All He Saw Was the Girl (7 page)

    The
girl said,
"Ciao,
Enzo," waved but kept walking.

    Twenty
minutes later they were at the Pincio, looking down at Piazza del Popolo where
they'd met an hour earlier. This was an even better view of Rome, the city
spread out, a dusty haze hanging over the skyline, the giant dome of St Peter's
looming in the distance. There were telescopes set up along the balustrade,
tourists taking aim at points of interest. McCabe thinking this would be the
perfect setting for Chip to deliver his lines from
Spartacus.

    They
strolled through Villa Borghese, her arm hooked around his, walking close as
they passed stands of chestnut trees, holmoaks and stylish umbrella pines that
looked like they were designed by Armani or Zegna. It occurred to him he didn't
even know her name, had forgotten to ask or hadn't thought to. "What's
your name?"

    "Angela."

    "That's
nice. Angela what?" She didn't answer or ask anything about him.
"Where do you live?"

    "That
way," she said, pointing north.

    They
passed the Temple of Diana and the G—the Monument. They walked further and
McCabe could see Via Veneto below the park. He and Chip would sit at an outside
table in front of Harry's Bar, watching the prostitutes come down from Borghese,
beautiful girls, knockouts in stylish outfits, walking by them, asking if
anyone wanted company. Chip would ask how much and then try to negotiate even
though he had no intention of buying their services.

    Now
they were on a path flanked by thick ten-foot-high hedgerows. McCabe stopped to
look at a bust on a marble pedestal, the face of a man scarred with graffiti.
Someone had drawn eyelashes, a mustache and goatee on him.

    Angela
glanced at the bust and smiled.

    McCabe
said, "Know who this is?"

    "No,
but I think you are going to tell me."

    "Cardinal
Scipione Borghesi, the guy who designed the park." McCabe realized he was
showboating, trying to impress her. "I memorize a lot of meaningless
historical facts, so I can impress good-looking girls I meet."

    She
said, "I can see that."

    McCabe
said, "Did you go to college?"

    "For
two years," she said, "the University of Turin."

    McCabe
said, "What did you study?"

    "Business
administration," she said.

    They
followed the path, crushed stones that wound through the park, a wooded area on
the right, open space, a field of grass on the left. McCabe could see the
marble facade of Casino Borghese in the distance. "Where're we meeting
your friend?"

    "Right
here."

    She let
go of his arm, stepping away from him as four guys with bandanas covering their
faces came through the trees, looking like Halloween bank robbers. They came at
him, McCabe wondering if there was some connection between these four and the
thieves on the motorcycle, coming back for revenge. But that didn't make sense.
There was no way they could've followed them. Now his attention was on Angela,
if
that was really her name, Angela calm
and relaxed, like she was waiting to see what was going to happen.

    They
circled around him, McCabe separating them in his mind: the big guy who was the
size of an NFL nose guard, the short stocky one, the thin wiry guy with blond
hair, a bad bleach job. Even with the bandana hiding his face, he recognized
Fabio, the long-haired guy from Rebibbia, the one he beat on the basketball
court, the one with Mafia connections they'd read about in the newspaper.

    He
glanced at the girl again, standing there relaxed. She wasn't afraid because
she was in on it, she was the bait. But how'd they know he'd go after the
thieves on the motorcycle?

    McCabe
was moving backward, turning in a circle, trying to watch them all. The nose
guard came at him first, charging, coming straight at him. McCabe stepped right
as he got close, and the big guy overran him. McCabe turned, going to his
kidneys with a hard right. The guy turned and McCabe hit him with a right-left
combination to the body that dropped him to his knees.

    Now
the other three charged him. The stocky guy threw a wild right hand that
missed. McCabe juked and weaved and hit him with a right hook to the jaw that
stunned him. Then somebody tried to tackle him from behind. McCabe throwing an
elbow that hit him in the face and he let go. Then something crashed into the
side of his head and he staggered and went down, looking up at the long-haired
guy standing over him. He rolled over on his hands and knees trying to get up,
still dizzy and fell over.

    Chip
said, "We better get on, get a seat."

    Trish
said, "If McCabe doesn't go, I'm not going."

    Chip
said, "He'll be here. Have I ever lied to you?"

    "Probably,"
Trish said.

    She
gave him a dirty look.

    "What
kind of attitude is that? Let me get you a drink, take the edge off."

    Chip
finished his beer and held the bottle up, telling the bartender he wanted
another one. "Last call," Chip said.

    The
girls shook their heads. They were packed in the loud, crowded bar in the
Stazione Termini in Rome. The train for Messina was leaving in twenty minutes.

    "Why
don't we call school, see if he's there," Trish said.

    "Maybe
he's mad at you," Brianna said to Chip, "for telling your dad he
stole the taxi."

    "He
doesn't care," Chip said.

    "I
would."

    "You're
a girl."

    The
bartender handed Chip a beer. He pulled two five- euro notes off a roll of
bills and left them on the bar top. Now Chip and the girls picked up their
backpacks, left the bar, crossed the main floor of the station and walked to
Track 17. The sign said
Messina.
Departure time: 20:10. They found seats
in a first-class car and Chip drank his beer, looking out the window. He
watched a porter push a cart piled high with luggage. A conductor in a blue
uniform walked along the side of the train, announcing its imminent departure.
Chip looked down the boarding platform toward the station. He was sure he'd see
McCabe running into the picture, but it didn't happen and the train started to
move.

    In
the dream Ray could hear a phone ringing, sounding far away at first, then
close and loud. He turned on his side, opened his eyes and saw the message
light flashing. It seemed like it was synched up to the pounding in his head.
He looked at his watch. It was 6:50 a.m. He was on duty in ten minutes and he
wasn't going to make it, Jesus, wouldn't make it if he had an hour the way he
felt. His cell phone vibrated on the nightstand next to the bed. He watched it
slide around in a circular motion and then stop. He was still in his clothes
from the night before, lying on the bedspread. His cell phone vibrated again,
telling him he had another message. He knew who it was and what it was about.

    He
tried to piece things together. Remembered being at the bar with Sturza. They
were going to have a couple, but only a couple because they were both on duty
the next morning, early. He remembered talking to a dark-haired girl sitting
next to him, already on his third Dewar's and water when Sturza got up and said
he was hitting it, and Ray better do the same. They had to be ready to go in
seven hours.

    The girl
was from Indianapolis and said she was in New York for a dental convention. She
was attractive in an ethnic way, and reminded him of Sharon when she was
younger, dark shoulder-length hair, bangs, brown eyes and a nice body, what he
could see of it.

    Ray
said, "Are you a dentist?"

    The
girl turned to her two friends who were sitting next to her at the bar.

    "He
wants to know if I'm a dentist," she said.

    All
three of them laughed like it was some inside joke.

    The
girl said, "I'm a sales consultant. I sell dental equipment, we all
do."

    Ray
said, "Like what?"

    'Like
titanium implants, disposable fluoride trays and x-ray mounts." She perked
up now. Talking about her job seemed to excite her, energize her.

    "What
about dental floss?" he said, having fun with her.

    "That,
too."

    "Sounds
exciting," Ray said.

    "You
think that sounds exciting, huh? What do you do?"

    "I'm
a federal agent," he said. The Dewar's loosening him up, relaxing him,
making him feel good.

    She
gave him a skeptical look. "Yeah, right?"

    Ray
sipped his drink.

    "If
it's true, you must have a badge or something, right?"

    Ray
took out his ID and showed it to her, the five-pointed star that stood for
duty, loyalty, justice, honesty and courage.

    She
turned to the other sales consultants and said, "Oh- my-god, he's in the
Secret Service."

    A few
drinks later he remembered going upstairs with her, making out in the elevator,
going to his room, she was sharing a room with Terry, one of the girls at the
bar. She told him she'd never made it with a Secret Service agent. Can I see
your gun? She pulled out a joint and said, want to get high? You're not going
to arrest me, are you?

    They
smoked the joint and had another drink and he remembered the girl taking off
her clothes, hugging him, great body, big breasts and olive skin.

    She
said, "I've been a bad girl, you better put the cuffs on me."

    She
held her hands out in front of her. Ray took the handcuffs out of the suit coat
pocket and clamped them on her wrists. She gave him a naughty look and Ray
pictured Sharon in the room at that particular moment, and it distracted him,
Sharon his wife who he hadn't seen in six weeks, and felt guilty. He remembered
the girl getting angry, telling him he was a fucking Secret Service homo. He
unlocked the handcuffs and she walked out of the room and slammed the door.

    Ray
got out of bed and went to the bathroom, still drunk, splashing cold water on
his face. He looked in the mirror at bloodshot eyes. He heard a horn honk and
looked out the window at midtown Manhattan twenty-five floors below. He heard a
knock, and then someone pounding on the door.

    "Ray,
you in there?"

    He
crossed the room and opened it a crack, saw Sturza in a dark-blue suit,
burgundy tie and white shirt, looking ready for action, and swung it open.
Sturza came in, eyes moving, scanning the room, holding the bottle of Dewar's.
That's right, he'd called room service, and there was a roach in the ashtray.

    Sturza
said, "What're you doing, trying to get canned? You know what time it
is?"

    He
knew, but didn't care.

    "Are
you flaking? Jesus Christ. I'll try to cover for you, but you know
Tracey."

    "You
know Tracey, what?" Special Agent John Tracey, his detail supervisor said,
walking in the room. "Forget protocol, Pope? I've been calling you for
forty-five minutes. You don't get up, check in before detail? How long have you
been with the Service?"

    "Longer
than you," Ray said. He'd never gotten along with Tracey who was anal, a
control freak, an asshole, a few of the nicer things Ray and his fellow agents
said about him.

    He
looked at Ray, looked around the room. "Pope, if you've been drinking
alcohol again, you're through."

    Ray
saw him staring at the bottle of Dewar's.

    "Look
at you," Tracey said. "You think I'm going to put you on detail in
your condition? Christ, you can barely stand up. What don't you understand
about not drinking when you're on call? This is a strict breach of discipline,
a violation of the Service professional code of conduct. Pope, the reason you
never made SAIC, you can't follow the rules."