She smiled. "I am not going to tell you. I might have to do it again."
"I guess there's no point locking you up," McCabe said. "I'm not sure what to do with you. I can't lock you up and I can't trust you."
"Why don't you pour me a glass of wine while you're thinking about it."
Later, in the kitchen, she said, "I was attracted to you the first time I saw you that day at Rosati."
"If you were, I didn't see it."
Angela smiled. "Under the circumstances, I didn't see much future. What you did, getting my bag back, was very heroic. I was wondering what it would be like to go out with you, get to know you."
"Come on," McCabe said, doubting her, although he'd felt the same way.
"It's true," Angela said. "There was something about you."
"Well I couldn't take my eyes off you," McCabe said. "Coming toward me in Piazza del Popolo."
She started to smile and stopped herself. "You said I reminded you of Manuela Arcuri. I don't look anything like her."
"That day you did. Like Manuela in Hearts Lost. Ever see it?" "I don't think so."
"You should." He turned his attention to the bottle of Chianti, cut the foil off the top with a paring knife, and screwed a corkscrew through the center of the cork and pulled. It came out with a pop. He put the bottle on the tile countertop and looked at her. "How'd you know where I was going to get off the bus?"
"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."
Chapter Twenty-three
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?
Another one liked to walk out to the end of the driveway and get the newspaper in a robe with nothing under it. When the wind blew it open she'd pretend to be embarrassed. Oh, don't look. I'm naked under here.
It was Joey's belief that all women were whores. Some like Lia were up front, straightforward about it. They came to your room and you paid for their services. Girlfriends got paid in other ways: gifts and dinners and trips. But they all took your money, one way or the other.
Lia got up and took her clothes off and Joey looked at her and grinned and said, " Succhiami il cazzo."
She got on her knees, knelt before him. See, his command of Italian was coming in handy again. As it turned out, Lia was nothing special, going through the motions, giving him a C- blowjob and a C+ fuck. When they were finished he paid her?250 and booted her out. He needed to be alone for a while. He went to the mini bar and took out a bottle of Grey Goose and made himself a Martini.
He sat on the bed, leaned back against the headboard, more relaxed now, the edge taken off, and thought about Sharon, Sharona his nickname for her. She'd been the exception to the all-women-are-whores rule. She refused to parade around in the nude, and when he gave her a present, she told him it wasn't necessary and meant it. She was a keeper. That's why he asked her to marry him. He'd dated dozens of girls and realized that meeting the one was like luck roulette.
He pictured Sharon with the blonde hair and the black beaver that was like a mohair sweater he couldn't keep his hands off of. She wasn't the best-looking girl he'd ever dated, but she was the sexiest. She was also girlish and feminine and funny. Only one he'd ever gone out with made him laugh. He saw himself showing her the sights of Rome, and then taking her to Positano on the Amalfi Coast, this beautiful picturesque town, and he got horny again just thinking about it.
It was his father who’d arranged for his passport that was the real thing, and snuck him into Canada — through the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel in the back of a panel truck so there’d be no record with Canadian customs. He was driven to Toronto where he got on a plane with his new identity, headed for Frankfurt, Germany, biggest goddamn airport he’d ever seen in his life. From there he flew to Milan and was picked up by Mauro who took the Autostrada del Sole 350 kilometers to Rome in a little less than four hours.
He’d been in Italy now for six days and he had a craving for Coney dogs and thick rare cheeseburgers. He missed Edy's mint-chocolate-chip ice cream too and the idea of staying with his uncle, hearing opera every day had him on edge. But the situation with Angela presented an interesting opportunity. Joey had a vision. Saw Mazara and his crew working for him, Joey sitting back, relaxing, getting rich. Yeah, he'd take some of that.
Chapter Twenty-four
It was just before 9:00 p.m. when he opened the refrigerator and took the chicken out and put it on the counter, its long neck and head still attached. "You want to make something — a side dish to go with this?"
Angela said, "I don't know how to cook." She came toward him and clinked his glass with hers. 'But I know how to do this," and took a sip.
"An Italian girl who doesn't cook…" McCabe said. "That's got to be a first. In ancient Rome learning to cook was a girl's duty."
"Does this look like ancient Rome?"
"What was your mother thinking?"
"She died when I was young." She put her glass down and pulled her hair back behind her ears. "We lived in a small house, one floor, on the outskirts of Palermo.
"
McCabe said, "You don't look Sicilian."
"My mother was from Cinque Terra. She had blonde hair. It was just before seven in the morning." Angela paused, took a breath. "I heard a knock on the door and wondered who would be coming to our house so early. I was getting ready for school. We didn't have to wear our uniform that day. I had a new pair of jeans and a blouse, but my mother said I could not wear jeans to the Ave Maria School — even on special days. I heard the door open and then voices, men arguing with my father. My mother told me to stay in my room and went out to see what was happening. I wanted to see, too, so I crept down the hall and peeked into the salon. There were two men aiming guns at my father. One was stocky and losing his hair, almost bald. The other man had a big mustache. That's all I remember, a face with a mustache. They tied up my father and then my older brother, Massimo, who was fourteen, and then my mother. The men made them sit on the floor. I could tell by the way they spoke, their accent, they were not Sicilian."
McCabe said, "Who were they?"
"Calabrians. The bald one kept saying, ' Dove il denaro? Dove il denaro.'"
McCabe said, "Where's the money?"
"My father said, 'What money?' He didn't know what they were talking about. Mustache walked over and put a knife to my brother's throat. I remember my father saying, 'I don't know.' I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest. I thought the men could hear it too. I thought it might explode." She paused and sipped her wine. "The bald man asked my father again for the money. My father said, 'Don't you think I would tell you if I knew.' This time Mustache did not hesitate, put the knife under my brother's chin and cut his throat. My mother screamed and now Mustache moved to her with the knife." Angela's eyes were wet. "My father begged them but it did no good and the man cut her throat. I was shaking. I went back to my room and got under the bed and closed my eyes as tight as I could, and put my hands over my ears." Angela took a breath. "I remember the sounds my father made when they stabbed him — " She paused again. "They thought he was dead."
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