The Eighth Day (13 page)

“So! You’ve seen the priest, then.”

“Even better—I have the computer.”

“What?! That’s terrific!”

“Yeah, well—how do I get it to you?” Cray asked, pen in hand. “I was thinking I could FedEx it. . . .”

Belzer chuckled. “Well, yes, I suppose you could. But why don’t we save a little money?”

“Okay . . . how do I—”

“Instead of FedEx, why don’t you take the elevator?”

“What?” Danny thought he’d misunderstood.

“I said you can bring it up to me on the elevator. I’m on the third floor.”

Danny blinked. Wondered:
Is this a joke?
Decided that it wasn’t. Asked himself:
What’s he doing here—how long has he been here?
Somehow, the idea that Belzer was staying in the same hotel at the same time—without Danny knowing it—bothered him. It gave him a claustrophobic feeling.
Then again: why shouldn’t he be here? Maybe this is the hotel he always uses, that’s why he put me here. Maybe he’s got business in Rome.
Not that it mattered. It just made Danny’s job that much easier. “Which room?” he asked.

Belzer’s chuckle. Then: “All of them.”

“The whole floor?”

Danny could almost hear the lawyer shrug. “It’s a security measure,” Belzer explained. “Anyway, it gives me privacy, and, besides, it’s only a few rooms.”

“Only a few rooms”? At five hundred bucks a night?
“I’ll be right up,” Danny promised.

The elevator took him to the third floor, where it was immediately apparent that this was indeed Belzer’s domain. As soon as the doors opened, a square man in a black business suit got to his feet from a straight-backed chair and stepped toward the elevator. His eyes swept over Danny, then he cocked his head deferentially and gestured down the hall to where two other men were standing.

Danny followed the gesture and found the lawyer waiting for him in an old-fashioned library with walnut wainscoting.

“Dan!” Belzer exclaimed as he came around from an antique wooden desk to shake hands. Once again he wore a dark well-cut suit and glasses with gray lenses—not quite sunglasses but dark enough to make it hard to see his eyes. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am. Really!” Taking the younger man by the arm, Belzer led him to an oval table that stood beneath a mullioned window, overlooking the street. “Is this it?” he asked, taking the package from Danny’s arms.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Danny replied. Then he took a seat in a leather armchair and watched as Belzer examined the package. Finding it opened, the lawyer looked inquiringly in Danny’s direction.

“I wanted to be sure it was all there,” Danny told him.

Belzer nodded and took a seat at the table. As he did, a waiter came into the room with a tray and poured each of them a glass of ice water. “Drink?” Belzer asked, his manicured hand making a circular gesture in the air.

“No, thanks, I—”

“Cigar? Coffee?”

Danny shook his head. “No, really—I’m all set.”

Dismissing the waiter as if he were a fly hanging in the air between them, Belzer pulled the Thinkpad out of its package. Placing it on the table between them, he raised the monitor and slid the
ON
button forward. It took about a minute for the fanfare to sound, and then, as Danny watched, the lawyer’s fingers began to tap on the keyboard.

He couldn’t tell exactly what Belzer was doing—the screen was facing the other way—but Danny guessed that the lawyer was searching through Terio’s directories, looking for something in particular. Or maybe not. Maybe he was fishing.

Five minutes went by, and then ten. Occasionally Belzer would pause to read or reread an item of interest. Danny didn’t pay much attention, just sat where he was, toting up the hours in his head and trying to recall exactly what it was that Belzer said when they made their deal about the computer.
I’ll give you ten thousand dollars . . . in addition to your hourly rate . . . Maybe the priest will sell you the computer. If he does . . . you can keep whatever’s left.

Something like that.

Danny took a sip of water and calculated. One-point-five-million lire was about six hundred and seventy-five dollars. That’s what he’d paid Customs for the computer. The question was: Was that an “expense”? Or did it come under the “beg, borrow, or steal” proviso?
Don’t be greedy,
he told himself.
You’ll be lucky if this guy even pays you for the hours that he owes. It’s too easy. For ten grand, someone should have taken a shot at me or something.
Not an expense, then. A cost of doing business. Which left . . . about nine thousand dollars. Unless Belzer kept the computer, in which case he’d have to buy the priest a Thinkpad. (Make that a
used
Thinkpad.) Which was . . . what? A grand? This
was
Italy. Maybe two.

Anyway . . . worst-case scenario: If Belzer kept the Thinkpad, Danny would still come out of the deal with seventy-five hundred bucks—plus his hours. Which were at fifty-eight and counting. All together he’d probably make about fifteen grand. Enough for the video suite—or enough, at least, so that Danny could probably borrow the difference from the folks.

Belzer puttered with the computer for another five minutes. Once or twice, Danny started to say something—should he stay, or should he go?—but the lawyer quieted him, softly patting the air with his right hand, even as his eyes stayed glued to the screen.

Finally, he opened an attaché case that was sitting on the floor beside the table and retrieved a CD. Inserting the CD in a drive at the base of the computer, he slid the bay closed and began to type. Soon the hard drive started to grind, a rhythmic, pulsing noise that seemed entirely out of place in the ninteenth-century room. Maybe he was copying stuff; Danny wasn’t sure. Then, after nearly a minute, the machine fell silent. Belzer shut it off and closed the screen. “I’m
very
happy with you,” he said, bathing Danny in a broad grin.

Danny almost blushed. “Thanks.”

Belzer shook his head. Took his sunglasses off, held them in one hand. The lawyer did this every now and then, and Danny had come to recognize it as a gesture used to emphasize important points. A gesture of inclusion. “No. The thanks are mine. If you hadn’t found that FedEx receipt—
in the garbage
, no less . . .”

Danny acknowledged the compliment with a modest shrug.

“I’ve been thinking,” Belzer said. “You’re an interesting young man: smart, fast, creative—and from what I can tell, you don’t have any holdback at all. That’s rare.”

The praise made Danny uncomfortable. He practically winced but managed, instead, to look Belzer in the eye. For the first time, Danny noticed that the lawyer’s eyes were the color and texture of mud. “Thanks,” he said.

“Well . . . I’ve been thinking . . . it might be a good idea to put this on a more regular footing.”

Danny gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean: I want you to come to work for me—full-time.”

Danny didn’t give it a second thought. “Thanks,” he said, “but—I don’t think so. This is . . . just a kind of sideline for me.” He paused, gearing up to launch into a speech about art and how important it was to him, when the lawyer interrupted him.

“Hear me out,” he said. “I was thinking we’d convert your hourly rate to a salary. You’d have to travel, but we’d make it first-class—so I don’t think you’d be suffering too much.”

Danny thought about it. The truth was: He
liked
to travel—especially first-class (which he had now done exactly once). “And where would I be traveling
to
?” he asked.

Belzer shrugged. “The client has a lot of interests. London, Moscow, Tokyo . . . LA. It’s hard to say. I see you as a kind of fireman. A troubleshooter. Something comes up—you get on a plane, check it out, and report back. To me. I think you’d find it interesting, even if it was only for a year or two.” Now Belzer put the glasses back on, leaned back in the chair, as if to give Danny some room to think about it.

And he did. It was impossible not to do the math: One hundred dollars an hour at forty hours a week for fifty-two weeks was . . . what?
Two hundred grand a year?
Not bad for a twenty-six-year-old artist. It would blow Caleigh
away
. Then again, and on the other hand, he wouldn’t be an artist, he’d be working for
this
guy, and—

Belzer was looking at him.

“Sorry?” Danny asked.

“I said you don’t have to decide this instant. Think it over for a couple of days—and give me your answer over the weekend.”

“The weekend?”

“We can talk about it in Siena. I’d like you to come up for the Palio.”

The Palio,
Danny thought. “What’s a Palio?”

Belzer frowned. “You’re kidding me.”

Danny shook his head.

The lawyer smiled and leaned forward. Resting his elbows on the table, he made a steeple with his fingers and began to explain. “It’s the oldest and most spectacular horse race in the world. They run it twice a year in the Campo—which is one of the most beautiful piazzas in Italy, a really
big
piazza that’s shaped like a seashell. Each of the
contrade
has a horse in the race, so—”

“What’s a
contrade
?” Danny asked.

“Contrada,” Belzer corrected. “One of the old neighborhoods in Siena.” Then he laughed. “It’s very
West Side Story
—very
Romeo and Juliet
. Montagues and Capulets—and me.” He laughed again. “Anyway . . . it starts with a cannon. Fifty thousand people jammed together into the Campo, shoulder-to-shoulder, horses circling. The jockeys ride bareback.”

“Sounds amazing.”

Belzer removed the glasses again and leaned toward him. “It’s glorious. Italy
stops
. It’s like a national heart attack during the time it takes to run the race. For an artist like you . . . it’s what life is all about. Crowds, blood, speed.” Belzer’s muddy eyes held him with their gaze, a faint smile on his full lips.

Danny thought about it.
That’s what life’s all about?
Probably not. Anyway, what he really wanted to do was get paid, catch the next plane back to the States, fall in bed with Caleigh. Then, again . . .

“While you’re there, you can meet Zebek—he
wants
to meet with you—and we’ll cut you a check on the spot. Have it waiting for you, when you arrive.”

Danny wasn’t sure what to say.

The lawyer chuckled. “It’s just a day or two,” he promised. “And we’ll continue to pay your hourly fee and expenses.”

“It isn’t that,” Danny told him. “I’ve got a show coming up. . . .”

Behind the glasses Belzer looked disappointed, and Danny realized that he must seem ungrateful. The lawyer was being extremely generous, and—suddenly an awful thought occurred. If he didn’t go to get the check, how long would it be before it was sent to him? And when it was sent—
if
it was sent—would it all be there? Or would Belzer have second thoughts about his generosity? And what about Zebek? It would be interesting to meet someone that rich, that powerful. Maybe he collected art. Maybe—“Okay,” Danny decided. “Why not? It’s not like I get to Italy every day.”

“Wonderful,” Belzer replied. “I’ll look for you at eight tomorrow evening. For dinner, alfresco, right in the Campo. It’s a special night, the one before the race.”

“And how do I find you?”

Belzer shrugged. “Go to the Campo and look for the Palazzo di Pavone in the Logge della Mercanzia. The tables will be set out below. You’ll see the flags.”

Danny searched his pockets for a pen.

“You don’t need to write it down,” Belzer told him. “Everyone knows where it is. Look for a long balcony with peacocks shitting all over it. It’s the only one on the Campo.” He laughed and missed the startled look in Danny’s eyes.

Peacocks?
What was it Inzaghi had said? Something about a “Peacock Angel.” “You mean, he’s got peacocks—right in town?”

Belzer laughed. “Why not? They’re better than any watchdog—and Zebek couldn’t resist.”

“Resist what?”

“The palazzo. It’s sixteenth-century, and when it came on the market—well, you can imagine; it was just so appropriate.”

Danny frowned, not understanding.

Belzer smiled. “I forget. You don’t speak Italian.” He thought for a moment, then explained. “Each of the
contrade
has a symbol. Usually it’s an animal, but not always.” He paused. “Anyway,” he said, “one of them is
il pavone
—the Peacock. So, naturally, if you have a business called
Sistemi di Pavone
and it’s headquartered in Siena . . . well, acquiring the
Palazzo di Pavone
was a no-brainer. I think it’s called ‘branding.’ ” With a shrug, Belzer planted his cane on the floor and leveraged himself to his feet.

“What about the computer?” Danny asked, standing up.

The lawyer glanced indifferently at the laptop. “What about it?”

“I told the priest I’d try to get it back to him.”

“Then get it back to him,” the lawyer said. He glanced at his Rolex. “I nearly forgot.” From his jacket pocket he extracted a brown envelope and handed it to the American.

“What’s this?”

“Your ticket on the
rapido
to Siena. It leaves the Termini at ten thirty-two. That’s in the morning. And there’s a voucher for the Villa Scacciapensieri.” He looked regretful. “It’s a nice hotel, but maybe not as central as you’d like. Still, with the Palio . . . we’re lucky you’re not in a tent. The city’s packed.”

Danny dismissed the inconvenience with a mumble, and the two of them shook hands.

“Until tomorrow, then.”

“At eight,” Belzer reminded. “And then, the next day, you can watch the race with us from the balcony. It’s really something, and everyone agrees—the view is to die for.”

Danny took his time over breakfast the next morning, sitting at a table in the Inghilterra’s somnolent dining room. There was a lot to think about, and fragments of an old rock song ran through his head:

Should I stay,
Or should I go?

On the one hand: He had a life. And, obviously, the right thing to do was go back to that life and work his ass off; he could buy the video suite that he needed and . . . who knows? Maybe he’d sell a couple of pieces. That was all an artist could ever really ask for—to make enough money to keep working. If he someday hit it big, that would be great. But it was
the work
that mattered. Not the money.