All He Saw Was the Girl (15 page)

    "And
the Duke," Carlo said, "learning they bring Gilda to the palace,
rushes to be with her."

    Joey
was thinking, come on Unk, give it a fucking rest, okay? Jesus Christ.

    Then,
like he was reading Joey's mind, he said, "
Mi dispiace,
Giuseppe.
You must be tired from your journey."

    Fucking-A
right he was tired.

    "Mauro
will take you up to your room. We meet for lunch on the veranda in an hour. Is
enough time?"

    "Sure,"
Joey said. That was more like it. Christ, invite him in, show a little family
hospitality.

    Mauro
was a quiet, skinny little guy looked like he weighed about 120, with skin so
dark, at first, Joey thought he was a jig, but he had the features of a white
guy. Like somebody had taken brown shoe polish and covered his face. He had
picked Joey up at the airport, waiting outside customs, holding up a little
sign said SIGNOR BITONTE, Joey's fake name, his alias. On the way to the villa
Mauro didn't say anything, not a fucking word for three and a half hours.

    Now
he carried Joey's suitcases up a winding staircase to his room that had a wood
floor and a bed that had posts and some kind of fabric over it, looked like a
girl's bed. Mauro put the suitcases on the floor and started to walk out of the
room.

    Joey
said, "Hey, Mauro, wait, I've got a tip for you."

    Mauro
stopped and turned.

    Joey
said, "Never feed a Canadian," grinning, fucking with the skinny
little guy.

    Mauro
looked at him but didn't react and walked out of the room.

    Joey
looked out the leaded glass windows, saw a good- looking babe sunning herself
topless by the pool, nice taters and they looked real. Joey thinking he was
going to like it here. He didn't have a choice. His father said he'd have to
stay away for a while, see how it all played out.

    His
father had made the decision, told Joey he'd fucked up and there was nothing
any of their people could do for him. He had to leave the country, move to
Italy, stay with his uncle until it blew over. Joey's dad was Vito Corrado's
under-boss.

    Joey
understood the situation, knew this business with Sharon - when and if it
became known - would reflect poorly on his father, embarrass him and jeopardize
his standing in the family. Getting rid of Joey would be seen as proactive, Joe
P. handling the situation, taking care of it, protecting the family even at the
expense of his son.

    Joey
told his dad what happened with Sharon.

    His
dad said, "What's the matter with you? All the girls in the city, you pick
her?"

    Joey
had asked himself the same question, but he didn't pick her. "We met,
started going out, she said she was separated, getting a divorce."

    "You
got to check the people you go out with."

    Like
his father knew anything about dating. Joe P. had gotten married to his mother
in a Sicilian village forty-five years earlier. He doubted his dad had ever had
a date in his life. Joey remembered his expression when he told him what
happened, the old man's dark eyes sunken behind the thick lenses of his
glasses, black horn-rims - Jesus Christ, looking at Joey like he was a little
kid.

    "You
know how this is going to make me look?"

    Yeah,
he knew. That's what this was all about.

    "You
think we want a federal agent snooping around, sticking his nose in our
business?"

    He
didn't want it either, but what could he do now? Nothing. So the solution was to
get rid of Joey. He didn't tell his father he and Sharon had had phone
conversations for five weeks and sent emails back and forth to each other. He
doubted his father knew what email was. There were also phone records and
sooner or later Sharon's husband was going to figure it out and come looking.

    That's
why he'd cleaned out the house, packed everything in boxes and had Anthony take
it all to a storage place. The husband came calling, Joey wouldn't be there.
And nobody but his old man knew where he was.

    He'd
never fallen for a girl as hard and fast as he did for Sharon. He was sure she
was the one. Asked her to marry him and she said, I've got to tell you
something. He remembered what she said like there was a tape recorder in his
head.

    "I
can't marry you 'cause I'm already married. I should've told you. I'm sorry. I
care about you. I really do."

    He
was head over fucking heels, and she said she cared about him. By the way she
acted, he thought it was mutual that she was into it as much as he was. How
could he have been so wrong? Joey had said, "You're married? What're you
doing going out to bars?" Joey believed that married women should be
faithful at all times. There were rules you followed and lived by.

    Sharon
had said, "I'm lonely."

    Joey
said, "You're lonely, huh? How many of us have there been?"

    Sharon
said, "Listen to me, I'm crazy about you. I really am."

    That
sounded a little better. If she was putting him on she was pretty goddamn good.
Joey said, "If you're not happy, why don't you get a divorce?" He
felt bad for her locked in a fucked-up marriage.

    "I'm
afraid of him," Sharon said.

    Joey
said, "You've got nothing to worry about, I'll protect you." He
grinned, thinking he'd have a talk with the guy, tell him the way it was, the
way it was going to be. He sipped his champagne, picturing the husband, a
balding, out-of-shape suburban executive wearing a coat and tie. This was
before Joey found out who the guy was.

    Sharon
looked out at the lake. He could tell she was worried. "What's your
husband do, he's out of town all the time?"

    "Works
for the government," Sharon said.

    "For
the government?"

    "Uh-huh."

    "Don't
tell me he's with the IRS." You didn't want them on your ass. They could
make your life miserable.

    Sharon
said, "He's not."

    Joey
was curious now. "What's he do?"

    She
held up the champagne flute. "Can I have some more?"

    Joey
grabbed the neck of the champagne bottle and pulled it out of the cooler. He
said, "Come on. What's the big deal?"

    "He's
a special agent in the Secret Service."

    Joey
stood there, mouth open, staring at her, unable to move or talk, like her words
had Tasered him. When he could, he said, "Tell me you making this
up?" But he knew she wasn't.

    Dr
Mencuccini said, "Impressive, isn't it?"

    She
gazed out across the lower level of the Colosseum, students packed in a tight
group in front of her.

    "Fifty
thousand Romans could enter and be in their seats in ten minutes. Can you imagine
that happening in a modern stadium?"

    McCabe
wondered if he paid more attention to Dr Mencuccini than his other teachers
because she was good- looking. She reminded him of an aging starlet, early
forties, with a small knockout body and dark hair. She had her own style, wore
scarves and coats over her shoulders, and designer sunglasses.

    Chip
standing behind him said, "'All gladiators up to the training area at
once,'" in a theatrical Brit voice.

    The
students around him could hear but not the teacher.

    Dr
Mencuccini said, "The concrete core - with its miles of corridors and
stairways - was a masterpiece of engineering."

    Chip
said, '"What sort of man is this leader of the slaves?' 'I don't know. I
think they call him Spartacus.'"

    McCabe
could see students next to him smiling.

    Dr
Mencuccini fixed her gaze on him and said, "Signor McCabe, do you have
something to add?"

    McCabe
said, "I didn't say anything."

    "With
your cuts and bruises, you look like a gladiator who fought here," Dr
Mencuccini said.

    Behind
him, Chip said, "'Get back. I tell you, he's an expert with a Thracian
sword.'"

    Students
around Chip were laughing now.

    Dr
Mencuccini said, "Signor Tallenger, do you want to come up here and
entertain us?"

    "Mi
dispiace, Dottore
," Chip said.

    
"Prego
,"
Dr Mencuccini said. "Do you mind if I continue?"

    
"Per
favore
," Chip said.

    She
said, "To celebrate the thousandth birthday of Rome, gladiators
slaughtered thirty-two elephants, ten tigers, sixty lions, ten giraffes, forty
wild horses, ten hippopotamuses and twenty Etruscans. It all happened right
here." She paused and continued. "Condemned criminals - and
occasionally Christians — were stripped naked and thrown to the lions. The
violence of ancient Rome has troubled scholars for centuries. Were the Romans
exceptionally bloodthirsty?" She scanned the students in front of her.
"Signor Tallenger?"

    Chip
said, "I defer to my learned colleague, Signor McCabe."

    "Signor
McCabe?"

    "It
was violence at a distance," McCabe said. "Safe and controlled. Like
a boxing match, or a violent movie." He was aware of students around him,
watching him.

    
"Molto
bene"
Dr Mencuccini said.

    '"Spartacus,
you know things that can't be taught,"' Chip said. '"Why a star falls
and a bird doesn't. Where the sun goes at night. Why the moon changes shape…
where the wind comes from."'

    Dr
Mencuccini, amused herself now, said, "I don't recognize the lines. What
is that from?"

    
"
Spartacus"
Chip said. "Appropriate, don't you think?"

    "Yes.
And I think that's enough for today. I will see you all Thursday at
Campidoglio.
Ciao."

    They
walked out of the Colosseum, Chip and McCabe, and stood there surrounded by
tour groups and students. It was four o'clock, classes over for the day.

    Chip
said, "Let's get a beer."

    McCabe
said, "I can't. I've got to go back to the police station, meet Captain
Ferrara. More photos he wants me to see."

    "Call
me when you're finished," Chip said.

    McCabe
walked along Via dei Fori Imperiali, the Roman Forum to his left below street
level. He passed the Basilica of Constantine and Maxentius and the Temple of
Antoninus and Faustina and the Forum of Caesar.

    At
Piazza Venezia he thought about taking a cab, but decided against it and walked
down Via del Corso to the Condotti area, trying to find the
enoteca
Angela had taken him to.

    He
thought it was on the corner where Delia Croce met Via Bocca di Leone. He went
there looking at the back-alley intersection, remembered the bar, remembered
sitting at a sidewalk table across from Angela, thinking how lucky he was and
trying to make the most of it. He went inside, scanned the people sitting at
the bar, didn't see a good-looking girl with streaks in her hair, and went back
out. He tried to remember which way they'd gone when they left the
enoteca,
but
he hadn't been paying much attention, his main focus was on Angela that
afternoon.

    He
walked to Via Mario de' Fiore, took a left and then a right on Via delle Carrozze.
He thought it was on the corner.

    Remembered
the red awnings and the rows of round tables set up outside, and the waiters in
white sport coats with gold trim.

    He
sat at a table and ordered a beer and watched people go by. He saw Angela's friend,
Enzo, come out of the restaurant with a tray of drinks and serve four
well-dressed, middle-aged women. He came toward McCabe's table, carrying the
tray under his arm.

    McCabe
said, "Enzo, how're you doing? I'm a friend of Angela's. We were supposed
to meet here." He said it one guy to another. The waiter stopped and
looked at him. It was obvious he didn't recognize McCabe or have a clue who he
was.