Playing for Pizza (7 page)

Paolo and Giorgio decided to stay behind and have a bite of cheese and finish off the wine.

“I’m not driving,” Sam said. “We can walk. Your apartment is not far, and I’ll catch a cab from there.”

“I gained ten pounds,” Rick said, pushing his stomach forward and following a step behind his coach.

“Welcome to Parma.”

Chapter

7

The buzzer had the high-pitched whine of a cheap scooter with a missing exhaust pipe. It arrived in long bursts, and since Rick had never heard it before, he at first had no idea what it meant, or where it was coming from. Things were foggy anyway. After the marathon at Montana’s, he and Sam, for reasons that were not clear then or now, had stopped at a pub for a couple of beers. Rick vaguely remembered entering his apartment around midnight, but from then on, nothing.

He was on his sofa, which was too short for a man his size to comfortably sleep on, and as he listened to the mysterious buzzer, he tried to remember why he had chosen the den instead of the bedroom. He could not recall a good reason.

“All right!” he yelled at the door when the knocking began. “I’m coming.”

He was barefoot, but wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He studied his brown toes for a long time and contemplated his spinning head. Another screech from the buzzer. “All right!” he yelled again. Unsteady, he walked to the door and yanked it open.

He was met with a pleasant
“Buongiorno”
from a
short, stocky man with an enormous gray mustache and rumpled brown trench coat. Beside him was a smartly uniformed young policeman who nodded his greetings but said nothing.

“Good morning,” Rick said with as much respect as he could muster.

“Signor Dockery?”

“Yes.”

“I am police.” From somewhere deep in the trench coat he produced documentation, waved it under Rick’s nose, then returned it to its hiding place with a move so casual the message was “Don’t ask any questions.” It could’ve been a parking ticket or a receipt from the cleaners.

“Signor Romo, Parma police,” he said through the mustache, though it barely moved.

Rick looked at Romo, then at the cop in the uniform, then back at Romo. “Okay,” he managed to say.

“We have complaints. You must come with us.”

Rick grimaced and tried to say something, but a thick wave of nausea rumbled down low, and he thought about bolting. It passed. His palms were sweaty, his knees rubbery. “Complaints?” he said in disbelief.

“Yes.” Romo nodded gravely, as if he had already made up his mind and Rick was guilty of something far worse than whatever the complaint was. “Come with us.”

“Uh, to where?”

“Come with us. Now.”

Complaints? The pub had been virtually empty
last night, and he and Sam, to the best of his memory, had spoken to no one but the bartender. Over beers, they had talked football and nothing else. Pleasant conversation, no cursing or fighting with the other drinkers. The walk through the old town to his apartment had been thoroughly uneventful. Perhaps the avalanche of pasta and wine had made him snore too loudly, but that couldn’t be a crime, could it?

“Who complained?” Rick asked.

“The judge will explain. We must go. Please, your shoes.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No, maybe later. Let’s go. The judge is waiting.” For effect, Romo turned and rattled some serious Italian at the young cop, who managed to deepen his frown and shake his head as if things could not possibly be worse.

They obviously weren’t leaving without Signor Dockery. The nearest shoes were the maroon loafers, which he found in the kitchen, and as he put them on and looked for a jacket, he told himself it had to be a misunderstanding. He quickly brushed his teeth and tried to gargle away the layers of garlic and stale wine. One look in the small mirror was enough; he certainly looked guilty of something. Red puffy eyes, three days’ growth, wild hair. He tousled his hair, to no effect, then grabbed his wallet, U.S. cash, apartment key, and cell phone. Maybe he should call Sam.

Romo and his assistant were waiting patiently in the hallway, both smoking, neither with handcuffs. They also seemed to lack any real desire to catch criminals.

Romo had watched too many detective shows, and every movement was bored and rehearsed. He nodded down the hall and said, “I follow.” He dropped the cigarette in a hall ashtray, then stuck both hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat. The cop in the uniform led the perpetrator away, and Romo protected from the rear. Down three flights, onto the sidewalk. It was almost 9:00 a.m., a bright spring day.

Another cop was waiting by a well-dressed Fiat sedan, complete with an array of lights and the word
“Polizia”
painted in orange on every fender. The second cop was working on a cigarette and studying the rear ends of two ladies who had just passed him. He gave Rick a look of utter disregard, then took another puff.

“Let’s walk,” Romo said. “Is not far. You need air, I think.”

Indeed I do, Rick thought. He decided to cooperate, score some points with these guys, and help them discover the truth, whatever that was. Romo nodded down the street and walked beside Rick as they followed the first cop.

“Can I make a phone call?” Rick asked.

“Of course. A lawyer?”

“No.”

Sam’s phone went straight to voice mail. Rick thought about Arnie, but little good that would do. Arnie had grown increasingly hard to catch by phone.

And so they walked, along the Strada Farini, past the small shops with their doors and windows open, past the sidewalk cafés where people sat almost motionless with their newspapers and little espressos.
Rick’s head was clearing, his stomach had settled. One of those small strong coffees might be welcome.

Romo lit another cigarette, blew out a small cloud of smoke, then said, “You like Parma?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“No. This is my first full day here, and I’m under arrest for something I did not do. Kinda hard to like the place.”

“There’s no arrest,” Romo said as he lumbered heavily from side to side, as if both knees were about to fold. Every third or fourth step his shoulder nudged Rick’s right arm as he lurched again.

“Then what do you call it?” Rick asked.

“Our system is different here. No arrest.”

Oh well, that certainly explains things. Rick bit his tongue and let it pass. Arguing would get him nowhere. He had done nothing wrong, and the truth would soon settle matters. This was not, after all, some Third World dictatorship where they randomly rounded up people for a few months of torture. This was Italy, part of Europe, the heart of Western civilization. Opera, the Vatican, the Renaissance, da Vinci, Armani, Lamborghini. It was all right there in his guidebook.

Rick had seen worse. His only prior arrest had been in college, during the spring of his freshman year when he found himself a willing member of a drunken gang determined to crash an off-campus fraternity party. Fights and broken bones ensued; the police showed up in force. Several of the hooligans were
subdued, handcuffed, knocked around by the cops, and finally thrown in the rear of a police wagon, where they were poked a few times by nightsticks, for good measure. At the jail, they slept on cold concrete floors in the drunk tank. Four of those arrested were members of the Hawkeye football team, and their adventures through the legal system were sensationally reported by several newspapers.

In addition to the humiliation, Rick got thirty days suspended, a fine of four hundred dollars, a scathing tongue-lashing from his father, and the promise from his coach that another infraction, however minor, would cost him his scholarship and send him to either jail or junior college.

Rick managed the next five years without so much as a speeding ticket.

They changed streets and turned abruptly into a quiet cobblestoned alley. An officer in a different uniform stood benignly by an unmarked opening. Nods and quick words were exchanged, and Rick was led through the door, up a flight of faded marble steps to the second floor, and into a hallway that obviously housed government offices. The decor was drab; the walls needed paint; portraits of long-forgotten civil servants hung in a sad row. Romo selected a harsh wooden bench and said, “Please have a seat.”

Rick obeyed and tried Sam’s number once more. Same voice mail.

Romo disappeared into one of the offices. There was no name on the door, nothing to indicate where the accused was or whom he was about to see. There was
certainly no courtroom nearby, none of the usual hustle and noise of frantic lawyers and worried families and cops bantering back and forth. A typewriter rattled in the distance. Desk phones rang and voices could be heard.

The cop in the uniform drifted away and struck up a conversation with a young lady at a desk forty feet down the hall. He soon forgot about Rick, who was quite alone and unwatched and could have nonchalantly disappeared. But why bother?

Ten minutes passed, and the cop in the uniform finally left without saying a word. Romo was gone, too.

The door opened and a pleasant woman smiled and said, “Mr. Dockery? Yes? Please.” She was offering him an entrance into the office. Rick walked inside. It was a crowded front room with two desks and two secretaries, both of whom were smiling at Rick as if they knew something he didn’t. One in particular was very cute, and Rick instinctively tried to think of something to say. But what if she spoke no English?

“A moment please,” the first lady said, and Rick stood awkwardly as the other two pretended to return to work. Romo had evidently found the side door and was no doubt back on the street pestering someone else.

Rick turned and noticed the large, dark double wooden doors, and beside them was an impressive bronze plaque that announced the eminence of Giuseppe Lazzarino,
Giudice
. Rick walked closer, then even closer, then pointed to the word
“Giudice”
and asked, “What is this?”

“Judge,” the first lady said.

Both doors suddenly flew open and Rick came face-to-face with the judge. “Reek Dockery!” he shouted, thrusting a right hand forward while grabbing a shoulder with his left, as though they had not seen each other in years. Indeed they had not.

“I am Giuseppe Lazzarino, a Panther. I am fullback.” He pumped and squeezed and flashed his large white teeth.

“Nice to meet you,” Rick said, trying to inch backward.

“Welcome to Parma, my friend,” Lazzarino said. “Please come in.” He was already pulling on Rick’s right hand as he continued to shake it. Once inside the large office, he released Rick, closed both doors, and said again, “Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Rick said, feeling slightly assaulted. “Are you a judge?”

“Call me Franco,” he demanded, waving at a leather sofa in one corner. It was evident that Franco was too young to be a seasoned judge and too old to be a useful fullback. His large round head was shaved slick; the only hair on his head was an odd thin patch on his chin. Mid-thirties, like Nino, but over six feet tall, solid and fit. He fell into a chair, pulled it close to Rick on the sofa, and said, “Yes, I am judge, but, more importantly, I am fullback. Franco is my nickname. Franco is my hero.”

Then Rick looked around, and understood. Franco was everywhere. A life-size cutout of Franco Harris running the ball during a very muddy game. A
photo of Franco and other Steelers holding a Super Bowl trophy triumphantly over their heads. A framed white jersey, number 32, apparently signed by the great man himself. A small Franco Harris doll with an oversize head on the judge’s immense desk. And displayed prominently in the center of the Ego Wall, two large color photographs, one of Franco Harris in full Steeler game gear, minus the helmet, and the other of Franco the judge here, in a Panther uniform, no helmet, and wearing number 32 and trying his best to imitate his hero.

“I love Franco Harris, the greatest Italian football player,” Franco was saying, his eyes practically moist, his voice a bit gravelly. “Just look at him.” He waved his hands triumphantly around the office, which was practically a shrine to Franco Harris.

“Franco was Italian?” Rick asked slowly. Though never a Steelers fan, and too young to recall the glory days of Pittsburgh’s dynasty, Rick was nonetheless a fair student of the game. He was certain that Franco Harris was a black guy who played at Penn State, then led the Steelers to a number of Super Bowls back in the 1970s. He was dominant, a Pro Bowler, and later inducted into the Hall of Fame. Every football fan knew Franco Harris.

“His mother was Italian. His father was an American soldier. You like the Steelers? I love the Steelers.”

“Well, no, actually—”

“Why haven’t you played for the Steelers?”

“They haven’t called yet.”

Franco was on the edge of his seat, hyper with the presence of his new quarterback. “Let’s have coffee,” he said, jumping to his feet, and before Rick could answer, he was at the door, barking instructions to one of the girls. He was stylish—snug black suit, long pointed Italian loafers, size 14 at least.

“We really want a Super Bowl trophy here in Parma,” he said as he grabbed something from his desk. “Look.” He pointed the remote control to a flat-screen TV in a corner, and suddenly there was more Franco—pounding through the line as tacklers bounced off, leaping over the pile for a touchdown, stiff-arming a Cleveland Brown (yes!) and ripping off another touchdown, taking a handoff from Bradshaw, and bowling over two massive linemen. It was Franco’s greatest hits, long, punishing runs that were enjoyable to watch. The judge, thoroughly mesmerized, jerked and cut and pumped his fists with each great move.

How many times has he seen this? Rick asked himself.

The last play was the most famous—the Immaculate Reception—Franco’s inadvertent catch of a deflected pass and his miracle gallop to the end zone in a 1972 play-off game against Oakland. The play had created more debate, review, analysis, and fights than any in the history of the NFL, and the judge had memorized every frame.

The secretary arrived with the coffee, and Rick managed a bad
“Grazie.”