Book of Stolen Tales (17 page)

Il Gatto Nero, the club where Ewan Fraser had arranged my meeting, was located off Via Giardinetto, a steep flagstoned street smack in the middle of the touristy part of Naples. Had I not more pressing business, it would have been easy enough to become waylaid by the shops—outdoor markets with fresh greens and local white cheese shaped like pears; seafood stores with trays of fresh mussels, clams, and snails in saltwater baths; confectioners selling pastries so artfully designed it seemed a shame to eat them; Italian leather footwear and custom-made jewelry. I took a few minutes to slip into one of the jewelry stores and buy necklaces with beads made from volcanic stone for Evelyn and Corinne.

They say strong attractions make themselves felt within the first five minutes of a new acquaintance. I felt that way about Naples and wished I had the leisure to get to know it better. It had the same rough edges, chaotic energy, and sudden breathtaking glimpses of beauty as my hometown. Grand though Paris and Rome were, the pulse of this city beat much like New York's. And in the short time I'd been here, it felt closer to my heart.

I arrived at the club half an hour early. A notice stuck to the door stated it was closed for a private party. The proprietor asked for my invitation and I explained it had been only verbal. When I gave him my name, his face lit up immediately. He ushered me to a cramped seat at the bar.

The warm, somewhat fusty trattoria was packed with people, all of whom seemed to know each other. My lonely post attracted some sidelong looks, including several from a couple of quite alluring women. I ordered a Campari and soda and surveyed the crowd. The only other man sitting alone looked like a Mafia enforcer with fists the size of boxing gloves. A white scar ran horizontally across the top of his forehead as if someone had tried to scalp him and quit halfway into the job. He cast an unfriendly glance my way.

The crowd looked pretty well-heeled, everyone talking at once, the volume deafening. Nor did the roar die down much when the musicians, a trio, launched into a tune. Music is my lifeblood. Before I left New York I'd loaded up my phone with some of my favorites, a ton of John Mayer, Jimmy Page, and Mark Knopfler. And yet, the way events played out, I'd had almost no chance to listen to them. It was a real pleasure to take in some music for a change.

After a couple of songs a spotlight clicked on. The guest artist moved into the circle of light. My blood rushed. A gypsy was my first thought, a woman like the one Victor Hugo immortalized. Or Carmen, who drove Spanish soldiers mad with desire. She wore her long black hair unbraided and it fell to the middle of her back. A provocative silky shift swayed about her thighs.

The audience stopped chatting and sipped on their drinks appreciatively, devoting themselves to the feast before them. Ewan's noblewoman had changed her mind. Instead of sending an emissary, she'd come in person.

Later, I learned her Neapolitan songs shared many elements of Portuguese fado, melancholy songs of the heart. I couldn't understand all the words but that didn't matter; her voice embraced and consumed me. When she finished, the guests broke into an uproar of applause. Some called out her name. They obviously knew her. They would not settle down until she gave them two more songs. At the close, she faded away into the dark at the back of the stage. A goddess had come to entertain us and then disappeared like a phantom.

Emerging from my trance, I signaled to the waiter and asked him in Italian who she was. He laughed. “Ah! You have just had a special pleasure—Dina does not often sing. She does so occasionally at private gatherings like tonight, but never joins the guests afterward.”

I doubted she'd left yet; it should not be too late to catch her. Beyond the stage and past the kitchen, I found a short corridor and saw a side entrance with a door propped open. I slipped through it. It led to an alcove partly obscured by a high wall. A Mercedes was parked with its motor running, the guy with the white scar I'd seen earlier in the club behind the wheel. Dina—should I call her that?—was pressed against the car, locked in a steaming embrace with a sleek, elegantly dressed man. I ducked back behind the door to avoid being seen but kept it partially open.

The man's back was to me so I couldn't see his face. If Dina was reluctant to talk to me before, intruding on this encounter would get me nowhere. I hoped he'd leave after saying good night to her.

She lifted her head back from the kiss. He turned slightly so he was in semi-profile, pulled her against his crotch, and ground into her pelvis; then he took her bottom lip in his mouth and bit down. He slipped his hand under the short silk sleeve of her dress, caressed her skin, and slowly pulled the sleeve down, fully exposing her breast. He bent his head. She let out a little gasp when he took her nipple in his mouth.

I was looking at the second person in Renwick's photo, the man with the shock of white hair and bronzed skin gripping Dina's shoulder.

The driver's presence didn't seem to deter them at all. Despite that, it was a deeply private moment and I knew I should do the decent thing and wrench myself away from the sight. When I shifted my feet to turn away, the man straightened up abruptly. Had he heard me? He looked around, trying to judge where the sound came from. Dina snatched up her dress. He murmured something to her, opened the rear door, and the two of them got in. The door shut with a solid thud and the car took off.

A wealthy, older man and a young woman—an old story. Any message for me tonight had been forgotten in the throes of passion.

Sixteen

W
hatever Dina felt about men, it certainly wasn't aversion. I wondered how that rumor got started. Back inside, most of the guests had left and they'd opened to the public. I ordered a couple of shots of Macallan deluxe single malt and lined them up in a row on the counter, western movie style. A little expensive but worth every penny.

Images of Dina and her lover swirled through my mind. He had a cruel, lean face and when he'd glanced around at the sound of my foot on the gravel, I saw his eyes were small and hard like two pale bullets. A man used to ordering people around.

An hour later I paid for my drinks and left. As I trudged along the hallway to my hotel room, I spotted Dina standing against the wall beside my door. Regrettably, she'd changed from the clingy dress she wore in the bistro to a pair of tight Levi's and a conservative navy-blue top. “I see you've had a change of heart,” I said.

“I need to talk with you”—she glanced at the door—”privately.”

“Well, that's what I'd hoped for. Come in.” I opened the door and followed her inside. My room was a comfortable size with a window overlooking the street, a king-sized bed, a wardrobe, and two armchairs. Dina looked around, noting the state I'd left the room in. Not taking the time to unpack properly, I'd flung my jacket onto the bed and dropped wet towels haphazardly on the carpet.

“You have good taste in clothes,” she said. “Like that Bugatti jacket. You should have hung it up. It's very North American to buy expensive things and treat them as if they came from your big-box store.”

I had to smile at her gibe, imagining she'd never ironed so much as a napkin. “I didn't have time on account of having to rush out for an appointment to meet a lady. I came to the club tonight but you seemed otherwise occupied. Glad to see you now, though.”

“Better late than never, no?” When she raised her hand to push a lock of hair off her face, I saw a cut had caused blood to streak down her hand and dry in the crevices between her fingers.

“What happened to your hand?” I said. “Looks like a nasty cut. Can I get you a bandage?”

Dina rubbed the dried blood as if she could make it disappear. “I came to do you a favor, Mr. Madison.” She paused. “If you don't leave the city right away, you won't live to see another day in Naples.”

“That's a pretty wild opening line.” A fleeting thought passed through my mind that this was some kind of ruse to stop me from getting to the truth about the book. But the blood on her hand was real enough and she looked dead scared. “Who? Who's after me?”

She raised her voice a notch. “Lorenzo Mancini.” She went over to the window and cast a frightened glance down the street before turning around. “You have to believe me.”

“How did
you
find me?”

“I called Enzo at Gatto Nero. You told the bar woman.”

“And who's Mancini?”

“I can't take the time to explain right now. His men could show up any minute. He doesn't know exactly where you're staying but it won't take him long to find out. Believe me. You're in extreme danger.” She could see the doubt still hovering in my eyes. “You want the book, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Then come now.”

Her fear was palpable so maybe her warning was valid. In any event, her promise to tell me about the book was too tempting to resist. I wanted to know more. I hastily packed my things.

Dina led me downstairs and out a back entrance. We passed rows of parked cars and reached a silver Alfa Romero a couple of streets away. She pulled a key fob out of her pocket and released the locks. “Get in,” she said, hurrying around to the driver's side.

Except for a couple strolling arm-in-arm, the street was deserted. Still, I was wary of a trap. “My mother told me never to get in a car with a strange woman.” I walked back to the corner, calling over my shoulder, “I'll wait for you on the main street.”

With an exasperated huff, she swung into the driver's seat, started the car, and reversed toward me. The brakes screeched and she threw open the passenger door. “See? No one else is inside the car. Now
please
get in.”

Dina put on sunglasses despite the hour, fumbled in the glove compartment for a scarf, and wound it around her head. She hit a button and the locks snapped shut. Her hands shook on the wheel as she backed out onto the street.

Italians drive like madmen; Dina was worse. She tore along the narrow streets and screeched the wheels on tight turns. Miraculously, she didn't attract any attention. Still, even in a town where rules were made to be broken, her speed seemed excessive. She wove west through the city center, all the time darting frightened glances at the rearview mirror.

“Okay,” I said, growing uncomfortable, “stop the car for a minute.”

She ignored me and continued driving.

When she was forced to brake for a rush of oncoming traffic I cranked my door open. “I said stop or I'll get out right now. I need some answers before we go any further. Who's Mancini?”

“My tormentor.” She pulled over to the side of the road. A horn blared behind us. I shut the passenger door.

“Why's he after
me
?”

“Because you're trying to get the book back. He wants you out of the way.”

“It belongs to him?”

“So he claims. I have more right to it than he does.”

“Well, he's working with old information. I don't have it. It was stolen from me.”

“Yes, Ewan told me.” She looked straight ahead, avoiding my eyes.

“Did you also know that only one volume was contained within the gold covers? Not all five as advertised?” She didn't answer. “I'll take that as a yes. At first, it didn't look to me like the covers had been opened. But you must have and removed all the volumes except the first?”

Dina nodded again, still without looking me in the eye.

“So Ewan Fraser lied when he said he consigned the entire anthology to Sherrods. What did you do with the other four?”

She cast another worried look at the road behind us. “Don't blame Ewan. He was trying to help me. Just after Christmas last year I discovered the anthology hidden in the palazzo. I sold four volumes to buyers privately through Ewan. One in February. The next three over the spring and summer. Yours was the only one that went to a public auction.”

Finally the truth. It was a straight admission she'd cheated Renwick and me. “And you didn't think you'd be caught when it became clear the auction house only had the one volume and not the whole book?”