Crime Always Pays (8 page)

It hadn't looked much from outside – discreet, Terry'd assured her, boutique – but inside was a whole different world, the lobby looking vaguely Edwardian to Madge with its pillars and Turkish carpets and potted palms. Madge, if she squinted, could imagine herself taking the Grand Tour, Henry James skulking in the undergrowth sniffing some young girl's bloomers. Or was that Joyce? Madge never could remember who the knickers freak was. 

          She groped on the bedside locker for her watch, frowning as she tried to make out the time, then wondered about the time difference, was she an hour ahead? Or behind? Or, wait, was there even a time difference? Not that it mattered, she was awake now, needing something to settle her stomach, a nice creamy latte. She slipped out from under the sheet, watching Terry all the while, not wanting to wake him – not that she had any regrets there, Terry'd been rough when she wanted him to be, sure, although he preferred it tender and slow himself, and hadn't let her down, even though Madge'd been more than willing to make allowances, the guy with a lot going for him even before he crawled into bed beside her, smelling fresh, this after taking a shower, whispering, 'Hey, if you're tired, y'know, I'm kinda tired too. Like, what's the hurry, am I right …?'

No, Madge just wanted to savour the moment. The early stillness, the sense that the whole of Rome, the Eternal City, was out there poised, holding its breath. Waiting for Madge to come out to play and make it perfect.

She decided she'd shower later, she wouldn't be gone that long anyway. Dressed casual, light sweater and slacks, a low heel on the strappy sandals in case she had to walk any distance. The guy on Reception was as helpful as he could be speaking Italian, Madge's knowledge of the language extending as far as Gucci, Armani, Fendi and Prada – still, she got the gist from the way he waved his arms around like a helicopter going down in flames: out the front door, angle left across the piazza, cut a hard right down the second street she came to.

She was brisk going across the piazza, loving the echo of her heels on the air that still had a crisp chill to it, and was surprised to discover that the coffee shop, finding it first try, was already half-full. Professionals mainly, with their power suits and gleaming leather satchels, glowing tans, hair perfect, kohl and blusher subtle but perfectly applied. And that was just the chaps. Madge, wishing now she'd at least glanced in the mirror on the way out, slunk down the back and found a high-stool at the counter running along the rear wall. The vibe smug, a gang of cats plotting to hijack a milk-float …

Christ, even the middle-aged women looked to Madge like Sophia Loren's nieces. As for the satchels, the staccato chatter into headsets … Madge, with a pang, wondered how'd she fare in their world, cutting deals, making and shaking at, what – she glanced at her watch – Jesus, six-thirty in the morning. Or was it seven-thirty? Five-thirty?

Didn't matter. This time of the morning, generally speaking, and for about ten years or so, Madge would be turning over for her second sleep, giving the hangover some me-time, vaguely aware of Frank through the fuzzy dullness as he banged drawers and cursed a missing sock.

Madge sipped her latte, grinned to herself. Frank, the useless waste of space, wouldn't be needing any more than one sock for some time to come …  

          The joy didn't last. Hating herself for feeling guilty, she'd been hoping she'd left all that baggage behind, travelling light, she took her latte up to the guy behind the counter and mimed making a phone-call, then asked for some change. He pointed out a booth to the right of the door and then mimed sliding a credit card into a slot. Madge tugged the folding door closed behind her, balanced her latte on the narrow ledge. Then, taking a deep breath, she dialed Jeanie's cell.

          The plan being to leave a message, no way Jeanie'd be up and about at this ungodly --

          '
Hello?
'

          'Jeanie?'

The girl sounding so doleful, probably still coming down from last night, Madge couldn't tell who it was.

          '
Moms?
'

          'Jeanie, how many times do I have to tell you, don't 
call
 me --'

          The wail that came shrieking down the line shivered Madge to her very marrow. '
Oh Mommmmmmmmmmms. What are we going to do?
'

          'Jeanie? Calm down, you'll still get to Aspen. It's only your father's leg that's out of commission. He can still sign a cheque, right?'

          And then Jeanie blurted out a joke, a sucker punchline that caught Madge just below the ribcage, pounding through her gut to fetch up hard against her spine. The coffee shop lights flickered, came and went, or maybe that was Madge reeling away, dizzy …

          She came to hunkered in the bottom of the booth wearing most of a secondhand lobster-latte combo down the front of her sweater like a sloppy tie. The counter jockey, distraught, knocking on the glass door of the booth, shouting something, pointing at Madge's feet, which were wedged against the bottom of the door. Over his shoulders a horde of impeccably coiffed hair-dos craning for a better look. The phone dangling just above her right ear making these weird metallic chirps that sounded like Jeanie doing an R2D2 impression.

'
Moms? Are you there? Moms?
'

          Madge, it was all she could think to do, closed her eyes and clicked her heels and wished herself half a world away.

Melody

Mel came awake fast, immediately aware of the cabin's confines, the strange pressure that goes with sleeping beneath the water-line. She stumbled across to the tiny bathroom and just about made it, upchucking as she arrived at the aluminium toilet so that the puke sprayed against the back of the bowl.

          Her gut was still spasming, a reflex, when a soft knockity-knock came at the door. 'Hold on,' she called, squeezing some toothpaste onto her forefinger and massaging it into her upper gum. Then she padded across the cabin. 'Who's there?' she whispered.

          'It's me. Gary.'

          She opened the door a crack. 'What's wrong?'

          'We'll be docking in an half-an-hour. I just wanted to make sure you were up.'

          'Okay, thanks.'

          'You need a hand with your bags?'

          'No, that's okay.' He turned to go. 'Hey,' she said, 'have you got a sec?'

          'Sure.'

          Melody opened the door, let him in, closed it quickly behind him. He wrinkled his nose and said, 'Hey, you okay?'

          'Fine, yeah.' She smiled wanly. 'I guess I haven't got my sea-legs yet.'

          She got into bed and pulled the covers up, gesturing for him to sit on the foot of the bunk.

          'Nice pee-jays,' he said.

          Mel wearing the white silk nightie dotted with little honey-bees, each with a speech-bubble saying 
Beeyoutiful
. Sleeps back in civvies now, wearing a baggy t-shirt that said, 'Cops Uncouth to Youth'.

          She nodded, accepting the compliment. 'Listen, Gary, about Rossi.'

          He held up a hand to stall her. 'You don't have to worry about him, Mel. He talks a big game, but … I mean, he shot Ray, okay, but the way Rossi tells it, he was firing off a warning and Ray was running, he slipped, fell into it. Complete fluke. Anyway, Ray had no business getting involved. The shit was between Rossi and Karen, she stole his stuff, he just wanted it back.'

          'See,' Mel said, 'this is what I don't get. It's all about Rossi but you're saying, correct me if I'm wrong, you'll do his time for him.'

          'It sounds, I know, what you might call defeatist. But I got a plan.'

          'That involves, you said, going to prison.' Mel a little concerned that Sleeps' ambitions were screwing with her story arc.

          'Doing time,' he said, 'yeah, it can be a bitch. 'Specially if you go in with the wrong frame of mind. Except the worst bit? Like, once you get past sharing a cell with six other blokes, the shit food, being locked down twenty-three hours – it's the boredom.'

          'That and the gang-rape in the showers.'

          'I'm not saying,' Sleeps shrugged, 'it doesn't happen.' He gestured down at himself. 'But I'm no one's idea of Brad Pitt, y'know? Or Angelina Jolie. I got an ass, someone wants to stick something in it, they better be packing about twelve inches, y'know?'

          Mel had a pang of empathy, the guy about 300 pounds of wobble and feeling every ounce. 'Beauty's only skin deep, Gary.'

          'Skin deep and a mile wide.' He brushed it off. 'Anyway, the boredom? I got that plan. Taking courses and shit, get me an education. On the out? No one's letting me into any college. I got no exams, didn't get to finish school, and anyway, there's the fees, all the books you gotta buy.' He shook his head. 'Inside? They're
throwing
 books at you. Christ, they get one guy a year they can point to, say look at him, he's rehabilitated, that's their grants for next year looked after. Then, when I'm not reading and shit? I've got the narcolepsy, I'm snoozing left, right and centre.'

          'Reading and sleeping,' Melody said, considering. 'Maybe that's not such a bad plan.'

'Like, the whole point of hanging out with Rossi is the boy's done three jolts already, it's only a matter of time before he goes back inside. I'm just hoping to steer him into something that doesn't carry the actual death penalty.' He shrugged. 'But when he goes, Mel, he'll take everyone around him down too.'

          'You're worried about me?' Mel said. 'But I'm your hostage. If Rossi gets --'

          'When.'

          'When, okay. 
When
 Rossi gets caught, I go back home.'

          'Because you'll just explain how Rossi kidnapped you, took you along.'

          'Exactly.'

          'You speak French? Italian?'

          'I don't follow.'

          'I'm just saying, wherever we get caught, they probably won't speak a lot of English. What they call the nuances'll probably get lost in translation.'

          'So we call the consul.'

          'Or maybe the ambassador.'

          'Well, whatever.'

          'Because guys like that, they're just sitting by their phones hoping some low-life somersaults into the crap, needs bailing out.'

          Melody thought that over. 'Okay,' she said. 'I'll take that one on board. But how do I know you're not just angling to get back to a two-way split with Rossi?'

          'Two-way, three-way, who gives a rat's ass? There's no 
split
, Mel. I mean, Rossi's chasing this cop 'cos he thinks she's chasing Madge, on the basis Karen's with her. Meanwhile the cop's probably on holiday. This is even supposing,' he said, 'Karen's hooking up with Madge. Or that she'll have the cash with her if she does.'

          'The ear,' Melody murmured. 'You're forgetting his ear.'

          Sleeps nodded. 'You got a guy, okay, he's upstairs right now in a fucking tux and fedora, a false beard, he's missing an ear and drinking Woo-Woos on top of goofballs enough to stun the US Marine corps. I mean, Mel – this is a guy who's all-time hero is Napoleon 'cos the guy was small and Italian.'

          Mel, her fingers twitching to shape themselves around a pencil, said: 'So what're you suggesting?'

          'You need to duck out. Soon as we dock, turn around and take the next ferry home.'

          'Just run away,' Mel said, 'from what's maybe the only shot I'll ever have to get out from under.'

          'There's worse things than being under.'

          'There's better things too.'

          He stared. Mel didn't blink. 'Well,' he said, hauling himself upright, 'you can't say you weren't warned.' Standing over her now, his bulk sagging, resigned to it. 'And when the shit hits the fan, I'll do my best, say how we dragged you along. But no one's ever listened to me my entire life. No reason they'll start now.'

          Mel gestured for him to sit down again, then leaned forward to take his hand. 'Gary? 
I'll
 listen to you. Anytime you want to talk, I'm here.' She let go of his hand and reached the notepad and pen off the bedside locker, saying, 'Why don't you start with this FARCO thing. What's all that about?'

Karen

'That's him alright,' Ray said, adjusting the rearview to watch Rossi cross the forecourt, flares flapping, headed for the Beamer parked off to the side of the gas station.

          Karen, arms folded, watched in the wing mirror. 'You think I wouldn't know Rossi? Even wearing a poxy beard?'