Elixir (10 page)

He wonders why he doesn’t feel good right now, always thought eighteen-year-old guys were supposed to live for one-night stands with attractive girls. He pictures Fabrizio and how excited he gets when he does things like this himself. He attempts to channel that mindset. It doesn’t work though.

The supposed laws of happiness seem so haphazard to him, almost anarchistic to the rationality of other things in the world. He’s always been able to understand the rules around most things in life, no matter how complex, whether math or physics or languages or anything else. But not happiness. He can’t deduce an underlying pattern. He rolls over, closes his eyes, and keeps trying to talk himself into experiencing joy.

The next morning he’s jolted up at about eight o’clock by a mishmash of angry voices in the street outside the window. He peels his covers off and walks to the wooden blinds, enduring the pain of his hangover. Wedging his fingers between the slats, he watches a loud mob march down the road. Curious, he decides to check it out.

He rubs his forehead and glimpses the bed, the girl still sleeping. He grabs his balled jeans off the rug and steps into them. He slides his T-shirt on, slips his bare feet in his boots, then leaves the room and the apartment.

In a bit he walks out the front door of his building, right pant leg bunched around the rim of his shoe. It’s colder than it was yesterday. Blowing in his hands, he peruses the bobbing picket signs, one a photo of a sixtyish man’s face with a red X painted on top of both eyes, another a different image of the man with the term “
Assassino
” under it. Meaning “Murderer.”

As the mob veers toward the financial district, he climbs down the stairs and wanders to it. Striding alongside, he tries to make sense of what the protesters are shouting about, but it’s tough, just a wave of curse words and grumbles. “Excuse me,” he says in Italian to a stout guy in his mid-twenties. “What’s this all about?”

“Salvatore Costa.”

“Who?”

“Remember a year ago there was that major car recall at the Blanto Motors plant in Turin?” he asks in the same language. “Engines were catching on fire?”

“Yeah, it was in the news.”

“Costa is the CEO of KLI Partners, some investment firm that had a big stake in Blanto.” He tightens the green scarf around his neck as they advance. “Turns out the car company knew about the mechanical problems for a while. Costa threatened them not to make them public.”

“So the stock wouldn’t go down?”

“Why else? If they called back the orders as soon as they found out, half the people that died wouldn’t have.”

“Jesus.”

“They got all his emails. An employee leaked them.” He removes a rolled-up
La Repubblica
newspaper from his jacket with a leather-gloved hand and slaps it against Sean’s chest. “Keep it. I read it twice already.”

“Thanks.”

“
Prego
.” He scampers off.

Sean distances from the horde of people and sits on a curb in front of a closed butcher shop, poring over the lengthy front-page article. He reads the first half verbatim in about fifteen seconds, then flips to the middle of the paper and absorbs the rest in the same amount of time.

He ponders the horrific story, bothered by the loss of all those innocent lives. Running a hand through his hair, he stands. Jamming the paper in his back pocket, he jogs into the street and meshes with the group as a fellow demonstrator.

In ten minutes or so they all congregate by a big, swanky building, tinted windows, “KLI” in tall silver letters across the top. Five police officers stand on a ledge in front, holding their hands up, barking in Italian at the crowd of about three hundred. Sean sees a tomato fly through the gray sky, smashing into the office’s dark glass wall, oozing guts. The group cheers. Another tomato sails above and splatters, then two more. Clenching a fist over his head, he cheers with everyone else.

In a few hours Sean bites into a chilly piece of pizza at the foot of the Roman Pantheon temple, his back to the others in the city square, pleasant conversations behind him. He tries to stop fixating on the newspaper article but can’t. He’s focused on the part about two grandparents and their three grandchildren burning in a Blanto vehicle on their way to the country for a weekend trip. He imagines the father, robbed of his children and parents on the same day. His appetite fades.

Gazing up at the Pantheon’s two-thousand-year-old columns, he sets down his paper plate, half-eaten slice hanging off. He’s consumed by an urge to make the situation right somehow. Though his life has been tainted by hardships, he still believes in the goodness of the world, memories of his mom and dad and the pureness of his early childhood fueling this. He hates when lives end too soon.

He turns to a swooshing sound, a hooded crow flapping on the rotunda, gray feathers, black wings and head. The bird looks at the dish for a while, then him. He envies the animal, the simplicity of its existence, its unsophisticated brain unable to perceive terrible thoughts like the ones of Salvatore Costa.

He grabs the cold pizza, breaks a chunk off, and tosses it in front of the crow. The morsel slides on the surface a few inches, then stops. The bird eyes it, then picks at it.

Sean feels a vibration on his thigh. Pulling out his phone, he notices a call from Fabrizio and answers. “Yo. Did you get my voicemail about the car-recall thing?” He listens for a bit. “See if you can find this guy Costa’s address online.” He nods. “Yup, I do have an idea. I think you’ll dig it. This asshole won’t know what hit him. Meet me at my apartment in an hour. Yeah. Bye.”

Late that night Sean and Fabrizio creep through a ritzy suburban neighborhood on their bikes, headlights off, road dark other than the shine from a few streetlamps in the distance, expensive cars parked on the side of the road. Sean marvels at the trees, an exotic flair to them, things he pictures in fairytales. He points at a shadowy nook off the main path.

They turn in and shut off their engines. They look around, making sure nobody is watching, then remove their helmets and sling them over their handlebars. Untying a twine rope around his chest, Sean frees a guitar case from his back. His graffiti partner flips open the cargo unit of his motorcycle, revealing a plastic bag of spray paint cans and a few other things. He situates it on the grass, pulls out two black bandanas, and tosses one to Sean. They fold them into triangles, wrap them around their faces, and fasten the backs. Fabrizio lobs him a roll of tape. Sean breaks a few pieces off, sticks them on his shirt, then asks, “Ready?”

“Shit yeah.”

“Come on.” Holding the guitar case parallel to the ground, Sean advances into the street, his buddy following with the sack of spray cans tucked under his right arm. They walk for a while, then veer onto a block with multi-million-dollar homes peeking out behind elaborate landscaping. A noise to their side, they stop. Sean spots a cat’s silhouette scuttling into the bushes and says with relief, “Just a cat.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They progress for about five minutes, their footsteps as quiet as they can be, then take a left onto a cul-de-sac. Scanning the numbers on the driveways, Fabrizio points at a house. “Bingo. Costa’s right there.”

Sean scopes the property, a brick wall about ten feet high enclosing a mansion. Stopping on the manicured lawn, he lays the guitar case down and says in a hushed voice, “I’ll go up first.” He looks back at his friend’s green eyes, wide and fiery above his bandana. “Bump me.” Fabrizio sinks to a knee with a cradled grip, Sean stepping on top. He thrusts him upward.

Chest flying into the wall, Sean wraps his right hand around the ledge, the cold bricks scraping his palm. Grunting, he clamps with his left and heaves up his torso, then legs. Crouching on top, he glimpses the brown-and-gray-stone manor. Fabrizio passes him up the guitar case. Sean sets it down and gives him a thumbs-up. He tosses him a spray paint can. He catches it with give in his wrists, trying to soften any clinking noise, and rests it on the case. Fabrizio lobs him five more, Sean lining them all up with care.

Dropping to his stomach, Sean shimmies back. Pressing his thighs into the wall, he extends his hand down. Leaping, Fabrizio grasps it, Sean hauling him up to the perch. They stare at the mansion for a while, all the windows dark except one on the third floor. “Let’s go,” Sean says with a whisper.

He jumps off, boot heels spearing the soil on the other side. His buddy lowers him the cans and case, then hops down, landing next to him in a crescent-shaped shadow. “I’m thinking right there,” Sean says, nodding at a chunk of house between two hedges styled into spirals.

“I like it.”

“I won’t be long.” Sean pops the metal buckles on the case, opens the lid, and grabs a cardboard stencil they made earlier. He tiptoes to the space on the home between the hedges, adrenaline surging. Pressing the stencil against the wall with his left hand, he peels strips of tape off his shirt with his right, securing it.

He gestures to his friend when he’s done. Fabrizio strides over, three paint cans pinned under each arm. He rolls them onto the ground, some pinging sounds as they nudge into each other. He clasps the blue and black ones and blasts the stones through the stencil, a steady aerosol hiss accompanying. He throws them down and snags two more, red and yellow. He sprays, then chucks them and grasps the last pair, white and green. He spatters in the remaining gaps on the stencil, drops the cans, and rips off the wet, colorful piece of cardboard.

They bolt toward the edge of the property. Sean hurls his right boot at the brick wall, pushing himself up, grabbing the top. He drags himself on, then attempts to help his pal up, his elbow straining as all Fabrizio’s weight hangs on him. Groaning, Sean lugs him to the flat surface. Catching their breath, they observe their work, a pop-art-style man and woman in a burning car, pile of money in the backseat, hand with an “SC” ring for Salvatore Costa swiping the cash.

Fabrizio slides his phone from his pocket and snaps a photo, a flash streaking across their black bandanas. They jump off and sprint toward the street, four loud boots thudding through the mute neighborhood.

In ten seconds or so Sean’s startled to only hear the rhythm of his own feet. Over his shoulder he makes out his buddy frozen in the headlights of a Mercedes Benz by the residence next door, a brawny twenty-something guy in a suit clenching his collar. “What the hell are you doing?” the guy asks Fabrizio in Italian, fixating on his suspicious outfit.

“Let go of me dick,” he says back in the same language, struggling to get away.

Sean approaches with diplomatic open palms, rumble of the idling engine in the background. “Hey, leave him alone man,” he says in Italian, voice relaxed. “We’re leaving. We don’t mean any trouble.”

He surveys Sean. “What’re you two doing, robbing that house?”

“We’re not robbing anything. You got the wrong idea. Just let him go and we’re gone dude.” Sean hears a car door open. He notices a girl about his age stepping out of the passenger’s side, the peripheral glow of the headlamps casting a soft light on her. Leaning against the hood, she crosses her arms, her alluring blue eyes swaying among the three guys. His gaze catches hers for a second, then she darts hers away.

“Go inside your house and call the police,” her acquaintance says to her in a commanding tone. “These assholes are trying to break into your neighbor’s place.” She glances at the next home over and spots their bright painting through the iron-bar gate, realizing they’re not burglars but graffitists. Amused, she grins as she brushes some blond hair from her face.

Fabrizio thrashes around but can’t get free. “Let go of me scumbag.”

“Stay put,” he says to him, specks of spit on his chin. He shifts to the girl with an enraged expression. “Natasha dammit, call the cops.”

Sean, not liking the way he’s talking to her, is consumed by a strange urge to protect her. He’s no longer calm, a steely determination about him. He locks stares with the kid. For less than a second both of them are still, then Sean cocks back his right fist and slugs him in the mouth.

As he stumbles to the asphalt Fabrizio escapes his clutch and races away. Jogging after him, Sean spins his head back, his focus on the girl. She peers at him as she wanders with little enthusiasm toward her bloody-lipped acquaintance. He keeps his eyes on her until she’s lost in shadows.

He twists forward and dashes up to his accomplice. They cut onto the grassy area they parked and mount their bikes. Heart pumping, Sean fishes the key out of his jeans and struggles to get it in the ignition, his fingers trembling from all the adrenaline. In a few moments he starts it, ignoring his helmet, zooming up the road as it flaps on his handlebars.

Sitting on the narrow balcony of his second-story apartment the next morning, Sean lifts a cup of black coffee to his lips, pajama pants, beanie, and loose flannel shirt on. He didn’t get much sleep going to bed so amped up from last night’s events, still jittery processing everything that happened.

Sipping, he checks out the aching purple bruise across his right knuckles from the punch he threw. He thinks about that girl, remembering the details of her face. Every one.

He hears a thump inside. Looking into the living room through the patio screen, he notices the main door swung open, Fabrizio holding today’s
La Repubblica
newspaper above his head, pride gushing from him. He marches outside, drops it on the glass table, and says, “Ta da.”

Sean puts down his mug and grabs the paper, folded to an interior page with a photo of the mansion they spray-painted and the headline “Daring Graffiti Artists Target Salvatore Costa.” He skims the article. “No way. We made the paper?”

“Rex Cassidy and the Moondance Kid are officially the hottest street artists in Rome,” Fabrizio says in a loud voice over the terrace, a passerby gawking up at him from ground level.

“How did they find out about it so fast?”

“I posted the picture to that website Street ArtSenal as soon as I got back like I always do. We got ten thousand two hundred twenty-eight views already thanks to that article. Way more than any other post I ever put up. I’ve been getting messages all day. Everyone hates that prick. And they think the piece is dope too of course.”