All He Saw Was the Girl (20 page)

    There
wasn't much he could do with her at the moment, and wasn't much he could do
without her. He'd wait till she cooled down and try again.

    McCabe
went back to the table and picked up the fork. He took the dishes into the
kitchen and washed them. He went back into the main room. The pounding had
stopped. He stretched out on the couch and fell asleep.

    Ten
in the morning, Joey was standing outside the villa smoking a Montecristo No.
4, waiting for Angela. At eleven when she still wasn't there, he called her
apartment and got her answering machine. "This is Angela," a breathy
voice. "Leave a message.
Ciao."

    Joey
said, "Yo Cuz, you're an hour late. Where the fuck're you at?"

    At
noon Joey went into his uncle's office. The old boy was sitting on a couch, watching
some foreign movie, the mistress, Chiara, sitting next to him, looking bored.
"Hey, Unk, something's wrong, Angela was supposed to be here two hours
ago."

    His
uncle glanced at him and paused the movie. "You think something is wrong
you don't know her. Angela is never on time in her life. I think she is still
asleep." He said it with an edge to his voice.

    Joey
said, "I'll go surprise her."

    His
uncle seemed to like the idea. He perked up and yelled Mauro's name and a few seconds
later the little guy ran in the room like he was sitting out there waiting to
be called. In the faint light Mauro now reminded Joey of Sammy Davis Junior,
his build and skin color. Joey grinned, almost laughed out loud, wondering if
Mauro could sing and tap dance.

    His
Unk told Mauro to give Joey a ride into the city. Joey left the old boy in his
office with his mistress who looked like she needed attention, wondering now if
he should pay her a visit, walk down the hall in the middle of the night,
unsheathe the pork sword. Nothing against his Unk, but show her what a hard-on
looked like.

    In
the car, a black Mercedes sedan, he looked across at Mauro behind the wheel.
They were still on villa property, cruising on the pebble driveway that had to
be a quarter-mile long. Joey said, "You take the oath?"

    Mauro
glanced over at him with a blank look on his face. This Sicilian hick had no
idea what he was talking about. "Poke your finger, spill blood on a sacred
image, picture of a saint?" Joey paused, thinking about his old man
telling him it was one of the rituals of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra, how they did
it in the old country. Then the picture was lit on fire, you had to hold it
while you swore to obey the rules of the family.

    His
dad had said, "May your flesh burn if you fail to keep the oath."

    Joey
thought it sounded pretty goddamn stupid. He wasn't going to hold a burning
piece of paper. His old man had wanted him to be "made," but after
what had happened it would be a while, if ever. There was also the law of
silence called
omerta
, his dad said meant don't talk to cops, tell them
your business, like he'd tell the police anything about anything. Mauro, the
little man, probably took it literally, thought
omerta
meant don't talk
to anyone.

    Driving
through Rome Joey would point to some ruins and say, "Hey, Mauro, what's
that?"

    Little
fucker'd go, "
Vecchia Roma."

    Give
Joey a smartass two-word answer in Italian. Joey wanted to give him a one-word
answer: "
Vaffanculo
." Fuck you. Or a three-word answer:
"
Succhiami il cazzo."
Suck my dick. That exhausted his
knowledge of Italian but had come in handy in his old eastside Detroit
neighborhood.

    Joey
liked looking at monuments and such, but it made him wonder what the Italians
had been doing for the past two thousand years. They hadn't built anything
close to the Colosseum or the Pantheon, or St Peter's. Most of the people, from
what he could see, lived in second-rate apartment buildings outside the city
the ancient Romans wouldn't have stepped foot in.

    Mauro
parked the Benz in front of a cool old building with arched windows and
shutters. He could see the Colosseum right there. It looked a lot bigger up
close, bigger than Comerica Park where the Tigers played. Bigger than Ford Field
too. Jesus, six, seven storys high.

    Mauro
glanced at him and said, "The residence of the signorina."

    That's
the most he'd ever said at one time, got five words out of him - might be a
Guinness Record. Joey also liked that he called Angela the signorina, like she
was Italian royalty or something. But then again, as the daughter of Don
Gennaro, maybe she was.

    McCabe
went out and got in the Fiat and took the steep driveway down to a country road
that wound around to the main road, Viale Fiume. The weather had changed, heavy
dark clouds hung over the mountains as he drove through the hills, past sheep
and horses grazing, passing through La Quercia, a village, arriving in Viterbo
a few minutes later. He was surprised to see a modern mirrored-glass building
on Via Cassia right outside the medieval city. He drove through Porta Romana, a
giant archway built in the wall that surrounded the city, took a series of
narrow one-way streets and parked on Via Roma in the center of the business
district.

    McCabe
had seen photographs of Viterbo, but had never been there. He was surprised how
big it was and how crowded. He walked downhill to Piazza del Plebiscito.
Studied the two arcaded buildings that made up Palazzo dei Priori, built in the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Stopped in the tourist office and picked up
a street map of the city. He sat outside at a cafe in the square, ordered
espresso and sipped it, studying the map, looking for a place to meet Mazara
and make the exchange, Angela for the money.

    He
walked to Piazza del Gesu and north to Piazza San Lorenzo, the religious
center. He went south to Piazza della Morte, Death Square, which somehow seemed
appropriate, but was too small, too remote. From there he took a series of
winding streets to Piazza San Pellegrino in the medieval quarter, and back to
Piazza del Plebiscito.

    He
stood staring at the buildings and got an idea, decided what he was going to do
and how he was going to do it. He’d meet Mazara and ask for the money. Mazara
would hand him the soccer bag, and he would tell them where to find Angela. But
where could he keep her that was out of sight, but still close by? The car was
probably the only option. But she wasn't going to lie there quietly in the
back, so where else could he hide her? It was a little more complicated than he
thought. He considered calling Chip, ask for his help, but he didn't want to
involve anyone else. It was his problem and he'd handle it.

    Now
he had to buy some food. It would be a couple days before he got everything
organized. He found a butcher shop, a macellria, and bought slices of
Cacciatora and Felino, and a whole chicken with its head still attached. Bought
a loaf of ciabatta at a panetteria. Bought fresh mozzarella at a formaggeria
and tomatoes at a vegetable stand in the market. He forgot the wine and went to
an
enoteca
and bought a bottle of Chianti, and a Tuscan Chardonnay. He
carried his packages to the car, opened the hatchback and put them in.

    Angela
thought she heard a car and looked out the window. McCabe's Fiat was moving
down the hill toward the road that went one way to Viterbo, and the other way
to a village called Bagnaia. Beyond the road she could see the muted rectangle
shapes of houses across the valley, a smoky haze hanging low over the hills,
the vista reminding her of the Tuscan countryside.

    It
was 1:30, only thirteen hours since he had taken her from the apartment, but
seemed much longer, like days had passed, trapped in the room, her prison cell,
pacing back and forth, ten feet from wall to wall, anxious, frustrated, going
crazy.

    She
pictured McCabe sitting on the bed, waiting for her as she walked in the
bedroom, taking her down, and taping her hands and feet. She'd had a panic attack
wrapped in the tarp. She could not move and had trouble trying to breathe,
heart pounding, overcome by anxiety. Thinking of her mother helped calm her as
it always did, helped her through tense situations. Feeling her mother's gentle
touch, hearing her soothing voice, like she was a little girl again.

    Angela
had been asleep when he slid her out of the car and carried her in the house,
waking when he unwrapped the tarp, drenched in sweat as if she had stepped out
of her bath. He kidnapped her and then apologized, saying he had no choice, no
other way to get her out of the apartment. Thinking back she liked that and was
surprised when he brought her a pillow and blanket. And he had continued to
surprise her, this student who was not afraid to challenge a Mafia gang. She
admired his toughness and determination, but what chance did he have of
succeeding? None. What he was doing seemed foolish and naive. He had been
lucky, but his luck was going to run out.

    Her
cousin Joey would be wondering what happened to her. He would say something to
her father, and her father would say you can never count on Angela. She is
always late. It was true. She had been late her whole life.

    Mazara
would have called looking for her by now, and had probably stopped by her
apartment, and let himself in. She had given him a key, something she now
regretted. He would make himself comfortable, drink beer and watch a football
match on television. He would think she was in the city, shopping, or having
lunch. It wouldn't be an issue until tonight or tomorrow when she still had not
returned his calls or returned to the apartment.

    Standing
at the door, she moved the handle up and down. It was locked. Of course, it was
locked, and the door was heavy and solid. She looked around the room for
something to jam in the keyhole to try to unlock it. There was a brass
doorstopper screwed into the baseboard molding. She unscrewed it and pulled the
rubber cap off the end and tried to stick it in the keyhole, but it was too
big.

    Angela
unfastened her belt, took it off and folded the buckle away from the clasp and
stuck the clasp in the keyhole. She moved it around trying to find the pin. She
tried for ten minutes and quit, frustrated, throwing her belt on the floor. She
turned on the faucet and put her hand under it and scooped water up to her
mouth, drank and turned off the water.

    She
looked out the window and saw a man walking along the road at least a hundred
meters away. She opened the window as far as it would go and yelled, "Signore…
can you hear me? Help!" She said it again, but he was too far. He
continued on his way, never glancing in her direction.

    She
looked in the mirror, annoyed, irritated, angry at herself for letting this
happen. She went over and picked up the belt, bent the buckle back and stuck
the clasp in the keyhole again, moving it in a circular motion, doing this for
almost fifteen more minutes, trying to find the pin until her hand ached, too
tired to continue. She stretched her arms over her head and bent down and
touched her t—s.

    Angela
was thinking about her nanny, Carmella whose father was a locksmith from Siena.
He had taught Angela how to set a pin, saying, you reach in the lock with
something long and sharp, a piece of metal, and find the pin that's binding the
most and push it up until you feel it set. That's how you pick a lock. She had
tried it the one time and was able to do it, but that was long ago.

    She
stuck her belt clasp in the lock again, moving it to the right edge and then
the left. She pushed as hard as she could and thought she felt something move.

    Sharon's
boss called his cell phone. He didn't recognize the number and answered it. Her
name was DeAnn Forbes. They'd met a couple times, but he didn't know her very
well.

    DeAnn
said, "I'm worried about Sharon, we all are. Is she all right?"

    "Stressed
out. Just needs some time off." He had to be careful what he said.

    "Imagine
my surprise," DeAnn said, "when I got an email saying she was taking
a leave of absence. I couldn't believe it. Sharon's our top rep and I had to
try to explain to our clients what was going on and didn't have a clue. Ray,
can you help me out, can you tell me what the hell's going on?"

    What
was he going to say? He'd been kicked out of the Secret Service, went home and
Sharon wasn't there, and based on the mail and phone messages, she hadn't been
around for days. He was thinking about the article in the
Free Press
about the guy who reported his wife missing. She worked in Puerto Rico during
the week and came home on weekends to see her husband and two kids. The husband
said they'd had an argument and his wife decided to go back to Puerto Rico a
day early. The husband said she was picked up in a dark sedan. He didn't know
anything more.