All He Saw Was the Girl (23 page)

    "Sisto,
with the red hair, waited outside the entrance to the school and followed
you," Angela said.

    "How'd
you know I'd go after the two guys on the motorcycle?"

    She
smiled. "That was completely unexpected. But it worked to my advantage. I
didn't have to try to meet you. You did everything, you made it easy."

    "What
if I didn't go with you?"

    "But
you did," she said and smiled again.

    "I
couldn't resist you, huh?"

    "You
did seem interested."

    He
flashed back to that day at the
enoteca,
McCabe taken by her. He would
have walked her to Florence if she'd asked, walked her to Venice.

    She
glanced at the Chianti. "Are you going to pour the wine some time
today?"

    "Oh,
you want some wine?"

    He
filled two stemmed glasses about a third of the way and handed one to Angela.
She took a big gulp. "Take your time," McCabe said. "Don't drink
so fast. Sip it, and taste all the things that are going on." Shed said
something like that to him at the
enoteca
and now he was giving it back
to her.

    She
smiled. "Now you are a connoisseur, uh?" She sipped the Chianti and
swished it around in her mouth. "How was that?" Angela said. "Did
I do it correctly?"

    "I
think you've got the hang of it," McCabe said.

    "I
have to tell you. After we collected the money…" She paused. "Sisto
said you saw our faces, you would go to the police and identify us. They were
talking about killing you."

    McCabe
said, "And let me guess, you talked them out of it?" Was she telling
the truth?

    "They
were serious," Angela said.

    Her
face was, too.

    "I
told Mazara, if they harmed you," Angela said, "I would go to the
police myself and turn them in."

    "So
you saved my life and I should be grateful, is that what you're telling
me?"

    "Now
that you mention it."

    "I'll
see what I can do." He sipped his wine.

    "I
like you, McCabe." She came up next to him and held his hands. "I
don't want anything to happen to you. But if you continue with this you are
going to be hurt or worse." She let go of his hands, stepped back and
picked up her wine glass.

    "I'll
take my chances," McCabe said.

    "That's
what I expected you to say."

    "Why'd
you bring it up?"

    "I
was hoping you would change your mind," Angela said.

    "You
think I'm going to give up, you don't know me."

    Joey
went up to the door and scanned the names in the directory and saw A. Gennaro,
apartment 2b. He pressed the button, but nothing happened. He pressed it again.
Still nothing. He tried another apartment, waited and heard the door buzz open.
He walked up a narrow staircase that wound around the elevator shaft to the
second floor, and knocked on Angela's door, waited and knocked again. He stood
there looking at the door painted green with a high-gloss finish. He turned and
looked behind him at another apartment across the hall. Just two on the whole
floor.

    Downstairs,
he heard the door to the building open and close, heavy and solid. Heard
someone coming up the stairs. Joey walked halfway up to the third floor and
waited, listening. He could see the shape of a man through the steel mesh of
the elevator shaft, standing in front of Angela's door. Joey started down, and
saw him open the door and go in the apartment.

    Joey
walked down and knocked on Angela's door, waited a couple seconds and it
opened. The guy saw him and tried to close it, but he was ready, put his weight
into it, pushing his way into the room. It was the douche bag owed his uncle
money. He couldn't believe it, Joey trying to remember his name. "The
fuck're you doing here? Where's Angela at?"

    Guy
didn't say anything, stared at him like he was deaf.

    Was
this clown Angela's boyfriend? Must be if he had his own key.

    "Where's
my Unk's money?"

    "I
do not have," he said.

    "You
do not have?" Joey said. "You better fucking have."

    Joey
wished he had his baseball bat, show this dick with ears who he was dealing
with here. Joey moved toward him, hit him in the face and knocked him on his
ass. He could feel the adrenalin surge, squatted, put a knee on his chest and
pinned him against the carpet. "Where's she at?" Joey said, the guy's
name coming to him now. Mazara, that was it.

    "The
American took her," Joey thought he said, easing up a little so he could breathe.

    "What
American?"

    He
told Joey about the student they'd kidnapped. Thought he was the son of a
wealthy American senator, Charles Tallenger, but instead they had picked up the
wrong one, and he had taken Angela.

    This
was getting good. Joey'd been down since he left Detroit and this charged him
up. He felt like his old self again. He'd find this amateur fucking yahoo
student, bring Angela back and, who knew, maybe take over his uncle's business
while the old boy sat on his ass. Joey was thinking — hold on a second — maybe
this was fate. Maybe this was destined to happen. He'd looked up his horoscope
online that morning. It said making your mark on the world isn't for the faint
of heart. Plans always change. Be open to new voices directing you. It was as
if it was talking directly at him, telling him he was on track, showing him the
way.

    Joey
let him up now and his phone rang. Mazara flipped it open and brought it to his
ear.

    Joey
said, "That him?"

    Mazara
nodded.

    "Gimme
the fucking phone," Joey said.

    Mazara
handed it to him.

    Joey
put it up to his ear. "You have any idea, my friend, who you've got
there?"

    The
voice on the other end said, "Who're you?"

    "Guy
who's going to cut your nuts off," Joey said, "you don't let Angela
go right fucking now."

    "You
want her back," he said, "get five hundred thousand euros, put the
money in a white Adidas soccer bag. Think you can remember that?"

    Joey
said, "I wish you luck 'cause you're going to need it." The phone
went dead, asshole hung up on him. He glanced at Mazara. "Where's the
money at?"

    "It
was cut up like a pizza. Everyone they take a piece and now it is gone."

    "That's
what I'm going to do - cut you up, you don't get the money back, including what
you owe my uncle, and bring it to me. I don't want to hear any fucking
excuses."

    Joey
was thinking, with these modern-day dumbass Italians, he'd get a piece of the
action, maybe even get it all. He had Mauro drive him to the Excelsior on Via
Veneto, this famous hotel on this famous street. He went to the reception desk
and got a room with the passport that said he was Salvatore Bitonte, a
hairdresser from Detroit, but not a fag.

    He
had to get out of the villa for a while, be on his own. He looked at his watch,
a gold Rolex President. It was 1:55. No wonder he was starving. He went to the
restaurant next door, place called Doney, had bombolitti with artichokes, bread
and two glasses of Batar, a nice Tuscan white, and for dessert, coffee and
strawberries with limoncello mousse, kept Mauro waiting in the car, Joey didn't
care. He paid cash for the meal, put the receipt in his shirt pocket and went
outside.

    When
Joey got back to the villa his uncle was acting strange — like what else was new?
He wasn't listening to opera or studying one of his paintings. He was sitting
behind his big wooden desk he said once belonged to Mussolini, his hands folded
like he was praying.

    Joey
said, "Yo, Unk, what's up?"

    His
uncle got up and came across the room, taking tiny steps, an odd look on his
face. "I do not know how to tell you this…"

    Joey
was thinking the old boy was upset 'cause he blew his woofers listening to
Rigoletto.

    "Your
father is gone," his uncle said in a soft voice.

    "What?"
Joey didn't understand him.

    "Giuseppe
is dead."

    It
was strange. His father had died and he didn't feel anything at all. "What
happened?"

    "Was
his heart," Unk said, still holding his hands together.

    No surprise
there. His old man had had angioplasty twice and was taking a blood thinner.
Unk put his arms around Joey, hugging him. Joey didn't like this old guy, who
smelled like mothballs and BO, touching him. That was another thing about the
modern Italians, they could shower a little more often, Jesus Christ. He looked
down at the top of his Unk's balding silver hair, the skin on his head tan like
his arms and face.

    Joey's
first impulse was to go home. Sneak back in the country the way he'd snuck out
- go to the funeral, see his mother. It was risky, but he had to do it. The
family would respect him for coming out of hiding to honor his father, wouldn't
they? Respect him, or think he was an idiot for coming back?

    Then
he thought, maybe his old man got what he deserved. Instead of helping Joey,
he'd sent him away, banished him to cover his own ass. Now with Joe P. out of
the picture, Joey was on his own. No one would help him. No one would go near
him.

    His
uncle finally let go of him and called Mauro. The little guy came in the room,
and his uncle said something to him in Italian. Mauro hurried out and came back
a few minutes later with a small-stemmed glass that had clear liquid in it.

    "Drink
this."

    Joey
took the glass and sipped it - sambuca. The warm licorice liquid going down
slowly like motor oil, taking his breath away, his uncle staring at him, and
Mauro standing there like a statue. Joey said, "I'm going to Rome, spend a
few days in a hotel. I need to think."

    "This
is no time to be foolish."

    He
wanted to say, Oh, okay, Unk, thanks for the great fucking advice. Joey went
upstairs, changed his clothes, hung his shirt and pants in the closet, packed a
suitcase, a small bag with enough stuff for a few days. Joey poked his head back
in his Unk's room and said, "Yo, Unk, backo shortolo."

    Joey
was happy to get out of the villa. He felt free for the first time in weeks.
Mauro drove him back to Rome and dropped him off at the Excelsior. He felt good
walking in the lobby, checking out the thirty-foot ceiling with giant
chandeliers and expensive-looking furniture. The room was big and
expensive-looking too. It ought to be for $750 a night, the euro still kicking
the dollar's ass.

    He
went to his room, laid on the bed, relaxed and looked at the
Herald Tribune,
checked the NFL scores, the Lions had lost another one, now o and 7, Jesus.
Worst team in football. He turned on CNN and watched for a few minutes,
wondering what the hell was going on in the world. He felt out of touch, hadn't
seen a newspaper or TV for six days.

    There
was a knock on the door. He opened it and saw a good-looking blonde reminded
him of Sharon, standing there, same hairstyle, same height and build. He
smelled perfume. Jesus, like she took a bath in it.

    She
said, "Signor Bitonte?"

    "Call
me Sal," Joey said.

    She
came in and moved past him and sat on the queen-size bed and he closed the door
and said, "What's your name?"

    "Lia."

    "Lia,
huh? Okay, Lia, let's see what you got." Joey's rule: when he was alone
with a babe, she had to be naked. He liked to look at her body. At first girls
would resist and pretend to be shy, but the truth was they couldn't wait to
show him the goods. He dated one chick with huge bozos liked to stand in front of
the window and shock people driving by. At first she was like - no way. You
think I'm going to prance around in my birthday suit?