by John Case
‘Roy, it’s Joe Lassiter. You awake?’
‘Mmmmn-hmnn.’
‘I’ve got a problem.’
‘Hunnh.’
‘Roy – seriously – wake up. I’m in trouble.’
‘Hunnh! Right. Wide awake! What sort of trouble?’
‘There’s, uh . . . some people are dead. I can’t get to my passport. I’m kind of busted up. And . . .’
‘And?! There’s an “and”?’
‘I’m driving a stolen car.’
‘Otherwise?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Right. And where would you be?’
‘I’m on the autostrada, outside Florence. At a rest stop. I’m kind of banged up and . . . I need a way out. To France or Switzerland – someplace where I can go to the embassy and pick up a new passport. What day is it, anyway?’
A pause. ‘It is Sunday. It is very early Sunday morning.’
‘Okay. So, Monday, Tuesday at the latest – flaps up.’
‘You said some people were hurt?’
‘I said they were dead.’
‘Yes, well: very badly hurt, then. And you’re driving a . . . loaner?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t mean to be lukewarm, but the embassy . . . isn’t that a bad idea? I’m sure I could arrange documents in someone else’s name – though by Tuesday? I dunno.’
‘I’ll take my chances with the embassy. The important thing is for me to get out of Italy. Soon.’
‘Yes, well – give me an hour – two would be better – and ring me back. If you don’t get through, ring me up every hour on the hour after that. I’ll have someone meet you with a car.’
‘One other thing.’
‘Dunwold’s here, pen in hand. . . .’
‘I’ll need some clothes.’
‘My God! You’re nude?’
‘No, I’m not nude. My pants are wet!’
‘My! We have had a time of it, haven’t we?’
‘Roy – just get me some fucking clothes.’
‘Right. I’ll see what I can do.’
He decided not to wait in the rest stop, but to move on, heading north. That’s where the borders were, and if he stayed where he was, he’d just attract attention. Back on the highway, he cranked up the heat in the Rover, turned on the radio and hoped that his pants would dry.
He was five miles south of Bologna, traveling at eighty-five, when a white Alfa pulled even with him, slowed and kept pace. They rode like this for a mile or two until Lassiter, irritated, turned with a scowl toward the other driver – who turned out to be a policeman. Reflexively, Lassiter slowed, and so did the cop – who raised his forefinger and, with a look of expressionless gravity, pointed ahead to the side of the road.
It never occurred to Lassiter to run for it. He was too tired, he didn’t know the road, and the likelihood was that he’d get himself killed. So he pulled over, onto the shoulder, and waited to surrender.
The Alfa pulled in behind him, and its driver got out with a hand on his holster. Lassiter kept his own hands in plain sight, on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, until the policeman tapped on the window. Then he rolled it down.
The cop looked at him without expression, surveying the cuts on his face, the gash in his head, and the fractured windshield. Finally, he said, ‘Patente,’ and held out his hand.
Reflexively, Lassiter reached for his wallet, and taking out his driver’s license, gave it to the man.
‘Grazie, signore,’ the policeman said, glancing at the license. ‘Inglese?’ he asked.
Lassiter shook his head. ‘American.’
The cop nodded, as if this explained something. ‘Momento,’ he said, and walked slowly around to the front of the car. He squatted for a few moments, examining the shattered headlight, then got to his feet and ran his hand across the hood, pausing to finger each of the bullet holes. He studied the windshield for what seemed a long time, then made his way back to the driver’s side of the car. It’s all over, Lassiter thought, and reached for the door handle, thinking he might as well get out, put his hands on the hood, and spread ’em.
But to his amazement, the policeman took out a pad and began writing. When he was done, he tore the page from the book and handed it to Lassiter. ‘Parla Italiano?’ he asked.
Lassiter shook his head, disbelieving. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
Once again the cop nodded. Then he pointed to the broken headlight, the shattered windshield, and the amount of the ticket. Which was 90,000 lire, or about sixty dollars.
Lassiter pulled 100,000 lire from his wallet and pushed it into the policeman’s hands. ‘Grazie,’ Lassiter said. ‘Grazie!’
‘Per favore,’ the policeman replied, and removing an oversized, zippered wallet from his coat, put Lassiter’s bills inside. Then he extracted a 10,000 lire note and handed it to him.
‘Ecco il suo cambio, signore.’
Lassiter nodded, wondering if it was a joke.
The policeman touched his cap. ‘Buon viaggio,’ he said, and returned to his car. Is this a great country, or what? Lassiter thought.
He found the rest stop he was looking for less than ten minutes later. Roy answered on the third ring.
‘Hang on, Joe, would you? I’m still on the other line.’ A moment later, he returned.
‘All right, then,’ Roy said. ‘I just got something sorted out; tell me if it works. Found a fella in the import-export business. Libertarian, like. Takes olive oil into Slovenia, brings cigarettes out. All very legal – except for the part about taxes. Which he doesn’t seem to pay. So he has his ways to cross the border, dun’ ’e? Anyway, it won’t be cheap, but you can ride along if you want. Excess baggage, like. Innarested?’
‘Yeah. No! I mean – where the fuck is Slovenia?’
‘Last time I looked, it was in Yugoslavia – upper left.’
‘How much does he want?’
‘Two K – dollars. No checks.’
‘No problem. Except . . . I don’t have that much.’
‘Not to worry. I’ll fix it up on this end.’
Lassiter breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Listen, Roy, if there’s ever anything –’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah . . .’
‘Well, there is one thing . . .’
‘What’s that?’
‘You could let me open a Paris office.’
Lassiter laughed. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said.
‘I’m not. The work’s there.’
‘We’ll talk about it when I get back.’
Roy’s instructions were simple enough. Take the A-13 north to Padua, and change to the A-4, heading north. The rendezvous would be at kilometer 56, between Venice and Trieste, the only service area on that particular stretch of road. The man he was looking for would be wearing a blue jumpsuit with ‘Mario’ stitched above the pocket. They’d meet at the coffee bar, where Lassiter was to stand with a copy of Oggi in front of him. ‘You can get it everywhere,’ Roy assured him.
Except you couldn’t. The newsstand didn’t open until seven, and his meeting was at six.
Lassiter checked the trash receptacles as discreetly as he could, but they’d been cleaned out by the maintenance staff. Barring a foray into town, there was nothing he could do but stand at the coffee bar reading a menu, and hope that Mario wasn’t a stickler for tradecraft.
Lassiter was on his fourth cappuccino when a grizzled fireplug swaggered into the bar, wearing a workman’s blue jumpsuit. He had a package in one hand, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and ‘Mario’ on his chest. Coming up to the bar, he glanced at Lassiter, ordered an espresso, and looked away.
Lassiter gave it a minute and turned to him. ‘Scusi,’ he said, exhausting his Italian. ‘Scusi!’ Mario turned his back toward him and gave a little wave, as if to say, Don’t bother me.
Lassiter thought about it for a moment, then tapped him on his shoulder. ‘You know where I can buy a copy of Oggi?’ he asked. Mario shook his head.
‘Because what I’m looking for,’ he said, ‘is Oggi! The Italian newspaper? “OH-GEE”? Ever heard of it?’
Mario turned to him slowly, with a look of angry amazement, and a question in his eyes that didn’t need translating: Are you out of your fucking mind?
‘It’s too early, signore,’ the barman said, giving Lassiter a warning look. ‘You have to wait.’
Lassiter shrugged as Mario tossed some money on the bar, picked up his package, and, without looking back, walked to the men’s room. The American stayed where he was for a long minute, then followed the Italian back to the lavatory. Inside, Mario shoved the package into his arms and rolled his head in the direction of the stalls.
‘You speak English?’ Lassiter asked.
‘No.’
Interesting.
The package was wrapped in brown paper and neatly tied with twine. Inside was a jumpsuit, just like the one Mario wore, except that the name on the pocket was ‘Cesare.’ He stripped off his pants, put the jumpsuit on, and considered the result. His legs were three inches too long, and the tassel loafers that he wore were about as appropriate as a pith helmet at the opera. Still, it was a uniform, and any uniform was a good disguise. A FedEx guy, a nurse, a cop – in this case, a Smurf. People saw the uniform and never looked at the face. Anyway, Lassiter thought, the jumpsuit was a lot more comfortable than his pants – which he stuffed in the trash. At least the jumpsuit was dry.
Mario’s truck was a dwarf semi, bigger than a pickup or a step van, but smaller than anything else you’d see on an American road. And it was wired for sound, with fifty-watt speakers in the doors.
Unfortunately, Mario’s taste in music ran to Europop, and very old rock and roll. Worse, he was a singer, though Lassiter had to admit that he had every breath and intonation – every hesitation – down.
‘All the little birds on Jay-bird Street . . .’
Someone was shaking his arm. He came to a semblance of consciousness in the front seat of the truck, holding his leather jacket in his lap. His face stung. His ankle throbbed, his head hurt, and his ribs were raw. Otherwise, he was fine, except for the fog he was in.
‘Attenzione!’ The voice made him jump. He turned.
Oh yeah, Mario. In the seat next to him, the little guy in the blue jumpsuit gave him a serious look and pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Niente,’ he said, in case Lassiter didn’t get the message.
The radio was playing ‘The Wanderer.’
‘Go ’round and ’round and ’round . . .’
A sign at the side of the road told him they were near Gorizia, wherever that was. Soon afterward, they pulled up at a border crossing, where there was yet another sign: SANT’ ANDREA ESTE. A uniformed man emerged from a small wooden building, smiled, and waved them on.
They drove slowly. Mario tapped his arm again and, steering with his knees, cocked his head, put his palms together, and briefly shut his eyes. Then he made a snoring sound, sat up, and pointed decisively at Lassiter.
He got it.
The American leaned against the door, relaxed his muscles, and closed his eyes. Mostly. They passed a sign that read N. GORICA, and soon afterward came upon a second building. Cinder block, this time.
A man in a gray uniform emerged, and gestured for Mario to come inside. It was obvious that he wanted both of them to get out of the truck, but Mario shook his head and, with a pitying look, nodded toward the apparently sleeping Lassiter. A string of Italian followed, and finally the guard shook his head and shrugged. With a grazie, Mario jumped from the truck and followed the other man into the building. Lassiter watched through narrowly parted eyelids as Mario joined several other men, sitting at a table, playing cards.
It was strange, listening to them talk without understanding a word – it made him alert to every nuance and mannerism, so that the half-glimpsed scene in front of him seemed unusually vivid and complex. What was that supposed to mean? And that! And that!
This went on for twenty minutes, as Mario drank, first, a cup of coffee, and then an aperitif.
And then another.
Lassiter gritted his teeth as the men joked and smoked. From time to time paroxysms of laughter burst from the building. Finally, they all stood up and, one by one, exchanged abrazos. Moments later Mario emerged, climbed into the truck, and, with a wink, drove off.
A sign announced that they were in Slovenia. Seeing it, Lassiter gave Mario the thumbs-up. Mario grinned and gave a little shrug. Nothing to it.
The road ran beside a narrow river that cut through a valley in the mountains. There were orchards and vineyards on either side, and limestone outcroppings everywhere. An inch of fresh snow lay on the ground, and everything seemed prosperous and in good repair. At the crossroads there were signs for places Lassiter couldn’t pronounce: Ajdovscina, Postojna, Vrhnika, Kranj. The only place he’d ever heard of was their destination, Ljubljana, the capital.
It took them an hour and a half to reach it, but when they did, it was all at once. There were no suburbs, just a beautiful city in the middle of a beautiful country. Mario pulled to a stop in front of the railroad station and turned to Lassiter. ‘Loob-yana,’ he said. It was the first time the American had ever heard the name pronounced.
Lassiter shook his hand and was about to climb out when the Italian touched his sleeve. Pinching the fabric of the jumpsuit between his thumb and forefinger, he said something that obviously translated as ‘Give it back.’ With a look of surprise, Lassiter turned his palms to the roof. Then he crossed his hands in his lap and looked frantically from side to side.
The light dawned – no pants. With a grin, Mario put the truck back into gear and drove them to what turned out to be a Sunday market in the oldest part of town. Though most of the stalls sold vegetables and food, there were a few that sold clothes. Lassiter found a pair of jeans in his size, and a T-shirt with the words: I Ljubljana.
He changed clothes in the back of the truck and, after shaking hands with Mario, got out at the Grand Hotel. ‘Arrivederci,’ Lassiter said.
‘Catch you later,’ Mario replied and, with a grin, pulled away from the curb.
The desk clerk was a bald man with a handlebar mustache and a bright red nose. Lassiter asked for a room, and the man nodded crisply. ‘Passport?’
The American shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to get a new one in the morning.’
The clerk looked at his face and frowned with concern. ‘You have been in a crash?’ he asked, patting his fingertips gingerly against his own cheeks. ‘In your car?’
It sounded good to Lassiter. ‘Yeah –’
‘Ohhhh,’ the man crooned. ‘I am so sorry for you. Would you like a doctor?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘No, I’m going back to the States tomorrow. All I need right now is some rest.’
‘Of course,’ the clerk said, and gave him a registration card to fill out.
In the morning Lassiter found a men’s store in the old part of town, where he bought an Italian suit and everything else he needed. While the trousers were being taken in for length, he breakfasted on coffee and croissants, read the Herald Tribune, and bought a cane at the local pharmacy. Then he went back for the suit and other clothes that he’d bought.
It was barely noon when he returned to the hotel. Changing quickly, he went out again to have some passport pictures made. Then he walked to the American embassy on Prazakova Street and lied through his teeth. He’d gone to the casino last night. There’d been a girl. And then an argument with one of the locals. When he woke up, he was back at his hotel, but his passport was missing – and it looked to him as if he’d lost a fight. (Though he didn’t remember being in a fight, not really.)
The clerk looked about twenty-three, and had ‘Bennington’ written all over her. ‘Do you think it was stolen?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Lassiter said. ‘The night’s kinda hazy.’
‘Well . . . did you report it to the police?’
‘No.’
&nbs
p; ‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t think my wife would understand.’
‘Oh.’
To his surprise, he was taken at his word. And to his relief, there was nothing in the embassy’s computers to suggest that anyone in Italy was looking for a killer tourist named Joseph Lassiter. In the end, no alarms went off. The red tape was next to nothing, and within an hour he had a temporary passport, good for a year.
And so it went. He found an Air Adria flight that took him to Paris that same afternoon. There, a bus carried him from Orly Airport to Charles de Gaulle, where he boarded a United flight for Washington. Easing himself into a seat in the First Class cabin, he asked the flight attendant for a Bloody Mary, sat back and closed his eyes.
Listening to the sounds around him, it was almost as if he was already back in the U.S. of A. The flight attendants were so wonderfully midwestern that Lassiter wanted to tip them just for talking.
Finally, the 747 rumbled into position on the runway, revved its engines to a roar, and rolled toward the horizon. Moments later they were airborne, climbing over the Bois de Boulogne. The landing gear thumped. The seat belt sign pinged off. And one of the flight attendants came by with his Bloody Mary.
‘Migosh,’ she said, setting the drink on his tray, ‘what happened to you?’
‘Actually,’ Lassiter said, ‘I fell off a cliff.’
She gave him a radiant smile, a bag of peanuts, and a playful slap on the forearm. ‘Oh, you!’ she said.
‘No – really.’
‘Well, how did you do that?’ she asked, taking the seat beside him and crossing her legs with a zip of static from her panty hose.
Lassiter shrugged. ‘It was easy,’ he said. ‘I just let go.’ Then he tapped the rim of his glass against the plastic window and toasted Roy Dunwold. ‘To the wild blue yonder,’ he said.
‘Clink!’ she riposted. ‘Clink clink!’
30
‘VERY BAD STORM, sir! Very bad. A true blizzard!’
‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Lassiter said, hoping that Freddy had remembered to have his driveway plowed. ‘It must have been something.’
‘Oh, yes, sir! I don’t mind telling you! I am writing home about “the Storm of ’Ninety-six.”’