All He Saw Was the Girl (22 page)

    He
talked tough for an old man in a bathrobe. Ray said, "Where's Joey?"

    "I
don't know. Why don't you call him. I'll give you his number."

    Ray
pulled the hammer back on the PPK. "Let's start over, okay? Pretend I just
walked in, haven't said a word. Where's Joey?"

    Joe P
said, "You think you can come in here, intimidate me in my own house? I
got twenty clowns like you work for me."

    Ray
crossed the room and placed the barrel of the Walther against Joe P.'s cheek,
felt teeth under wrinkled skin and said, "Then you know I'll shoot you
dead, eh goomba? Pull the trigger, blow your fucking head off. Then go
upstairs, find out what Mrs P. knows. See if she wants to talk, be a little
more co-operative. I started with you because I figured you'd understand the
gravity, the serious nature of the situation," he said, giving it a little
bureaucratic embellishment.

    "Who
you with?"

    "Want
me to say it again?"

    "What
do you want him for?"

    "I
want to talk to him."

    Joe
P. didn't say anything. He probably thought he was still thirty and in shape.
That's the way it worked. In his head, Ray still thought he was twenty-one.
"All right, you don't want to talk, let's go upstairs."

    Joe
P. leaned back against the desk. Could barely hold himself up. He coughed and
grabbed his chest, struggling, trying to stay on his feet but couldn't, and
went down on the floor, legs kicking for a few seconds, then he stopped moving,
eyes bulging out of their sockets, staring up at Ray. The clock next to the
phone said 4:23 a.m.

    McCabe
drove up the hill and pulled in and parked next to the house. He carried the
groceries into the kitchen and put them away. He went through the main room to the
bathroom and knocked on the door. She didn't say anything. He put the key in
the lock and turned it and pushed the handle down and opened the door a crack
and swung it all the way open. She was standing at the window looking at him.

    "You
want to get out of here? Give me the number," McCabe said.

    She
looked angry, didn't say anything. He'd be angry too, cooped up in this little
room, like he was in Rebibbia. That was the idea, wasn't it? "You like it
in there, enjoying yourself?" He reached for the handle, started to close
the door.

    She
said, "Okay."

    "You
can come out," McCabe said, "but try anything like you did before,
that's it. You're going to grow old in there."

    She
did and he led her to the dining table in the main room and sat next her. Gave
her a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote down a number and handed it to him.
He took her cell phone out of his pocket, turned it on and it started
beeping.
She had gotten at least a dozen calls. Angela stared at it but
didn't say anything. He dialed the number. Heard it ring a couple times. Heard
Mazara say, "
Pronto."

    McCabe
said, "Looking for Angela?" He glanced at her. "Say
something."

    "Roberto…"

    She
said it just the way he wanted her to - helpless, afraid.

    "Where
are you?"

    McCabe
said. "You want her back, it's going to cost you five hundred thousand
euros."

    Mazara
said, "What is this?"

    "What
do you think it is?" McCabe said.

    "I
talk to Angela."

    "You
can talk," McCabe said, "when you bring the money."

    "I
don't have it," Mazara said.

    "Kidnap
someone, rob a bank, you'll figure something out," McCabe said.
"You've got forty-eight hours." Give him enough time but not too
much.

    Mazara
said, "You do anything to her…"

    McCabe
closed the phone, cut him off. He didn't want to hear Mazara's hard-guy
threats. Just wanted to hook him and let him hang for a while.

    Angela
said, "What did he say?"

    "He's
going to think about it," McCabe said.

    "He
said that?" She shook her head. "I don't believe you."

    "No,
he didn't say that. He didn't say anything."

    "What
about you, McCabe?"

    She
gave him a sultry look, kept it on him and said, "Would you pay to have me
back?"

    "Why?
You don't mean anything to me."

    She
was pouting now, looking offended, and McCabe reminded himself she was playing
him like she did the first time, and he was falling for it again. He wasn't
that dumb, was he?

    They
went in the kitchen and had lunch at 3:00 in the afternoon, bread, salami,
Caprese salad and warm Chardonnay that wasn't bad, McCabe sitting across the
table from her, occasionally glancing at her but not talking. There wasn't much
to say. She ate everything, drank two glasses of wine and finished the meal
with a piece of bread.

    When
he was finished, she picked up the dishes and took them to the sink and washed
them. He stood next to her and dried them like they were a married couple in
their country home. But he was alert, on guard, didn't trust this sudden change
in attitude, watching her, making sure she didn't reach for a knife.

    McCabe
said, "I'm going into Bagnaia." He wanted to check it out, see if
there was a better place to meet Mazara and make the exchange.

    She
didn't say anything, but turned her head and looked at him with big sad eyes
and pouty lips.

    "You
can take me with you," she said.

    He
considered it for a few seconds and realized he was slipping into the stupid
zone again. He said, "No way."

    "Then
leave me here. Don't lock me in that room. Where do you think I will go?"

    Anywhere.
To the neighbor's to make a phone call. To La Quercia. To Viterbo. Back to
Rome. He held her in his gaze. "You know what's going on here, what's
happening?" If she did, she didn't acknowledge it, one way or the other.
"You're my bargaining chip. With you I've got a chance of getting the
money back. Without you I've got no chance at all."

    He
took her back to the bathroom. She went in, but didn't say anything, wouldn't
look at him. He closed the door and locked it.

    McCabe
was gone longer than he planned. He'd driven through Bagnaia, checked it out
and stopped at the gardens at Villa Lante, but didn't find a location that
would work. He'd stick with his Viterbo plan.

    He
drove back to Pietro's place, parked the car and went inside. He unlocked the
bathroom door and swung it open. Expected her to be standing there, but she
wasn't. Did he forget to lock the door? No, he rewound and saw himself doing
it. Locked it and checked the handle to make sure.

    He
crossed the room and opened the gun case, three shotguns in their custom slots,
one missing. He gripped the barrel of a twelve-gauge, lifting it out.

    "Put
it down," she said somewhere behind him.

    He
glanced over his shoulder and saw her holding the shotgun across her waist,
barrel leveled at him, flat and horizontal like she knew what she was doing.

    McCabe's
dad had been a duck hunter, he knew shotguns, knew the stance. He put the gun
back in the case and turned toward her. "You had your chance. Why didn't
you go? Or are you waiting for them to pick you up?"

    He
moved toward her and she raised the shotgun, stock against her shoulder, twin
blue steel barrels pointed at his chest.

    She
said, "I think you should stay right there, do not move."

    She
was on the other side of the room about fifteen feet away.

    "You
going to shoot me?" He took another step toward her, nervous, not sure
what she was going to do, staring down the end of the barrels. Saw her cock the
twin hammers back with her thumb.

    McCabe
said, "Think you've got the nerve?" Challenging her, daring her to do
it.

    "Take
another step," she said, "you'll find out."

    He
did. Moved toward her, saw her fingers twitching on the triggers. He reached
out, grabbed the shotgun, taking it out of her hands. He closed the hammers and
put it on the rug.

    She
came at him now wild and out of control and he wrapped his arms around her and
took her down on the antique rug, his body on hers, holding her arms at her
sides against the floor, looking at her, faces a few inches apart. He kissed
her. That's what he'd wanted to do since he'd brought her here, since the first
time he saw her.

    She
kissed him back, and they were making out, McCabe into it, lost in the moment,
and she was too, eyes closed, holding him tight. Now she opened her eyes and
they were looking at each other, both a little embarrassed. What the hell had
just happened? McCabe slid off her and she sat next to him, legs bent under
her. "Were you going to shoot me?"

    "It
isn't loaded," she said, reaching for the shotgun, breaking it open,
showing him the empty chambers.

    "You
looked serious," McCabe said, "like you were going to blow me
away."

    "That
was the idea." She paused, her brown eyes locked on him. "Admit it,
now you're wondering if I called Roberto, aren't you?"

    "If
you did, he'd be here by now," McCabe said.

    "I
didn't."

    "Tell
me what's going on, will you? I don't get it."

    "I
made a mistake," Angela said. "I caused you a lot of trouble, a lot
of problems and I feel bad about it."

    It
sounded sincere, but he wasn't convinced, expected Mazara to come through the
door any second. He said, "How'd you get out?"

    She
smiled. "I am not going to tell you. I might have to do it again."

    "I
guess there's no point locking you up," McCabe said. "I'm not sure
what to do with you. I can't lock you up and I can't trust you."

    "Why
don't you pour me a glass of wine while you're thinking about it."

    Later,
in the kitchen, she said, "I was attracted to you the first time I saw you
that day at Rosati."

    "If
you were, I didn't see it."

    Angela
smiled. "Under the circumstances, I didn't see much future. What you did, getting
my bag back, was very heroic. I was wondering what it would be like to go out
with you, get to know you."

    "Come
on," McCabe said, doubting her, although he'd felt the same way.

    "It's
true," Angela said. "There was something about you."

    "Well
I couldn't take my eyes off you," McCabe said. "Coming toward me in
Piazza del Popolo."

    She
started to smile and stopped herself. "You said I reminded you of Manuela
Arcuri. I don't look anything like her."

    "That
day you did. Like Manuela in
Hearts Lost.
Ever see it?" "I
don't think so."

    "You
should." He turned his attention to the bottle of Chianti, cut the foil
off the top with a paring knife, and screwed a corkscrew through the center of
the cork and pulled. It came out with a
pop.
He put the bottle on the
tile countertop and looked at her. "How'd you know where I was going to
get off the bus?"