All He Saw Was the Girl (16 page)

    "Have
you phone her?" Enzo said.

    "I've
tried for over an hour," McCabe said. "I think she's talking to
someone."

    "Women,"
Enzo said. He turned his hand sideways, opening and closing his thumb and
fingers, making a mouth.

    McCabe
nodded. Now they had a common bond, men waiting for women to stop talking, get
off the phone. Like it was a problem all men had to deal with. "You know
where she lives?"

    "Near
the Colosseum," Enzo said.

    McCabe
said, "What direction?"

    "Via
Cavour?" Enzo said.

    McCabe
knew where Via Cavour was. It ran northwest from Via dei Fori Imperiali. It
wasn't much to go on, but it was a start.

    McCabe
had seen a Budget car rental office on Via del Corso. He walked there from the
restaurant, ten blocks, and rented a blue Fiat Stilo with a credit card, a
Visa, his dad told him to use only in an emergency, as a last resort. He
thought what he was about to do qualified. The car cost ˆ43 a day. Not knowing
how long he’d need it, he rented it for a week.

    He
took a left on Via del Corso and drove straight down toward the Colosseum. He’d
never driven in Rome, and it took him a few minutes to get used to it, cars and
motorbikes flying by him like he was in slow motion. By the time he got to
Piazza Venezia he was keeping up with traffic, feeling confident behind the
wheel, his Detroit rush-hour instincts coming back.

    It
was 6:07 when he took a left on Via Cavour, cruising the streets to the south,
Via Frangipane, Via delle Carine and Via degli Annibaldi, catching glimpses of
the Colosseum in the distance. Traffic was heavy and it was difficult to take
his eyes off the road for more than a couple seconds at a time. It was a
residential neighborhood, beautiful old apartment buildings, restaurants and
shops lining the streets on both sides. He was looking for a red Lancia and a
dark-haired girl with blonde streaks in her hair, which described half the
women he saw. He didn't even know if the car was hers, but that's all he had to
go on - not knowing her last name or anything else about her except she had an
uncle who lived in Detroit.

    Now
he tried the neighborhood north of Cavour, taking Via della Madonna dei Monti
past the Hotel Forum and Birra Moretti. There were more bars and cafes. This
area looked familiar. He'd been to Birra Moretti, an Italian beer hall, one
night with Chip and a group of students, drinking beer out of glass boots.
There was a cafe he passed next to Hotel Duca di Alba that also looked
familiar.

    He'd
been driving around for an hour and twenty minutes. He was thinking about
giving up, thinking that what he was doing was insane. He wasn't going to find
this girl and if he did, what was he going to do with her? He pulled over and
parked on the street, considered taking the car back, cut his losses.

    There
was a map of Rome in the console between the seats, courtesy of Budget. He took
it out and unfolded it. He found his approximate location, traced a line where
he’d been down Via Cavour and the neighborhoods north and south. To the west
was Via del Corso and Piazza Venezia. There was another neighborhood to the
east he hadn't been to yet. He glanced in the rearview mirror and when the
traffic was clear in both directions he made a U-turn. He drove a couple blocks
and it turned into Via Leonina. Nothing.

    He
drove back the way he had come. If she had a view of the Colosseum, her
apartment had to be closer to it. He passed the tunnel that led to San Pietro
in Vincoli, a little piazza tucked back behind the buildings lining the east
side of Via Cavour. He parked and ran across the street and went up the steps
and through the tunnel.

    The
square was surrounded by buildings, and had a parking lot in the center that
was filled with motorcycles, hundreds of them, and cars. He walked past the
university building, students standing in groups on the steps in front,
talking, and a vendor truck that said BIBITE, GELATI, COLD DRINKS on a brown
awning that ran along the side.

    He
walked down the street to Bar del Mose and went in and had a quick espresso. He
came out, and went left and saw the Colosseum. He walked down Via della
Polveriera and saw a red Lancia parked across the street from an umber-colored
apartment building. He looked in the driver's side window. It had tan leather
seats, and the front left fender was dented. He pictured it on the road that
day when they caught him trying to get away. It was definitely the car.

    The
number of the building next to it was 44. It had a decorative black
wrought-iron door with glass panels. He checked the directory, two rows of
names on a brass plate:
Di NelLo, Gabriel, M. Puraro, L. Terrachina,
Sacelli, Liquori, Soave, J. Fabiano, G. Migliorelli, and P. Confalone.

    He
walked back around the block, across San Pietro in Vincoli, went back through
the tunnel to his car. He drove west and took a left near the Roman Forum. The
Colosseum was straight ahead. He drove past it and took another left on
tree-lined Via delle Terme di Tito. There was a park, deserted now, set back
behind a fence. He drove around the block and parked next to a green city trash
bin twenty yards behind the Lancia. He had a good angle on the car and the
apartment building. He put the window down and turned off the engine and
waited. It was 7:19 p.m., almost dark.

    At
8:45, he saw a woman appear down the street, coming toward him. Even from
thirty yards he knew it was Angela. He could tell by the way she walked, the
way she carried herself, looking good in dark slacks, a white blouse and a
black leather jacket, dressed nice, going out for the evening.

    He
was thinking about what Captain Ferrara had said, profiling the street gang
that grabbed him, contrasting that with the expensive car and upscale
neighborhood Angela was living in, and it didn't fit. What was this well-heeled
girl, with an apartment near the Colosseum, doing with a Roman street gang?

    As
she came toward him, McCabe wondered if she shared the apartment with Mazara.
Of the gang members he'd be the obvious choice. Or did she live by herself? He
saw the

    Lancia's
front parking lights flash as she pressed the remote, and saw her open the door
and get in behind the wheel. She started the car, put the lights on and pulled
out. McCabe stayed close, following her across town to a restaurant near the
Trevi Fountain called A1 Moro. He'd read about it, a place that catered to
wealthy Romans and tourists. He watched her park, and saw her walk in the
restaurant. Saw the maitre'd kiss her on both cheeks.

    McCabe
figured he had some time and drove back through the city, over the river and up
Monte Mario to school. Chip was standing at the sink brushing his teeth when
McCabe came in the room, Chip barefoot in a pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt.
McCabe moved past him and went to his dresser, opening drawers, pulling out
clothes - a pair of Levis and a couple of tee-shirts and a blue long-sleeved
work shirt. He folded the clothes in a pile on his bed. He could see Chip
looking in the mirror, watching him.

    Chip
turned away from the sink and came toward him, still brushing his teeth. He
took the toothbrush out of his mouth.

    "What're
you doing?"

    "Taking
some time off."

    Chip
went back to the sink, spit out the toothpaste and said, "What does that
mean?"

    He
had been hoping Chip wouldn't be there so he wouldn't have to explain himself,
answer any questions. Just get his things and go. He put the clothes in his
backpack. He opened his desk drawer and grabbed his Swiss Army knife and
sunglasses and threw them in too.

    Chip
walked over and sat on his bed. "Rady's looking for you."

    "I
know," McCabe said. There was a note in his mailbox that said to see him
ASAP. He showed it to Chip then crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the
wastebasket next to his desk, nailing a ten-footer. McCabe went to the sink and
got his toothbrush and shaving kit, and came back and put them in his backpack.

    "You
leave," Chip said, "he's going to take your scholarship."

    McCabe
said. "Got some money I can borrow?"

    Chip
got up and went to his desk and picked up his wallet, opened it and took out a
wad of euros. "How much you need?"

    "All
of it."

    He
gave the money to McCabe, and McCabe folded the bills in half and put them in
the front pocket of his Levis. "I'll pay you back."

    "I'm
worried about you, Spartacus," Chip said. "You're wigging big time.
What the hell're you doing?"

    McCabe
picked up the backpack and slipped his arms through the straps. He said,
"Take it easy," and walked out of the room.

    In
the lobby, he was surprised to see Franco behind the desk. Canzio had been
there when he walked through twenty minutes earlier. McCabe said, "Yo,
Franco, what's up?"

    Franco
said, "McCabe, listen, Signor Rady is looking for you and he is very
angry."

    McCabe
had missed his Italian class again, and that's what Rady wanted to talk to him
about. Rady appeared now, coming from the administrative wing, his pale white
face almost as red as his flat-top.

    "McCabe,
in my office, now," he said, raising his voice.

    McCabe
said, "I'm kind of busy."

    Rady
said, "I don't think I heard you right."

    He
moved toward the door.

    Rady
said, "I'm warning you, McCabe, walk out of here, you're through."

    McCabe
could see Franco waiting to see what he was going to do. He pushed the door
open and went out. The Fiat was parked in the circular drive. He got in it and
drove to a hardware store on Via Trionfale and bought a roll of duct tape,
fifty feet of rope and a green plastic tarp. He drove back toward school and
stopped at Pietro's. He went in. It was packed at 9:00, Pietro working the
room, shaking hands, talking to people. McCabe waited till Pietro was alone and
made his move.

    "McCabe,
you here for dinner?"

    "Can
I talk to you for a minute?"

    McCabe
drove back to A1 Moro and saw the red Lancia still there where Angela had left it.
He pulled up and parked on the narrow street thirty feet from the front door of
the restaurant, two cars behind the Lancia, and waited. It was 10:06 p.m.

    He
was tired, closed his eyes. Just for a couple minutes, he told himself. Next
thing he knew it was 11:25. Fie heard voices and footsteps on the cobblestone
street. He looked through the windshield and saw Angela walking with a
well-dressed grey- haired guy, mid-sixties. There were two men walking behind
them. He couldn't tell if they were all together or not.

    Angela
and the old dude stopped next to a Mercedes sedan. McCabe's side window was
down, and he could hear them arguing in Italian. When the two men caught up to
them they stopped talking and stared at each other. One of them, a heavyset guy,
said, "See you tomorrow, Cuz." He was an American, no mistake about
it. Angela said, "What time you want to start?" The heavyset guy
said, "I'm up early." "I'll see you at ten," Angela said.
No you won't, McCabe was thinking.

    Teegarden
called Ray back the next day and said, "The one in Harrison Township's registered
to a Joseph Palermo. Know who he is?"

    "Should
I?"

    "Swinging
Joey. He's a mob lieutenant that works for the Corrodos. Know how he got his
name?"

    "He
likes to dance?"

    "He
likes to bust heads open with a baseball bat. Second number's registered to
Venice Motors on Van Dyke in Warren," Teeg said.

    "You
see Joey's name connected to the car lot?"

    "I
don't see his name, but I see him all over it. They hide gambling profits in
the business books and accept cars as payment for debts. Let's say you borrow
money, you can't pay it back. Joey shows up with his Louisville Slugger and
takes your car. That's how I think it works. What I don't see is why a guy like
Joey is bothering Sharon."

    "That's
the big mystery, isn't it?"

    "What's
Sharon say?"

    "She
met him at a club after a concert," Ray said, "couldn't remember his
name."