the long flight, fell backward with a sigh of relief. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he was exhausted from the flight, and the rainy gray light made the afternoon seem like evening.
When he woke, it was dark and, for a moment, he couldn’t be sure if it was six in the morning or six at night. Laying there in the dark, he forced his mind to focus on where (and when) he was. He’d gotten to the hotel at noon. Which meant that it had to be night.
Leaving the bed, he unpacked his bag as a way of waking up. He laid out his toothbrush and razor in the marbled bath, and undressed. Stepping into the shower, he shut his eyes and let the hot water pound on his shoulders, washing the grogginess away. After five minutes, he left the shower for the comfort of a thick white terry-cloth robe that hung from a hook on the bathroom door. Then he went to the minibar for a bottle of Pellegrino water.
Refreshed and alert, he unzipped the nylon carrying case with the portable Compaq nestled inside, and plugged in its adapter. When the computer had gone through its memory routine, Lassiter went to the travel directory and pulled the trip file for Rome. Then he dialed the number for Judy’s guy, the private eye who’d come up empty on Grimaldi.
‘Pronto?’
‘Hi . . . uh – you speak English?’
‘Si-iii.’ He made it two syllables, with the second one ending on a high note. In the background a child was laughing crazily.
‘I’m looking for a Mister . . . Bepi . . .’ The name was impossible.
‘Bepistraversi! That’s me. Is this Joe?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Judy said you’d call.’
‘You have some time?’
‘Absolutely. And everybody calls me Bepi.’
‘So! Bepi. Where do you want to meet? I could come to your office –’
‘Un momento . . .’ Bepi clapped his hand over the mouthpiece, and Lassiter heard an explosive entreaty at the other end of the line. ‘Per favore! Ragazzo!’ Silence. Laughter. And then Bepi’s mellifluous voice again: ‘I think . . . maybe . . . La Rosetta is better. We can have dinner.’ He gave Joe directions to a trattoria in Trastevere. ‘I’ll make a reservation.’
Lassiter dressed quickly and left the hotel a few minutes later. He bought a copy of the Herald Tribune. Not far from the newsagent’s, he stopped at a pasticceria for a cup of coffee. The news was bad, but the coffee was so good that he had another. Nearby, a fountain rained on itself, and a boom box throbbed beside an African street vendor who specialized in writing people’s names on grains of rice.
La Rosetta was a tiny trattoria in what had once been a working-class neighborhood but had long since become a fashionable venue for tourists and Romans alike. Lassiter had been there the summer before, when the city was baking and breezes had been at a premium. He and Monica had eaten at an osteria, seated at a small table set out in the narrow street, buzzed by files of sputtering mopeds and Vespas. As he recalled, the experience had been semisweet, a romantic mix of candlelight and diesel fumes.
But it was winter now. The tables and chairs had moved inside, and so had the tourists, businessmen, and lovers. La Rosetta turned out to be a friendly cave, with ropes of garlic hanging from the beams, and a fire in the fireplace. As soon as Lassiter stepped in from the cold, a stylishly dressed young man materialized beside him. He had black hair down to his shoulders, green eyes, and a hopeful smile. Except for the smile, he looked as if he’d stepped from an Armani ad.
‘You’re Joe, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tony Bepi.’
They shook hands, and found a table at the back of the room, near the doors to the kitchen. The conversation proceeded stiffly around such bland topics as Rome’s pollution and the lira-dollar exchange rate. Finally, the waiter slapped down a carafe of house wine and a bottle of San Gimignano, and took their order.
When he left, Bepi leaned over to Lassiter and, in a low voice, asked: ‘You are angry?’
‘What?’
‘Such a big bill – for such a little information!’
‘What bill?’
‘Grimaldi.’ He sat back in his seat and nodded understandingly.
Lassiter shook his head. ‘No. I’m not angry.’
‘I don’t blame you.’
Lassiter laughed. ‘Really –’
‘Then. . .?’ Bepi frowned, obviously puzzled about why they were there.
‘I spoke with someone,’ Lassiter said, ‘someone in the government. He says our friend is a very serious guy.’
Bepi repeated the word to himself, mulling its meaning. ‘“Serious”?’ he asked.
‘Dangerous. The man I spoke with said that asking about Grimaldi could create problems for you. So, that’s the first order of business. If you weren’t careful –’
Bepi waved the thought away, shaking his head. He offered a pack of Marlboros to Lassiter, and when Lassiter declined, asked if the American found smoking ‘offensive.’ Lassiter shook his head and Bepi sighed with relief. He lighted a cigarette, sucked the smoke into his lungs, and blew a long stream of gray air toward the next table. ‘I was,’ he began, ‘I was . . . how do you say this? Vigile. Vigilant. Judy tells me to be careful. I use a service, you know – and when they do a . . .’ He looked puzzled as he struggled for the word. ‘When they do a . . . wide search, and there’s nothing there, I already know this man is – what did you say? “Serious.”’
‘Why is that?’
An expansive g
esture, another plume of smoke. ‘We’re Italians! We have the most famous bureaucracy in the world! There are half a million people in Italy whose only purpose in life is to stamp things! And then they write your name on a little list. Lots of little lists! So when you run a search and nothing comes back?!’ He shrugged and leaned forward once again. ‘Tell me something: You know Sherlock Holmes?’
‘What about him?’
‘Well,’ Bepi said, with a knowing and contented smile, ‘this is the dog – she does not bark.’
Lassiter laughed, and they made small talk until the waiter arrived with half a dozen plates on his arm. He dealt them out, one by one, like cards. When he was gone, Bepi looked directly into Lassiter’s eyes and said, ‘Tell me something else.’
‘What?’
‘Is it SISMI? Or the Mafia? Or both?’
Lassiter looked at him for a moment, thinking that he hadn’t given Bepi enough credit. Finally he said, ‘It’s SISMI.’
Bepi nodded.
‘So it’s good you were careful.’
The Italian shrugged. ‘And now you’re here about this man? Grimaldi?’ He shook his head. ‘Unless it’s very important, maybe this isn’t such a good idea. It might not be worth your fees.’
‘Don’t worry about the fees.’
Bepi thought about that. Made a little moue. ‘Can I ask? Who’s the client?’
‘I’m the client. Judy didn’t tell you?’
‘You know what Judy’s like. She said you’d call. Wait by the phone. She didn’t say anything else.’
‘Well . . . the thing about Grimaldi is . . . he stabbed my sister in the heart. And then he cut her son’s throat. And they died.’
‘Unnh!’ Bepi winced, and looked away for a moment. ‘I – I’m very sorry.’ After a suitable silence, he looked up and said, ‘So . . .?’ Then his index finger fluttered back and forth, like a gate opening and closing between them.
‘I need some help.’
‘Si-iii?’ As it had on the telephone, the Italian’s voice rose an octave, conveying a sense of cautious or tentative availability.
Lassiter poured each of them a glass of wine, sipped, and shrugged. ‘I’m going to visit a couple of Grimaldi’s addresses, see what I can find out. Maybe look up his sister. I’ll need an interpreter – and a guide.’
Bepi sipped his wine, thought about it for a moment, and leaned forward. ‘I will help you.’
‘You’re sure?’
Bepi made a gesture, dismissing the dangers. ‘If it is as you say,’ he said, ‘it’s personal, between you and Grimaldi – I’m not worried. This is a civilized country. Even the Mafia . . . they’re not sociopaths. If I’m translating for you – I’m like the wallpaper, you know?’
Lassiter nodded, a little uncertainly, and then the two of them dug into their plates of calamari rings and roasted vegetables.
*
They set out early the next morning in Bepi’s car, a Volkswagen Golf. Though the car was an old one, it was spotlessly clean and almost professionally maintained. Even so, a plastic Lenin stood on the dashboard where a plastic Jesus might have been, and a small soccer ball dangled from the rearview mirror. Bepi snapped a cassette into the tape deck, and Verdi poured forth.
A series of near-death encounters followed almost immediately as the Italian wove in and out of traffic, barking invectives at other drivers and leaning on his horn – which tootled inanely through the din of the Roman rush hour. Lassiter showed him the three addresses that he had: the one from Grimaldi’s passport and the two that Woody had supplied. Bepi frowned at the addresses. ‘These are two different worlds,’ he said. ‘Which one do you want to see first?’
‘The current one. The one from his passport.’
The apartment was in Testaccio, a working-class neighborhood just down the hill from the Aventine. It was a six-story walkup, a moldering tenement whose flaking gray exterior was livened only a little by the laundry that seemed to hang from every window. An emaciated old woman was sweeping the sidewalk with a twig broom and talking to herself.
‘This can’t be it,’ Lassiter said.
‘Why not?’ Bepi replied, double-checking the address.
‘Because he drives a Range Rover. Because he’s got a place in Switzerland.’
‘This is it, 114.’
Lassiter didn’t believe it. ‘It’s a mistake.’
‘Let me talk to the old woman.’ Bepi climbed out of the car and went up to her with his hands together and his head lowered, supplicating. ‘Scusi, bella . . .’
It only took a minute, and Bepi was back. ‘He hasn’t been here for a couple of months, but the rent’s paid. Let’s go upstairs. Maybe we can look at it.’
Grimaldi’s apartment turned out to be on the top floor, next to a darkened stairwell that smelled of cabbage soup. They stood in front of the door for a moment, gearing up.
‘I hate this,’ Lassiter said.
‘What?’ Bepi asked.
Lassiter made a gesture. ‘This kinda thing. I did it once before, in Brussels, and it didn’t turn out that well.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. It makes me wish I had a gun.’
‘No problem,’ Bepi said, conjuring a Beretta from a holster at the small of his back. ‘Here. Take mine.’
Lassiter gaped. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said. ‘Put that away! What are you – Sam Spade?’
Bepi shrugged, the gun vanished, and Lassiter knocked on the door – tentatively, uncertain who or what might be inside. When no one answered, he knocked a second time, somewhat louder, and then a third. Finally, he stepped aside to let Bepi open the door, using his Visa card to spring the cheap lock. ‘I still think it’s the wrong place,’ Lassiter said as the lock slid back and the door swung open.
The room they entered was meticulously clean and as bare as a monk’s cell. The old pine floors were smooth and glowing, as if they’d been sanded with steel wool. The walls were empty, except for an old wooden crucifix, its arms entwined with a desiccated palm frond. There were no other ornaments or pictures, and very little furniture. A narrow metal cot; a battered armoire; a gunmetal desk and straight-backed chair; a sink with a cracked mirror above it. A single window looked out on a trash-strewn courtyard, and the only light in the room was an overhead fixture with a forty-watt bulb.
‘Look,’ Bepi said, gesturing to the desk. ‘The man reads.’ He picked up one of the books, and looked at another. ‘Or maybe he just prays.’
There were three books. The first was a Bible, its pages so thickened with use that it no longer lay closed, but fanned open to a page of Revelations. Under the Bible was a Latin primer, and beneath that, a religious pamphlet. The pamphlet was entitled, ‘Crociata Diecima.’
‘What’s that?’ Lassiter asked.
Bepi handed him the pamphlet. Beneath the title was a large oval, and inside the oval a line suggesting a hill, with a stark cross at the top. The cross cast a long shadow. Written in the shadow, in bright gold letters, were the words: Umbra Domini. Lassiter pointed to the title: ‘Crociata Diecima.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Tenth Crusade,’ Bepi said.
‘Which is what?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not superstitious.’
‘You mean religious.’
‘Ehhh!’ The sound exploded from the doorway at their back, and the two of them spun around, expecting the police, or worse. Instead an old man barged into the room, shaking his finger at them as if they were children, and shouting, ‘Vietato! Vietato! Vergogna!’ He grabbed the pamphlet from Lassiter’s hands, tossed it back on the desk, and shoved them out the door, his finger wagging like a metronome from side to side.
‘What’s he talking about?’ Lassiter asked, heading for the stairs.
‘He says we’re bad. He says we should be ashamed.’
It was an unnerving display, but by the time they reached the street, they were both smiling. ‘He kicked our ass,’ Lassiter said, getting into the car. ‘What w
as that thing with the finger?’
‘Vergogna!’ Bepi replied, putting the Golf into gear and pulling away from the curb. ‘Look, he’s still there! I think he’s getting our license plate number.’
Lassiter turned and saw the old man standing on the curb, peering after them. ‘So what’s vergogna?’ he asked.
‘It means “Shame on you!”’ Bepi shrugged. He stuck his hand out the window and waved at the old man. ‘So? Where to?’
Lassiter took a piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to Bepi. ‘Via Barberini.’
The apartment building was a luxurious one, just north of the Villa Borghese, in one of Rome’s most fashionable neighborhoods. The building’s facade was faced with creamy marble, and everything else seemed to be glass or brass. They found the superintendent in the lobby, misting a bank of ferns at the edge of a small fountain. Even without looking, Lassiter knew the fountain was filled with Japanese carp.
At first the super didn’t remember Grimaldi at all, but a fistful of lire changed all that. Pocketing the money, the old man smiled. Speaking to Bepi in Italian, he said it was a long time ago, but he remembered Signor Grimaldi very well – and his sister. With a wink and a nod, he conveyed the idea that Grimaldi was a man of affairs.
‘What kind of “affairs”?’ Lassiter asked.
Bepi put the question to the superintendent, then translated. ‘Both kinds. Business and women. He got around.’
The superintendent laughed. ‘Si, si! Giacomo Bondi!’
Bepi began to translate: ‘He says he was like –’
‘James Bond. I get it.’
The superintendent went on to describe a man whose life was larger than life until – powww! He made an explosive gesture, his arms rising into the air like parentheses. Suddenly Signor Grimaldi is assolutamente diverso. No women, no parties, no tips! He sells his car, he sells the apartment! He sells the other apartment! He gives away furniture, paintings – tutto tutto tutto. Everything must go – until he has nothing. And, in fact, the superintendent said, he himself benefited from the man’s philanthropy. Grimaldi gave him a fine leather jacket – si si si – fino, suave. The old man stroked his sleeve for a moment. Finally, he blew a breath of air through his lips and looked to heaven with an expression of bafflement.