All He Saw Was the Girl (14 page)

    McCabe
watched a pigeon circle around the Fountain of the Four Rivers, land on the
obelisk and fly off. A waiter approached the table with a tray of drinks. He
said, "
Due birre, uno cappuccino
," and put stemmed glasses of
Moretti in front of McCabe and Chip and the cappuccino in front of Senator
Tallenger. He said, "
Va bene
," and walked away. They were at
a cafe in Piazza Navona.

    Senator
Tallenger said, "McCabe, I know you're angry, but do me a favor, will you?
Let it go. There's nothing you can do."

    "You're
lucky to be here," Chip said.

    "He's
right," the senator said. "I looked into it, found out more than half
of the kidnap victims never make it home. They find them shot to death or
strangled." He paused. "McCabe, am I getting through to you?"

    Yeah,
he heard him. But he was thinking of a way to get the money back. To do it he
had to find the girl.

    Mazara
was thinking about the last time he came here. Don Gennaro was studying a painting
on one of the walls in his office, a room that had to be twenty meters one way
and thirty the other way. The don turned and looked at him and said, "Do
you know what this is?"

    It
did not seem complicated. It was a painting so that is what Mazara said, and
the don looked at him like he was a moron.

    "Do
you know Bronzino?"

    The
man made him nervous. Who was this Bronzino? The name was vaguely familiar.
"I think he played goalie for Lombardy. Is that right?"

    Don
Gennaro said, "He was the court painter for Cosimo de Medici."

    Mazara
said, "Who?" He stared at the painting on the wall, naked people
running around. It looked like a fun party. "What are they doing?" It
looked like an orgy.

    "It
is an allegory," Don Gennaro said. "Do you understand?"

    Mazara
had no idea what he was talking about and decided not to say anything else.

    Don
Gennaro said to Mauro, "Give him the money and get him out of here."

    That
time the don had hired him to steal a painting from a villa near Florence. The
don saying the owner had stolen it from the Uffizi. The Uffizi? Did he mean the
museum?

    This
time the don was having lunch on the veranda with someone he had never seen
before. They were drinking wine and talking. He could see the bodyguards at the
edge of the olive grove. They were alert, but keeping their distance, the grove
extending behind them as far as he could see. The bodyguards wore berets and
had shotguns on straps slung over their shoulders like Sicilian peasants.

    Mauro,
the don's secondo, had met him at the front door, searched him for weapons, and
looked in the paper bag he was carrying that contained money, the don's share
of the ransom. Mauro was a weird, quiet Sicilian, wiry, with dark skin, almost
as dark as a Tunisian. Mazara had been escorted out to the veranda that was
made of stone and built on two levels, wrapping around the back of the villa.
There was a swimming pool at one end. There was a wicker couch and chairs and a
low table with a glass top in the middle of the veranda and a long table at the
far end under a wrought-iron pergola that was covered with vines. He admired
the house and the grounds, thinking, this son of a peasant, who did not finish
his fifth year of school, had done well for himself. Roberto stood only five
feet from the man's table now, Don Gennaro ignoring him, making him stand there
like a servant. They were eating roast chicken and fried potatoes, washing it
down with a chilled bottle of Terre di Tufi. He recognized the tiny label.
Seeing the food was making him hungry. When he finished here Mazara would drive
back to Rome, pick up Angela and celebrate.

    The
don finally looked up at him and said, "Why are you here, interrupting my
lunch?"

    "I
bring your share of the money," Roberto said. "The ransom."

    The
don said, "Oh, the ransom."

    Of
course, the ransom, what did he think it was?

    The
don said, "Do I have to count it?"

    Roberto
said, "If you prefer."

    "No,"
the don said. "Do I have to count it?"

    The man
sitting at the table next to the don said, "Unk, want me to count
it?" He was American.

    The
don ignored him, staring at Roberto, and Roberto froze. He did not know what to
say, the don was keeping him off balance, making him nervous. What was this about?

    The
don picked up his glass and sipped the white. He leveled his gaze on Mazara and
said, "Is it all there?"

    "Yes,
of course." He could feel beads of sweat sliding down his face. He raised
his arm and wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

    The
don said, "Are you sure?"

    Mazara's
mouth was dry. He wished he had a glass of cold white wine. "Yes, I am
sure." The man was acting strange.

    The
don handed the bag of money to Mauro and Mauro went back into the villa. He
told him to wait, to go sit until he finished his lunch and Mauro had counted
the money.

    He
walked over and sat on the stone wall that separated the upper and lower levels
of the veranda, sun beating down on him. He did not expect to be treated this
way. He thought the don would accept the money and thank him. He watched a
woman in a bikini rise from the lounge chair where she was laying in the sun,
move to the pool, and dip her t— in the water. She had long dark hair and a
beautiful body. If you had the don's money you would have a girl like her
around to look at, maybe several.

    Mazara
watched her step down into the shallow end of the pool and disappear. It was
hot for October and the water looked cool and refreshing, better now with the
woman in it. He wondered what the don would say if he stood up and jumped in.
That was what he wanted to do. Take off his clothes and swim under water,
looking at the girl.

    Mazara
sat on the wall, and fifteen minutes later Mauro came out of the villa with the
paper bag. Why did it take so long to count ˆ60,000? He handed it to the don,
whispering something to him and the don saying something back.

    Now
Mauro called to him. He got up and walked back to the table. They were finished
with their meal, Mazara looking at chicken bones on their plates.

    Don
Gennaro said, "What is this?"

    Mazara
was confused. "Your share."

    "I
don't think so," he said. His face was serious as always.

    Mazara
was nervous. "I do not understand."

    The
don stared at him.

    "It
is from the money we collected." He could feel his stomach churning, all
of them watching him.

    "Why
do you insult me?" the don said. His eyes stabbing him like daggers.

    "What
do you mean?" Mazara said.

    "It
is not enough," the don said.

    "It
is what we agreed - thirty per cent." Mazara resented that he had to pay
this Sicilian anything at all and refused to give him the full amount.

    The
don said, "Of what?"

    "The
money." Roberto could feel sweat running down his face.

    "Either
you don't know how to calculate percentages," the don said, "or you
are trying to cheat me. Tell me, which one is it?"

    Was
he bluffing? Did he know how much the ransom was, how much they collected? How
could he possibly know?

    The
don said, "How much is in the bag?"

    Trying
to confuse him again. He knew how much was in the bag. Mazara said, "Sixty
thousand."

    "How
much was the ransom?" he said, raising his voice. If you saw him on the street,
you would think he was a quiet, easy-going old man, but he was nothing like
that.

    Now
Mazara was in trouble. Trying to get his brain to figure out what ˆ60,000 was
thirty per cent of. He had failed algebra and dropped out the Lyceum at the
beginning of his second year. He did not try to figure it out earlier because
he believed the man would accept the money, ˆ60,000 and thank him, Jesus, shake
his hand. He had no idea how to figure it out. He said, "What do you think
it should be?"

    The
don said, "I think it should be thirty per cent." He pointed to the
bag. "I am going to keep this, I want you to come back with the rest of
the money you owe me."

    Mazara
was thinking, no wonder this old man controlled eighty per cent of the crime in
Rome. He was smart and he was tough.

    "I
give you two days to bring the money," the don said. "And if you do
not come back, we will be looking for you. "

    The
American turned to the don and said, "Want me to go with him, Unk?"

    "I
want you to stay out of it," the don said. "This does not concern
you." His voice measured, even.

    The
American said, "Show you how you how we do it in the Motor City."

    Don
Gennaro ignored him.

    The
American looked at him and said, "Hey, what's your name:

    "Roberto
Mazara.'

    "Roberto
Mazara, huh? Listen, you're not back here day after tomorrow, I'm coming after
you myself."

    Mazara
grinned. It slipped out. He knew it was the wrong thing to do and regretted it.
But couldn't help himself. It just happened.

    The
American got up. He was a big man. Forty pounds heavier than him, at least.

    He
said, "You think this is funny?"

    He
seemed like he was acting, overdoing the part like an amateur. Mazara said,
"I don't know what you mean."

    "You're
giving me that little smartass grin," the American said. "Aren't you?
Fucking with me."

    "I
think you are mistaken," Mazara said. He fixed his attention on Don
Gennaro now. "I will bring you the money." What else was he going to
say?

    Uncle
Carlo had hugged Joey when he got there, the man sitting in the main room of
the villa he used as an office, wood beams in the ceiling, real ones, holding
up the roof, nothing like the fake, distressed beams in his house, built in
2005 by Pulte. His uncle had statues and sculptures, too, and paintings on
walls that were stucco, the real thing.

    Uncle
Carlo, who Joey had called Unk since he was a little kid when he couldn't
pronounce uncle, told him the villa was built in the fifteenth century by an
Italian nobleman. Fifteenth century was the 1600s, right? Joey said to himself.
He didn't want to look like a dumbass. The villa was so famous, it even had a
name: Santa Maria.

    Uncle
Carlo, based on what Joey saw, didn't look like the tough guy in charge of the
Roman Mafia. He was listening to opera when Joey came in the room, his Unk
leaning back in a chair behind his desk, eyes closed, the fruitcake moving his
arms and hands like he was conducting the orchestra, really getting into it.

    After
hugging Joey and saying hello and asking about his sister, Joey's mother, and
his flight over, his uncle said, "Listen."

    He
extended his arms, index fingers pointing at opposite side of the room where
the sound was coming from.

    "You
know this?" he said.

    Joey's
parents listened to this shit too. "It's an opera." He was sure of
that, but no idea which one.

    
"Rigoletto
,"
his Unk said. "Act two. The Duke has returned to find Rigoletto's house
empty, and is angry that his newest love is taken away from him, but the
courtiers gleefully tell him of their trick."

    His
uncle was talking like he believed it, like it was a true story. Joey wanted to
say, are you fucking kidding me? He wished the old boy would put Sinatra on and
offer him a Grey Goose Martini straight up, with four queen-size olives, let
him relax after ten hours in coach, back of the fucking plane, packed in a
tight row like being on a slave ship.