Fabio held the ball close to his chest under his chin. He drove left, went behind his back with his right hand, left McCabe standing there. Drove hard for the hoop and went in for a lay-up, a sure thing, but McCabe caught him, stuffed him from behind, and knocked him down; the inmates were yelling, going crazy.
Fabio got to his feet, squaring off with McCabe, fists raised, ready to go at it as a guard appeared, pushing his way through the crowd.
Chapter Two
"I didn't see McCabe again till we were taken over for trial," Chip said. "There were thirty of us packed in a holding cell, waiting to be transported to the courthouse. I look over, see McCabe handcuffed to this little dude, I thought he was a midget."
"He was Sardinian," McCabe said. "Scared to death. Kept throwing salt over his shoulder and picking his nose."
"Why salt?" Brianna said.
She was Chip's girlfriend. Brianna Labitzke, a nice-looking brunette with perfect teeth, from Santa Clara, whose father owned a vineyard named after her. They made a premium Chardonnay and an award-winning Pinot.
"For good luck," McCabe said.
"Why'd he pick his nose?" Brianna said.
"I don't know," McCabe said. "Maybe it's a Sardinian custom." He flashed back to the transport van, the size of an airport shuttle, narrow two-sided bench that ran down the center, six prisoners sitting back to back with six others, McCabe handcuffed to the nervous little dude with tiny feet in scuffed brown shoes dangling over the floor, the bodies of twelve men jerking back and forth to the sway of the van. He remembered the view approaching the city, Rome spread out in the distance, seeing six of the seven hills.
Now they were sitting at a table at Pietro's, a neighborhood cafe two blocks from school, eating bread and cheese and olives, drinking wine, the house Chianti, McCabe across from Chip, Brianna on his left. The room was big and open and only a third full at 7:00 in the evening. There was an Italian newspaper, Corriere della sera, open on the table, McCabe reading a headline that said:
US senator's son acquitted in taxi theft
There were photographs of McCabe and Chip, shot when they were standing on the steps of the courthouse after the trial, their names transposed. A line under McCabe's photo said, Charles Tallenger III, son of US senator Charles Tallenger II. The line under Chip's picture said, William McCabe, a student at Loyola University.
Chip said, "There must not be much happening in Rome if this qualifies as news."
McCabe said, "Are you kidding? Any time a famous rich kid screws up, people want to know about it. Makes them feel good. Makes them think they're better than you."
"Well, I've got news for you, they're not," Chip said.
"Remember when Paris Hilton went to jail? The media interrupted coverage of the G8 summit to tell us what was happening in her life."
Brianna glanced at McCabe and said, "It looks so strange to see your name under Chip's picture." She took a sip of wine, eyes staying on him. "You don't look like a Charles Tallenger III."
Chip said, "McCabe couldn't be me if he had to. "
McCabe said, "I'm not dumb enough." He picked up an olive and popped it in his mouth, chewed it and spit the pit into his napkin.
"You're not refined enough," Chip said. "It comes down to refinement and breeding."
McCabe said, "You sound like a French poodle."
Brianna said, "Or what's that dog that looks like a Chinese person?"
Chip said, "A shih-tzu."
"No," McCabe said, "a shih-tzu looks like a miniature lion. You're thinking of a Lhasa apso."
Chip said, "How's a guy from Detroit know what a Lhasa apso looks like? A Rottweiler or a pit bull, I can understand."
He picked up his wine glass now, drank too much and splashed down his chin onto his shirt. Chip dipped his napkin in his water glass and rubbed the wine stain on his shirt, blotting it, making it worse.
"Look at him," McCabe said. "It comes down to refinement and breeding."
Chip grinned showing a mouthful of olive paste.
"He's a class act," McCabe said, "isn't he?"
Brianna said, "McCabe, look at the positive side. If you were Chip, you'd get the trust fund, and I'd be going out with you."
McCabe said, "So you're in it for the money, huh?"
Brianna winked at him and smiled flashing her perfect teeth.
"'Course I am."
"Be nice, wouldn't it?" McCabe said. "Somebody hands you a million dollars for doing nothing."
"Add two more zeros," Chip said, "you'll be in the ballpark."
Brianna said, "I want to hear about jail. Were you afraid?" She put her sexy gaze on Chip.
"I wasn't," Chip said. "Prisoners I met were a bunch of pussies."
McCabe glanced down at the newspaper, the next page, and saw two black-and-white photographs of faces that looked familiar. "It's your buddies from jail."
Chip said, "What're you talking about?"
"Guy who took your cigarettes and his friend."
Chip said, "Yeah, right?"
McCabe picked up the newspaper and turned it around so Chip could see the pictures. Chip picked it up and read the article, and when he finished, looked up at McCabe.
"The prison transport they were riding in was ambushed as it came into the city. It was stopped at a traffic light. Men dressed as construction workers got out of a truck that was parked on the side of the road. Shot out the van's tires, gained entrance and overpowered the guards. The two prisoners and their accomplices escaped." He held up the paper. "Look at this."
There was a photograph of the van, tires resting on their rims, bullet holes in the windshield.
"The two prisoners, Sisto Bardi and Roberto Mazara, had been arrested for extortion and were going to trial when the van was intercepted."
"Who are they?" Brianna said.
"We were in a holding cell at police headquarters," Chip said. "I asked the long-haired guy, Mazara, for a light. He asked me for a cigarette. I took out my pack and he grabbed it."
Brianna said, "What'd you do?"
"Nothing. It wasn't worth it." He picked up his glass and sipped his wine. "McCabe went over and got it back. I couldn't believe it. You should've seen these guys. They looked like extras in The Sopranos." Chip glanced down at the paper.
"It says they're allegedly involved in extortion, kidnapping, weapons trafficking and racketeering."
Brianna said, "What's racketeering?"
"Being involved in illegal activities," Chip said. "They're armed and dangerous." He was reading the article. "You see them, call the ROS.' He looked up. "Like we're going to see them again."
Brianna said, "What's the ROS?"
Chip said, "Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale," reading the article, "an elite unit of the carabinieri formed to fight organized crime."
McCabe saw Pietro, the owner, wave him over, Pietro sitting at the bar, having a glass of grappa before it got crowded. McCabe stood up and said, "I'll be right back." He walked over and sat next him.
Pietro was in his mid-forties, short and heavy with a thin tapered mustache and dark hair combed back.
"McCabe, what is this I hear about you in Rebibbia?"
For whatever reason, Pietro had taken a liking to him, introduced him to his family, invited him to his house for dinner, offered him the use of his summer home in Lazio. McCabe told him what happened.
Pietro shook his head and glanced at Chip. "Him I can see, but not you, McCabe. You should have phone me. I know a few judges. They come here for cannelloni." He patted McCabe on the cheek. "Stay out of trouble, uh?"
McCabe went back to the table.
Brianna said, "You guys were lucky. Anything else happen? Anybody try to…"
McCabe said, "You mean did we end up being somebody's girlfriend? I don't know about Chip, but I walked out with my virginity intact."
Chip said, "I was in a cell with a South American pickpocket and an old dude who'd been there since the early seventies."
Brianna said, "
What'd he do?"
"I don't know, but he slept with his clothes on, thinking he was going to be released any time and wanted to be ready."
Brianna said, "How'd you get out?"
Chip said, "The Senator bought the taxi driver a new Fiat and gave him money for his trouble."
"You call your dad the Senator?"
"No, I call him Chuck."
"Come on?" Brianna said.
"That's my name for him because it's so out of character. He's Charles. Not Charley or Chuck or Chucky. He's too straight to have a nickname."
Brianna said, "You don't call him Chuck to his face, do you?"
"Not if I want to collect the trust fund. Chuck also hired attorneys who knew one of the judges. A deal was made, although I don't know the particulars."
Brianna said, "You mean a bribe?"
Chip said, "We don't use words like that, it's politically incorrect."
Brianna said, "Judges? How many were there?"
"Three,' McCabe said, "and a prosecutor who wanted to make an example of us. Teach American students what happens when they steal a taxi in Rome. He wanted to give us eighteen months."
Chip said, "Then one of the judges said something, and it was over and we were shaking hands with our attorneys."
McCabe flashed back to the courtroom, he and Chip in coats and ties, sitting next to their lawyers, facing three serious men wearing white powdered wigs and black robes, listening to the prosecutor yelling at them in Italian.
"On the way back to school," McCabe said, "Chip told his dad I stole the taxi and he tried to stop me. What a friend, huh?"
"Dude," Chip said. "We're out, who cares? If the senator knew I drove the cab, I'd be home right now. You don't know him. He's perfect, never made a mistake in his life. Ask him."
McCabe remembered the ride home from the courthouse. They were in a Mercedes-Benz Maybach driven by the senator's aide, a yes-man in a seersucker suit and bow tie, named Todd, who kept looking at them in the rearview mirror.
Charles Tallenger was impressive. He looked Hollywood's idea of a US senator, tall, good-looking, well-dressed, with dark hair, graying at the temples, sixty years old, the build of a tennis player, six two, 180, a two-term Democrat from Connecticut. Played lacrosse at Princeton. Was a Rhodes Scholar. Went to Harvard Law. Started a software company he took public ten years later and cashed out for $500 million.
Chip was right, he was perfect. Yeah, McCabe thought, he'd be a tough act to follow. Tougher if your name was Chip. They were driving along the Tiber past Castel Saint Angelo, the dome of St Peter's in the distance. The senator was turned sideways in the front seat, looking back at them.
"Do you guys know how lucky you are?"
Chip wouldn't look at him, eyes on the floor.
The senator said, "Whose bright idea was it to steal the cab?" Chip looked up and glanced at McCabe.
The senator said, "What were you thinking?"
McCabe didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
The senator fixed his attention on Chip now and said, "And you went along for the ride, huh? That's just as bad. Why didn't you do something, try to stop him?"
Chip squirmed in his seat. "I did."
McCabe couldn't believe it, Chip throwing him under the bus like that. He could see Chip was afraid of the guy.
"You didn't try very hard, did you? You guys are what, twenty-one years old? Still acting like kids. It's time to grow up." He looked over at the driver. "Todd, you're only a few years out of college, you understand any of this?"
Todd glanced at the senator and said, "No, sir, I honestly do not. I couldn't fathom doing something like that."
McCabe wanted to pull the little weasel with the bow tie out of the car and pop him.
The senator said, "You know what I was doing when I was twenty-one?"
Todd said, "If I may, Sir? I believe you were Princeton's Rhodes Scholar attennding Oxford University, the world's most prestigious international fellowship."
Todd flashed a weasel grin.
Charles Tallenger glanced over his shoulder at McCabe.
"You hear that? I was trying to learn and grow as an individual — what you should he doing in this spectacular city."
He had a disc jockey's voice and liked to hear himself talk. McCabe felt sorry for Chip, having to live up to this overachiever's expectations.
"McCabe, do you have any idea what it cost to make this go away?" the senator said, eyes on him.
"Senator, I appreciate your help," McCabe said. "Tell me what I owe you and I'll pay you back. I just can't do it right now."
"I like your attitude. You sound like a stand-up guy." He'd made his point, turned away from them, square in his seat now, looking out the windshield.
They drove along Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Looking past Chip, McCabe could see the dome of the Pantheon to his right and then got a quick glimpse of Fontana del Moro in Piazza Navona. They crossed the river, drove through Vatican City to Piazza Risorgimento, and started the climb up Monte Mario, no one talking, the Maybach solid and quiet like a bank vault.
They turned on Via Trionfale, in the neighborhood now, moving past Pietro's, a cafe, and Max's Bar, another student hangout, pulling in the entrance to the school that looked like a country club with its stucco pillars and ornate iron gate. Cruised up the winding drive past sculpted shrubs and rows of cypress trees evenly spaced, to the three-story villa painted a pastel color called umber.
The senator glanced back at them and said, "Tell me you learned something from all this."
"I did," Chip said with a solemn expression. "I'm sure McCabe did too," Chip said, glancing at him.
McCabe had never seen Chip intimidated by anyone. He'd been cocky and overconfident till his dad showed up, and now he was a different person, nervous and unsure of himself.
There was a group of students standing at the entrance as the Maybach pulled up, students glancing over to see what visiting dignitary had arrived in this $300,000 car. Chip got out first, approaching the group.
"We're baaack," he said, playing to his audience.
When McCabe got out, he looked over and saw Frank Rady, the dean of students, staring at him from the window of his first-floor office.
McCabe hadn't been in his room ten minutes when the RA, a straight-arrow former student named Mike Fagan, knocked on the door and said Mr Rady wanted to see him ASAP. Now McCabe was sitting across the desk from him, Rady shuffling through papers, keeping him waiting, a pair of reading glasses balanced on the end of his nose.
There was a nameplate on the desktop that said, Frank Rady Dean of Students. McCabe wanted to say, what's that for? In case you forget who you are. There was a pen and a pencil holder and assorted photographs of his family in matching gold frames on his tidy desk. Frank had been a high-school football coach for fifteen years and looked the part: a big, freckle faced guy with a strawberry-blond flat-top. He took off the glasses, leveled his gaze on McCabe.
"I assume you know why you're here."
McCabe didn't say anything.
"Well, let me enlighten you." He picked up a sheet of paper and started to read: "On September 10th you were caught sneaking out of the women's dorm after 2:00 a.m., a strict curfew violation. On October 7th you got in a fight with an
Italian soldier on a 913 bus."
McCabe said, "Guy was smashed, trying to take Celeste Laveccha's clothes off."
"Come on, a little harmless touching? It's the national pastime."
"He was humping her. Does that sound like harmless touching? You talked to Celeste, didn't she tell you what happened?"
"That could've caused an international incident."
"Come on?" McCabe remembered grabbing the soldier, pulling him off Celeste, telling him if he bothered her again he was going to throw him off the bus. That was it, the soldier sat down, kept to himself after that.
"And your latest move, stealing a taxi. What were you planning to do with it? Will you tell me that?"
"You didn't steal it, huh? That's why you spent five days in prison?"
Rady was dumb, there was no doubt about that, but it was his self-righteous tone that really annoyed McCabe.
"You have any idea how this reflects on the university?"
McCabe could see the maintenance crew trimming trees and cutting grass through the window behind Rady's desk.
"Seen the newspapers? Your story picked up in every one of them."
McCabe said, "You think the fact that a US senator's son was involved might have something to do with it?"
Rady stared at him but didn't say anything.
McCabe said, "Think you're overreacting?"
"Let me try to make it easy for you to understand. Screw up again, your scholarship's done and gone, and you're on a plane back to De-troit. Still think I'm overreacting?" He grinned at McCabe.
McCabe was going to say you can't help yourself, but decided to not say anything, keep his mouth shut for once.
Rady stood up. "I'm going to be watching you, McCabe. One more mistake and you're through."
Chapter Three
Sharon used her maiden name when she went out at night. She sat at the far end of the bar with the windows behind her, looking down the long stretch of granite and wood, studying the guys sitting there, scanning them in slow motion like a movie camera, stopping, holding on a face or passing it quickly, depending how old, interesting or good-looking the guy was.
Sharon had just completed her maintenances, had her hair colored and decided on a new style her hairdresser said was snappy. He said it with a lisp so she believed him, figured he knew what he was talking about and he did. Looking in the mirror when he was finished, she didn't feel "snappy" though, she felt sexy. She'd also had her nails done, a French manicure. She liked the satin finish and the white painted edge on the nail tips. It was classy. It was elegant. Sharon had been married for thirteen years — talk about bad luck — to a man she rarely saw and felt she hardly knew any more. He was out of town three out of four weeks, or more, and when he did come home he was usually stressed out. She'd be sitting at the kitchen table and see his car pull in the driveway and get nervous. She didn't know what kind of mood he'd be in, whether he'd be angry, drunk or what.
All He Saw Was the Girl Page 2
