Playing for Pizza (10 page)

The beer flowed and the pizza disappeared. Nino called for order and introduced two new members of the team. Karl was a Danish math professor who’d settled in Parma with his Italian wife and taught at the university. He wasn’t sure what position he might play but was anxious to select one. Pietro was a baby-faced
fireplug, short and thick, a linebacker. Rick had noticed his quick feet in practice.

Franco led them in some mournful chant that not even Sam understood, then they burst into laughter and grabbed the beer pitchers. Waves of clamorous Italian rattled around the room, and after a few beers Rick was content to just sit and absorb the scene.

He was an extra in a foreign film.

·  ·  ·

Shortly before midnight, Rick plugged in his laptop and e-mailed Arnie:

In Parma, arrived late yesterday, first practice today—food and wine are worth the visit—no cheerleaders, Arnie, you promised me beautiful cheerleaders—no agents here so you’d hate the place—no golf anywhere, yet—any word from Tiffany and her lawyers?—I remember Jason Cosgrove talking about her in the shower, with details, and he made eight mill last year—sic the lawyers on him—I ain’t the daddy. Even the little kids speak Italian over here—why am I in Parma?—could be worse I guess, could be in Cleveland. Later, RD

While Rick was asleep, Arnie returned the message:

Rick: Great to hear from you, delighted you’re there and enjoying yourself. Treat it as an adventure. Not much happening here. No word from the
lawyers, I’ll suggest Cosgrove as the sperm donor. She’s seven months along now. I know you hate the arena game but a GM called today and said he might get you fifty grand for next season. I said no. What about it?

Chapter

10

Waking at such a dreadful hour could only be accomplished with the aid of an alarm clock set at high volume. The steady, piercing beep penetrated the darkness and finally found its mark. Rick, who seldom used an alarm and had developed the pleasant routine of waking whenever his body was tired of sleep, flopped around under the sheets until he found an off switch. In the shock of the moment he thought of Officer Romo and was horrified of another non-arrest. Then he shook off the cobwebs and wild thoughts. As his heart rate began a gradual decline and he propped himself up on the pillows, he finally remembered why he’d set the alarm in the first place. He had a plan, and darkness was a crucial element.

Since his off-season regimen had been nothing but golf, both legs felt broken to bits and his abs ached as if he’d been punched repeatedly. His arms, shoulders, back, even ankles and toes, were sore to the touch. He cursed Alex and Sam and the entire Panther organization, if it could be called that. He cursed football, and Arnie, and, beginning with the Browns, every team in reverse order that had given him the pink slip. As he conjured up vile thoughts about the game, he tried
carefully to stretch a muscle or two, but the muscles were simply too sore.

Fortunately, he had laid off the beer at Polipo’s, or at least he had stopped at a reasonable limit. His head was clearing with no signs of a hangover.

If he could hurry and complete his mission as planned, he might be back under the covers in an hour or so. He passed on a shower—the pressure was startlingly weak and the hot water only passably lukewarm—and, forcing each movement with a grim determination, was outside on the street in less than ten minutes. Walking loosened the joints and circulated the blood, and after two blocks he was moving briskly and feeling much better.

The Fiat was five minutes away. He stood on the sidewalk staring at it. The narrow street was lined on both sides by compact cars parked bumper to bumper, leaving between them a single lane of traffic headed north, to the center of Parma. The street was dark, quiet, empty of traffic. Behind the Fiat was a lime green Smart car, a model slightly larger than a decent-sized go-kart, and its front bumper was about ten inches from Signor Bruncardo’s Fiat. To the front was a white Citroën, not much larger than the Smart car and wedged in just as tightly. Dislodging the Fiat would be a challenge even for a driver with years of stick-shift experience.

A quick glance right and left to make sure no one was stirring on Via Antini, then Rick unlocked the car and crawled in as sharp pains shot through his joints. He wiggled the stick to make sure it was in neutral,
tried to unfold his legs, checked the parking brake, then started the engine. Lights on, gauges up, plenty of fuel, where was the heater? He adjusted mirrors, the seat, the seat belt, and for a good five minutes went through the preflight as the Fiat warmed itself. Not a single car, scooter, or bike passed him on the street.

Once the windshield was defrosted, there was no reason for further delays. His rising heart rate angered him, but he tried to ignore it. This was just a car with a clutch, and not even his car at that. He released the parking brake, held his breath, and nothing happened. Via Antini happens to be quite flat.

Foot on clutch, ease into first, a touch of accelerator, turn the wheel hard to the right, so far so good. A check of the mirror, no traffic, let’s go. Rick eased off the clutch and gave it some gas, but gave it too much. The engine growled, he let off the clutch, and the Fiat lurched forward and bumped the Citroën just as he slammed the brake. Red gauge lights lit up the dash, and it took a few seconds to realize the car had died. He quickly turned the key while shifting into reverse and pressing the clutch and pulling on the parking brake and cursing under his breath while glancing over his shoulder at the street. No one was coming. No one was watching. The trip in reverse was as rough as the one forward, and when he tapped the Smart car, he hit the brake again and the engine died. Now he cursed loudly, no effort to keep the language under control. He took a deep breath and decided not to inspect the damage; there really wasn’t any, he decided. Just a little nudge. Damned guy deserved it for parking
on top of the Fiat. His hands moved quickly—steering, ignition, stick, parking brake. Why was he using the brake? His feet were all over the place, tap-dancing wildly from clutch to brake to gas. He roared forward again, barely nicking the Citroën before stopping, but this time the engine did not die. Progress. The Fiat was halfway in the street; still no traffic. Quickly into reverse again, but a bit too quickly and he lurched back, his head snapping and sore muscles aching. He hit the Smart car much harder the second time, and the Fiat was dead. His language was out of control as he again glanced around, looking for spectators.

She just appeared. He hadn’t noticed her walking down the sidewalk. She stood there as if she’d been standing for hours, her body draped in a long wool overcoat, her head wrapped in a yellow shawl. An old woman with an old dog on a leash, out for the morning stroll, and now stopped dead by the violent pinball action of a copper-colored Fiat driven by an idiot.

Their eyes met. Her scowl and heavily wrinkled face conveyed exactly what she was thinking. Rick’s wild desperation was quite evident. He stopped cursing for a second. The dog was staring, too, some type of frail terrier with a look as perplexed as the master’s.

It took a second for Rick to realize she was not the owner of either of the cars he was pounding; of course she wasn’t. She was a pedestrian, and before she could call the cops, if she were so inclined, he’d be gone. He hoped. Anyway, he started to say something like “What the hell are you looking at?” But then, she
wouldn’t understand, and she would probably realize he was an American. A sudden patriotism sealed his lips.

With the front of the car jutting into the street, he had no time for a stare-down. He jerked his head arrogantly back to the matters at hand, re-shifting and restarting and urging himself to work the gas and the clutch with perfect coordination so the Fiat could finally roll away and be gone, leaving his audience behind. He pressed the gas hard, the engine strained again, and he slowly released the clutch as he turned the wheel hard and barely missed the Citroën. Free at last, he was rolling now, along Via Antini, the Fiat still in first and straining mightily. He made the mistake of one last triumphant look at the woman and the dog. He saw her brown teeth; she was laughing at him. The dog was barking and pulling on the leash, also amused.

Rick had memorized the streets along his escape route, no small feat since many were narrow, one-way, and often confusing. He worked his way south, shifting only when necessary, and soon hit Viale Berenini, a major street with a few cars and delivery trucks moving about. He stopped at a red light, shifted into first, and prayed no one would stop behind him. He waited for the green, then lurched forward without killing the engine. Atta boy. He was surviving.

He crossed the Parma River on the Ponte Italia, and a quick glance revealed quiet waters below. He was away from downtown now, and there was even less traffic. The target was Viale Vittoria, a wide,
sweeping four-lane avenue that circled the west side of Parma. Very flat and almost deserted in the predawn darkness. Perfect for practice.

For an hour, as day broke over the city, Rick drove up and down the wonderfully level street. The clutch was dragging a bit halfway down, and this slight problem captured his attention. However, after an hour of diligent work he was gaining confidence, and he and the Fiat were becoming one. Sleep was no longer an option; he was far too impressed with his new talent.

In a wide median, he practiced parking within the yellow lines, back and forth, back and forth until he grew bored. He was quite confident now, and he noticed a bar near Piazza Santa Croce. Why not? He was feeling more Italian by the minute, and he needed caffeine. He parked again, turned off the engine, and enjoyed a brisk walk. The streets were busy now, the city had come to life.

The bar was full and noisy, and his first inclination was to make a quick exit and return to the safety of his Fiat. But no, he had signed on for five months, and he would not spend that time on the run. He walked to a bar, caught the attention of a barista, and said, “Espresso.”

The barista nodded to a corner where a plump lady sat behind a cash register. The barista had no interest in making an espresso for Rick, who retreated a step and again thought about fleeing. A well-dressed businessman entered in a rush, holding at least two newspapers and a briefcase, and walked directly to the cashier.
“Buongiorno,”
he said, and she offered the
same. “Caffè,” he said as he pulled out a five-euro note. She took it, made change, and handed him a receipt. He took the receipt directly to the counter and laid it where one of the baristas could plainly see it. A barista finally took it, they exchanged
“buongiornos,”
and everything worked fine. Within seconds a small cup and saucer landed on the counter, and the businessman, already deep in front-page news, added sugar, stirred, then demolished the drink in one long gulp.

So that’s how you do it.

Rick walked to the cashier, mumbled a passable
“Buongiorno,”
and flung over a five-euro note of his own before the lady could respond. She made change and handed him a magical receipt.

As he stood at the counter and sipped his coffee, he absorbed the frenzy of the bar. Most of the people were on their way to work, and they seemed to know one another. Some talked nonstop, while others were buried in newspapers. The baristas worked feverishly, but never wasted a step. They bantered in rapid Italian and were quick to return quips from their customers. Away from the counters there were tables where waiters in white aprons delivered coffee and bottled water and all manner of pastries. Rick was suddenly hungry, in spite of the truckload of carbs he had consumed just a few hours earlier at Polipo’s. A shelf of sweet rolls caught his attention, and he desperately wanted one covered with chocolate and cream. But how to get it? He wouldn’t dare open his mouth, not with so many people within earshot. Perhaps the cashier in the corner
would be sympathetic to an American who could only point.

He left the bar hungry. He walked along Viale Vittoria, then ventured down a side street, looking for nothing but enjoying the sights. Another bar beckoned. He walked in with confidence, went straight to the cashier, another hefty old woman, and said, “
Buongiorno
, cappuccino please.” She couldn’t have cared less where he was from, and her indifference encouraged him. He pointed to a thick pastry on a rack by the counter and said, “And one of these.” She nodded again as he handed over a ten-euro note, certainly enough to cover coffee and a croissant. The bar was less crowded than the other one, and Rick savored the
cornetto
and cappuccino.

It was called Bar Bruno, and whoever Bruno was, he certainly loved his soccer. The walls were covered with team posters and action shots and schedules that dated back thirty years. There was a banner from the World Cup victory in 1982. Above the cashier Bruno had nailed a collection of enlarged black and whites—Bruno with Chinaglia, Bruno hugging Baggio.

Rick assumed that he would be hard-pressed to find a bar or café in Parma with a single photo of the Panthers. Oh well. This ain’t Pittsburgh.

The Fiat was exactly where he’d left it. The jolts of caffeine had raised his confidence. He eased perfectly into reverse, then pulled away smoothly as if he’d worked a clutch for years.

The challenge of central Parma was daunting, but he had no choice. Sooner or later he had to go home,
and take his Fiat with him. At first glance, the police car did not alarm him. It was following at a benign pace. Rick stopped at a red light and waited patiently while mentally working the clutch and accelerator. The light turned green, the clutch slipped, the Fiat lunged, then died. Frantically, he re-shifted as he turned the key and cursed and kept one eye on the police. The black-and-white cruiser was on his rear bumper, and the two young cops were frowning.

What the hell? Something wrong back there?

His second attempt was worse than the first, and when the Fiat died another quick death, the police suddenly laid on the horn.