All He Saw Was the Girl

    McCabe
watched Chip offer the long-haired guy a cigarette, the guy surprising him,
taking the pack of Marlboros out of Chip's hand. Chip tried to get it back and
the guy pushed him. He was six feet, maybe a little taller, with dark hair,
shoulder length and reminded McCabe of Fabio, the romance-novel model. McCabe
watched him tap a Marlboro out of the pack, put it in his mouth and light it
with a plastic lighter, blowing smoke in Chip's face, and slipping the
cigarettes in the front pocket of his shirt. Now a stocky guy with
close-cropped red hair, like a Marine, came up next to him and Fabio said
something in Italian and they both glanced at Chip and laughed.

    Chip
came toward McCabe and McCabe said, "You let him take your
cigarettes?"

    "I
didn't let him, he just did it," Chip said.

    McCabe
looked down at his black $400 Cole Haan boots with a zipper on the side.
"He's going to take your shoes next and then he's going to take anything
else he wants."

    Chip
looked over at the guy and back to McCabe. He looked nervous now, afraid.
"No he isn't," Chip said, like he was trying to convince himself.

    "You
better hope not," McCabe said.

    "What
do you want me to do? There're two of them."

    McCabe
was pissed at him for getting them in this situation in the first place.

    Chip
said, "You think I'm going to get in a fight over a pack of
cigarettes?"

    "I
wish you luck," McCabe said.

    An
hour earlier they were coming out of a bar in Santa Maria di Trastevere,
fountain in the middle, church at one end. It was a little after midnight, Chip
walking drunk toward a taxi that was across the piazza, a dark silhouette shape
in the moonlight. Chip ahead of McCabe, stopping now, stumbling, arms
outstretched, gaze fixed on something in the distance.

    '"There,
Spartacus, is Rome,'" he said in a theatrical British accent, voice echoing
off the buildings that surrounded the square. '"The might, the majesty,
the terror of Rome. There is the power that bestrides the known world like a
colossus."' McCabe grinned, he'd heard it all before, but it was still
funny the way Chip got into, the way he delivered the lines. Chip started
moving again, walking to the taxi, a yellow Fiat, leaning against it, facing
McCabe as he approached.

    '"There
is only one way to deal with Rome,'" Chip said. " 'You must serve
her. You must abase yourself before her. You must grovel at her feet. You must
love her.'"

    "Dinner
theater ever comes to town," McCabe said, "you're all set."

    He
got in the rear passenger seat of the cab, looked forward and noticed the
driver wasn't there. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, feeling the buzz
from eight Morettis, resting for a few seconds. He heard a door open and close.
Heard the engine start up and rev. He opened his eyes, Chip glancing back at
him, grinning. Chip putting it in gear, accelerating around the square, picking
up speed, doing a donut, tires squealing.

    McCabe
said, "This how Connecticut rich kids get their kicks?" He figured
Chip would lose his nerve or lose interest, but he didn't.

    He
looked at McCabe in the rearview mirror and said, '"Are you afraid to die,
Spartacus? When one man says no, I won't, Rome begins to fear.'"

    McCabe
saw the taxi driver come out of a restaurant now, old dude running into the
piazza after his car, yelling and shaking his fist. "
Basta! Aspettaf

    McCabe
felt bad for the guy and said, "Come on. That's enough."

    Chip
ignored him and drove out of the square, made a wide right-hand turn, going
into the oncoming lane, forcing a car to swerve out of the way.

    McCabe
reached between the seats, grabbed Chip's arm and said, "Pull over, you
dumbass, you're going to kill somebody."

    "We're
going to Harry's for a nightcap," Chip said, slurring his words.

    They
were in Trastevere, a maze of narrow cobblestone streets and medieval buildings
on the west bank of the Tiber. They blew through an intersection, took a right
on Via Garibaldi, passed a cop car parked on the side of the road, the word
Carabinieri in white type on the side of a blue sedan, two cops in the front
seat, looking at them. The scene felt like it was happening in slow motion.
McCabe glanced back through the rear window as the police car, lights flashing,
took off after them. He saw Chip's face in the rearview mirror, the happy drunk
grin gone, replaced by a worry, concern.

    Chip
said, "Jesus Christ."

    McCabe
said, "I can't wait to see what you're going to do next.

    Chip
braked hard and went left down an alley that didn't look wide enough for a car,
laundry hanging overhead on ropes strung between the buildings. Chip turned the
wheel, taking a left on Via dei Riari, the back end of the taxi sliding, then
going all the way around, spinning out of control, crashing into a parked car.
McCabe was on the floor when the police pulled him out and cuffed his hands
behind his back.