by Jack Barnao
Herbie was still silent. I think the kid was awestruck, probably with the girl, who was a traffic-stopper, but maybe at the speed of my reaction. It didn't bother me, I was looking to promote a closer acquaintance. "You live here, in Florence?"
She nodded. "Yes, I am a. . ." she paused to hunt for the word, "a teacher of art."
"And now it is summer, are you on vacation?" I asked, and sipped my beer.
She nodded. "During the summer, I sometimes show people the art in our city."
I wondered how that line of work could provide the kind of jewelry she was wearing but this was one gift horse I didn't intend to look in the mouth. "Herbie is here to look at the art in Florence. We are here for three weeks."
I let it sit there, giving her all the opportunity she needed to back away gracefully. She said, "Three weeks. That is excellent. So many visitors come for a day. They see David and some of the paintings and they buy purses and glassware and they go home saying they have seen Florence. To see Florence takes a lifetime."
"Well, if it's not too pushy of me, I wonder if you have a little time to show us something of your city. We would, of course, pay you for the service."
She gave us another one of her heart-slowing smiles. "It would be a great pleasure."
She had almost finished her coffee and I was well down my beer. It was time to move. "We are staying at the Hotel Rega," I said. "John Locke and Herb Ridley. If you were free tomorrow, perhaps you could meet us there, after breakfast."
"I will be there at eight thirty," she said. "And now, I must go home and change. I am dirty from falling."
"Until tomorrow then, signora," I said and stood up. "And thank you for the beer."
"Thank you, Signor Locke," she said. "I have all my money in this." She held up the purse like a trophy, then opened it and took out a change purse. She rummaged in it and brought out ten thousand lire which she dropped on the table. Then she held out her hand to me. "Until tomorrow."
I took her hand and she squeezed mine. "And please, do not call me signora. My name is Carla."
"Domani, Carla," I said. "Come on Herbie, let's go."
He finally spoke when we were on the street. "Jeeezus! Did you get a look at her?"
"For sure," I told him, "you figure she can show us around better than that creep in the place we had lunch?"
"She can show me around the goddamn world," he said. Playboy forever!
"Yeah, she's a dish. But I also think she's a grifter," I said.
"You mean, like a phony?" He was shocked. The bad guys are always ugly in the fairy stories he watched on TV.
"I think so," I said. "For one thing, she's not a native Italian."
He stopped, astonished, and I turned to wait for him. "What the hell makes you say that, just because she speaks good English?"
"Partly that. As good as her English is, she shouldn't have to think twice to find the word for teacher."
"Yeah, well, she was shook up. Like she'd just been mugged." It was reasonable enough that I questioned my own judgment, but there was another fact to add to the pot.
"The other thing is, no Italian ever drinks cappuccino after midday. They drink espresso. Cappuccino is for breakfast or for tourists."
He started to move again, slowly, drawn along by the discussion. "You sure about that?"
"Sure as you're born."
"Then you mean she was just pretending. Why'd she do that?"
"Unless I miss my guess, somebody knows you're in town and is trying to get next to you. That would explain why the police knew I was carrying and they disarmed me. Somebody must have told them. And it also explains why that guy tried to pick us up in that restaurant. And, when that didn't work, they staged that little charade so we'd feel all paternal about Carla Fontana."
Herbie frowned. "You really believe all that? Shit, you're suspicious."
"I believe it enough to call the tenente who took my gun and ask if she's got a record," I said. "Let's get back to the room and do it."
He caught up to me with two jogging steps, then slouched again, walking in time to my steps but back in his familiar negligent mold. "But if you think somebody's tryin' a pull something, why'd you ask her to show us around?"
"If she does, we'll know what their moves are. If we don't, they could try something we're not prepared for," I said. "And anyway, that's one hell of a nice-looking lady."
"Sure is," he said. "I hope you're wrong about her."
Chapter 7
I called the desk from the room and they connected me with Tenente Capelli. He sounded peeved, either I had torn him from the noontime embraces of Signora Capelli or he figured I was going to argue with him about my gun.
"Tenente Capelli."
"Tenente, thank you for taking the call. This is John Locke." He didn't cut in or sigh loudly enough to be a distraction so I sailed on. Herbie was watching me from the couch where he was sprawled with his feet up on one end. "Tenente, I am a professional bodyguard in Canada and the reason I am here in Florence is to protect Mr. Ridley."
"You have no permission for the gun," he began but I flagged that one down. If I had been on my native heath I would have made a joke about it but I figured my sense of humor would lose something in translation, like his temper.
"No, I appreciate that and I'm sorry you had to come and get it. The reason I'm calling is that I am anxious to find out if a person who has contacted us has a criminal record. I assume that you, as a professional policeman, share that interest."
"Possibly," he said, but his interest was rising.
"It's a woman, five-six, about one-fifteen pounds, that would be fifty kilos. She's very good-looking, around twenty-eight, seems wealthy, and she gave us the name of Carla Fontana."
"The name is not known to me." He sounded huffy again.
"I was wondering if it might be possible to check your files, tenente, and see if you have a listing for such a woman."
"And what am I looking for, Signor Locke? For a thief?" He was acting disgusted with me. "What makes you so certain that your companion is attractive to a thief?"
"Tenente, he is from one of the wealthiest families in my country. In the past, before the Polizia broke up the Red Guard, there were incidents in Italy. It is my job to prevent such an incident. I am requesting your assistance."
"You are at the hotel?"
"Yes, room six-fourteen."
"Wait," he said and hung up.
Herbie parted his feet so he could get a better look at me over the end of the couch. "What'd he do, tell ya to shove it?"
"He's calling back," I told him. "Go ahead and snooze for an hour, I'll wait."
"Suits me," he said and turned over so he could lie face down on the couch. Inside a minute he was asleep.
I spent the time usefully. I got the hotel to make another call, to Rome, to Guido Vona. Gina answered and I chatted with her about the kids for a minute until Guido could grab the phone. He was as excitable as ever, his English still as heavily accented.
"Eh, John, you're 'ere, in Roma?"
"Not quite, but closer than I've been since '82. I'm in Florence at the Rega Hotel."
"At's nice. On business?"
"Kind of. Listen, I wondered if you were still working at the old trade?"
"Bakin' bread," he said, very carefully. Maybe phones were still tapped in Italy, even though the Red Guard was sewing mailbags for the next twenty years.
"Of course," I said heartily. "I was wondering if I could get a special order from you. I'm expecting a party. Maybe you could make a delivery to me, the same as last time would be perfect."
"Thatsa lotta money, Johnnie, everything's so caro."
"I could go as high as five hundred mille. I admire your cooking so well."
"I'm busy right now," he said carefully. "It take some time to see you."
"Yeah, well, tomorrow would be good. I'll pay you for your travel."
"Hokay. I see you atta hotel, four o'clock, domani."
"Thanks
Guido. My mouth is watering," I said. "Ciao."
"Ciao," he said and hung up to contemplate where he could get me a nice clean piece. With all the guns left behind in mainland Europe during the war I figured he would make himself at least half the five hundred thousand lire, that would pay him a hundred and a quarter U.S. dollars for his night's work and expenses for his drive. And I would be back where I'd been before the tenente's visit.
I sat and put my feet up, staring blankly at the telephone. My Mickey Mouse code wouldn't fool the police for a minute if they were on to Guido's sideline but he was straight except for the guns and he never sold to terrorists, just honest robbers. Probably he wasn't exceptional enough to rate a permanent tap. He had helped the police on the Red Guard thing, cautiously, of course. That was when I had met him, when I was seconded to Rome to act as bodyguard to the British Ambassador, after his regular guy was caught in bed with a handsome souschef from the Embassy kitchen at a time when the General Dozier kidnapping had all the foreign dovecotes in Italy fluttering.
The phone rang fifteen minutes later. It was Capelli. He sounded more interested this time. "I have no Carla Fontana, but there is a Carla Dezotti who sounds the same as you say." He sounded grudgingly respectful for my sharpness in picking her out.
"Do you have a photograph, tenente?"
"Yes, can you come and look at it?"
"I could, but I don't know whether somebody is setting me up. If I come to see you, they might suspect something."
He sniffed impatiently, so I tried the other alternative. "Perhaps you could come by for a drink or for dinner this evening? People would think I was just trying to get you to give me my toy back."
"You are a nuisance, Signor Locke," he said. "But you make sense sometimes. I will be there at six. In the bar."
"I appreciate that, tenente. And tell me, what has this Carla Dezotti done?"
"She is the associate of a man called Pietro Scavuzzo in Milano. He is someone we are watching."
"The plot thickens," I said and he cut in with exasperation.
"What is that?"
"It means, things are beginning to come together. Tell me, does your file say that this signorina is from North America?"
Now he sounded impressed. "How did you know that?"
"Just a hunch. I'll see you at six, and thank you for your trouble."
"I think you are a lot of trouble," he said and hung up.
There was nothing else to do for an hour so I changed into running gear and hit the street. Heading upriver, away from the city center, it was possible to find enough space to move and I put in a fast forty minutes before coming back into the hotel a soggy mass of righteous muscle. I was hoping to pick up my key without being noticed. Despite what fulltime jocks think there's very little less exciting than a steaming athlete. There was a woman at the desk, talking to the manager who was explaining something in rapid-fire Italian. I glanced at the woman, automatically. She was in her late thirties, six or seven years older than I am but you'd have to be an expert to know it. She was pretty. Not beautiful, like Carla-whatever-her-real-name-was, but blonde and wholesome and obviously North American. One of the maturing ex-model types you see in corn-flakes commercials.
I walked up and suddenly the manager broke off. "Signor Locke." I turned and beamed, she was looking at me as well. "Yes, signor.
He came around the counter, all pinstripes and anxiety. "Signor, this lady is Signora Ridley. She wishes to talk to you."
I'd seen Signora Ridley at the family palace and this wasn't her, neither was she an old lady in a wheelchair. But I smiled and said, "Mrs. Ridley, I don't believe we've met. I'm John Locke, can I help you?"
She didn't smile, she looked anxious and natural, not out to win me over with synthetic syrup. "Mr. Locke. I'm Herbie's mother," she said.
I didn't let my surprise show. "How do you do? We weren't expecting you, this is a pleasant surprise."
The manager was standing to one side like an anxious stage manager in the wings. She gave him a formal little smile and turned back to me. "The surprise is mutual. I always stay here when I'm in Florence." She was carrying a handsome red leather purse and she held it up to explain. "Leather goods. I run a little chain of boutiques in Canada but I come here often on buying trips. How did you come to choose this hotel?"
I grinned. "It's making more sense to me now," I said. "Elspeth Ridley sent us here. Arranged the reservation ahead, from Toronto. I guess she was hoping this would happen."
She turned back to the manager and spoke to him in Italian. He made an ingratiating little grin and answered her. She nodded and came back to me. "Yes, Guglielmo got a call from Elspeth; she asked him to make sure I found out about Herbie's being here."
I spread my hands, indicating the running gear. "I'm not very presentable right now, but we have a suite, I can be invisible while I change, please come on up and see him. He's catching up on some missed sleep."
"You're sure you don't mind?" There was iron underneath the charm but she kept it well hidden. "No, it's a real pleasure. I figured Mrs. Ridley senior was a fan of yours, from what she said, now I can see why."
Now she gave me a smile. "You're very gallant, Mr. Locke."
I led the way to the elevator. "Call me John, please, I'm working for the family and it's more friendly anyway."
"Fine, and I'm Catherine. People usually call me Kate." She had a voice to match her looks, firm and confident and attractive. It seemed to me that Ridley senior must be as big a twit as he looked if he'd traded in this model on Pitty-Pat Peachfuzz.
The elevator was European and slow and we had enough time in it for me to contemplate telling her she didn't look old enough to be Herbie's mother. But I realized she was matter-of-fact enough to tell me she was sixteen when she had him and leave me to pick the bones out of that so I talked shop instead. "Did Elspeth explain to the manager why I'm here?"
"No, she said that Herbie was in the company of Mr. Locke, but that was all."
The elevator stopped and I let her lead me out. "I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on him while he gets a look at the art."
"Does he need a fulltime person to do that? Couldn't he have come with a group or something?" she asked curiously.
"His grandmother thought not," I said, and added the obvious question. "Have you seen much of him since the divorce?"
She faced me as I unlocked the door. "I haven't seen him since he was fourteen." Her voice hardened. "It was not my idea, Mr. Locke, but the Ridleys are a very difficult family."
"I know," I said and ushered her in.
Herbie was still asleep, lying curled on his side. Except for his ghostly juvenile stubble he looked the way he must have as an infant. I crouched and spoke to him. "Herbie, wake up."
He woke and tried to focus on me. "Wassup?"
"Sit up, son. Your mother's here to see you."
He sat up and put his feet on the floor, rubbing his eyes. Then he looked up and his eyes widened. "Mom," he said, in a wondrous voice.
I don't think they heard me excuse myself. I went into my room and had a glass of water, then poured a good belt of Black Bush and took it into a long tub. I normally only shower but I wanted them to have some space. Then I dressed in gray slacks and a red shirt that had vacation written all over it and went back into the sitting room.
Herbie had been crying but he was dry-eyed now, sitting across from his mother who was in an armchair. I stood and waited until they both looked up at me. "I'll be downstairs in the bar," I said but Kate Ridley shook her head.
"Please join us, John. Herbie and I have been talking and I thought we might decide now how I can fit in with your plans."
"That would be great," I said and sat down in the other armchair.
"I'm here for another week, leaving Sunday morning," she said. "I have appointments every morning this week but the rest of my time is free. I was hoping to share the time with Herbie."
Surprisingly, Herbie spoke first. "Hey, neat," he said, fou
rteen years old again, his Mom was taking him on a picnic.
"Would you have any objection to my following you around?" I asked. "I don't know if Herbie told you but I have reason to believe that there are people in Florence who know he's here and are showing an unhealthy interest in the fact."
She nodded. "He mentioned that. No, I would like it if you could join us."
"My pleasure." Good. My paycheck was secure and I would get to eat dinner with a very attractive woman, better and better.
"Herbie says you've made some agreement with a guide to start showing you around tomorrow."
"We could change that, if you like, or just retain the guide for the mornings, while you're busy."
"That would be best," she said. "There's so much to see here that probably mornings on and afternoons off is the best way to avoid getting overloaded with impressions."
Herbie said, "We've got plenny a time to see the paintings next week, why can't I come with you in the mornings?"
She smiled. "It would be very boring. I spend my time arguing prices in Italian. You'll be better off with Mr. Locke. The paintings will blow your mind. You might feel like starting up again. You were good as a little boy."
Herbie shrugged but he didn't dismiss the idea as he would have done automatically for his father. I decided we would buy him some paints the next day. In the meantime I was in the way here. The love in the room was almost tangible. How the hell she had kept away from her son for so long was a marvel. No wonder he'd been such a pill away from her.
"I'm expecting to meet a man in the bar downstairs," I said. "Now our arrangements are made, why don't you two chat a while? Perhaps we can all have dinner together later on."
"Fine." She was probably a very good businesswoman, I decided. She made decisions quickly. This one was already complete. "We'll join you around seven, downstairs. Thank you."
I stood up. "Would you like some refreshments? All we have is some Irish whisky. I can order something up, if you like."