All He Saw Was the Girl

by Peter Leonard

  McCabe said, "They didn't hurt you?"

  "They didn't find me. One of the men, I don't know which one, came in my room. I could hear his feet on the wood floor, coming toward me. I put my hand over my mouth. I could see his shoes, ordinary black shoes that were scuffed and needed polish, and the bottom of his dark trousers. That was the scariest time of all, thinking they were going to kill me. I closed my eyes and pretended I was invisible, and a few minutes later I heard the front door close."

  "But your father was alive?"

  "The men walked out and I could hear him moaning, in agony, shirt covered with blood. I ran to our neighbor's house. An ambulance came and took him to the hospital. He had been stabbed four times and should have died."

  "He must be tough," McCabe said. "That's where you get it, huh?"

  "A few months later we moved to Rome. Carmella, my nanny, raised me." She picked up her glass, sipped some wine. "You would think an experience like this would have brought me and my father closer together, but just the opposite. I think he has always resented me because my brother was killed and I wasn't. Massimo was his favorite."

  McCabe said, "Did he talk to you about what happened?"

  "I asked him who the men were and why they came to our house," Angela said. "He wouldn't tell me anything. He's never said a word about it."

  "I saw you with him coming out of A1 Moro and I could tell by watching you something was wrong."

  "You could see that? Every time I talk to him we argue," Angela said.

  "Who were the men with you," McCabe said, "walking behind you?"

  Angela said, "The little one is Mauro, my father's bodyguard. He, too, is Sicilian, from my father's village."

  "He doesn't look like a bodyguard."

  "That's what happens — you underestimate him — and then it's too late. The other man is my cousin from Detroit. Maybe you know him."

  "What's his name?"

  "Joey Palermo."

  "Are you a Palermo too?"

  "No, Gennaro."

  McCabe was thinking — wait a minute. He remembered the Rome cop, Captain Ferrara, telling him about Carlo Gennaro, the boss of all bosses in Rome. It couldn't be the same family. He said, "Your dad's name isn't Carlo, is it?"

  Angela said, "How did you know?"

  Chapter Twenty-five

  They were sitting on the portico, looking across the valley at the Cimini Mountains, blue sky, high clouds, Viterbo in the distance. The half wall next to them had vines crisscrossing it like green veins. She glanced at McCabe and said, "Do you know what Viterbo is famous for?"

  McCabe said, "Of course, do you?"

  He made it sound like a challenge.

  "It is the city of popes," Angela said. "La Citta dei Papi. More popes are from Viterbo than anywhere."

  "Anagni is the real city of popes," McCabe said. "I can think of four who were born there: Innocent III, Gregory IX, Alexander IV and Boniface VIII- all between 1198 and 1303."

  Angela said, "You know your popes." She sipped her wine. "Then what is Viterbo?"

  "The residence of popes," McCabe said. "They lived there because it was safer than living in Rome. The emperor wanted to kill them. That's why the walls were built around the city."

  She saw a truck driving by in the distance.

  McCabe sipped his wine and said, "You know about the papal election of 1268?"

  "Let me think," she said, putting him on. "No, I don't remember."

  "Eighteen cardinals went to the bishop's palace to elect the new pope," McCabe said. "A year and a half went by and they still hadn't picked someone, so the people of Viterbo, the Viterbesi, locked them in their conclave and fed them bread and water till a new pope was chosen."

  She was leaning back in her chair, legs bent, feet on the stone wall for balance.

  "Are you falling asleep yet?" McCabe said.

  "I was starting to doze off now that you say it. "

  His glass was empty and she poured him more Chianti and held his gaze. She said, "You going to tell me your plan to get the money, or talk about the history of Viterbo?"

  "I'm going to do as the Romans do."

  "Who said that, Caesar?"

  "St Ambrose."

  "Who is St Ambrose?"

  "The Bishop of Milan."

  Angela studied his face. "Is this for real?"

  "You want to hear it?" He paused. "St Augustine went to Milan and learned that the Church didn't fast on Saturday as they did in Rome."

  "When was this?" Angela lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the mountains.

  "AD 387." McCabe sipped his wine. "So St Ambrose said, 'When I am at Rome, I fast on Saturday. When I am at Milan, I do not. Follow the custom of the Church where you are.' And over time it became 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do.'"

  "So you are going to do it their way, uh?" She flicked her cigarette ash on the patio stones. "What does that mean?"

  "I'm going to meet Joey in front of Palazzo dei Priori," McCabe said, "if you know where that is." "In the square," Angela said, "Plebiscito. There are usually a lot of people there. "

  "That's why I chose it," McCabe said.

  "Okay, you meet him in the middle of town," Angela said. "Then what happens?"

  "I invite him in the Palazzo, the council chamber, show him the ceiling. It's covered in frescos painted by Baldassare Croce in 1592, depicting the mythological origins of Viterbo and other historical events."

  She smiled, not expecting that. "What are you really going to do?"

  McCabe said, "Ask him for the money. He isn't carrying a white Adidas soccer bag, it's over. We try again another time."

  "If he has the money," Angela said, "and I believe he will, he is going to want to see me. You must know that, right?"

  He looked at her but didn't say anything.

  "How many people have you kidnapped?" She could see him start to smile. "It doesn't seem like you know what you are doing." Angela paused. 'You have to make them think you have a partner — you are not alone."

  "I've got another idea," McCabe said.

  "I hope so."

  "You'll be in a hotel room in Piazza San Pellegrino. I tell Joey to meet me in the square, he looks up, sees you in the window."

  "You know what happens then? He sends Mazara in the hotel and up to the room to get me."

  "He's supposed to come alone," McCabe said.

  Angela said, "You think he's going to play by the rules?"

  Her expression serious now. "If you really want this money I suggest you think about it a little more."

  McCabe said, "You kidnap someone, you don't expect them to give you advice on how to collect the ransom."

  Angela said, "You sound like you need some help."

  "Whose idea was it to take me?" McCabe sipped his wine, eyes on her.

  "Mazara was telling me about this rich American he met in Rebibbia and read about in the newspaper. He was thinking of kidnapping him, making some easy money. He told me what he was going to do. I listened, and said, 'That is never going to work.' He said, 'You have a better idea?'"

  "Sounds familiar," McCabe said.

  "I planned everything. I arranged to rent the farmhouse and volunteered to try to meet you, hoping you would notice me and you would be interested."

  "How'd I do?" McCabe said.

  "I also chose the transportation and the route the senator would take, sending him to three churches. The last one was Santi Giovanni e Paolo because it was built over a house of worship, and there are tunnels and underground passageways that would give us a perfect way to escape with the money.

  "I knew the carabinieri would be involved, brought in for counsel, and they would use a tracking device or a transponder to follow the money and they did. We agreed to split the ransom five ways. Mazara told his crew I deserved a full share. 'For what?' Sisto said. 'Shaking her ass. That's what she does, what she is good at.'"

  "Sounds right to me," McCabe said.

  "Be careful, you want my help or not?" The
wind blew her hair and she straightened it and tucked it behind her ears. "Mazara didn't tell his crew that I was the one who had planned and organized everything, so, of course, they thought he did it. I was thinking, based on all I had done, I deserved at least half of the money, let them divide the rest."

  McCabe said, "Why'd you do it?"

  "I have bills to pay like everyone." She could see he didn't believe her.

  "Your father is head of the Roman Mafia and you need money?"

  "He found out I was seeing Mazara and cut me off."

  "They give you your share? You can hand it over, save a step," McCabe said.

  "I told you. I have received nothing," Angela said. "Not a single euro." She picked up her glass and drank some wine. "Did you talk to Joey, tell him the details? What you want him to do?"

  "Not yet," McCabe said.

  Angela said, "When do you think the exchange is going to take place?"

  "Tomorrow," McCabe said.

  "And you have not talked to him?"

  "No."

  "How do you know he will be ready?"

  "He better be."

  "McCabe, do you think this is just going to happen? They are just going to arrive in Viterbo and hand you the money? Say, here you are. Good luck."

  McCabe grinned now and said, "What're you getting so excited about? It's all going to work out."

  "You know your first idea might be okay," Angela said.

  "You mean taking Joey into the council chamber?"

  Angela said, "Palazzo dei Priori."

  "It's a municipal building," McCabe said.

  "Exactly."

  "How're you going to get in?"

  "I know a way," Angela said. "You want me to tell you?"

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Ray trained the binoculars on a girl in a peasant dress, getting out of a VW microbus in a 7-Eleven parking lot. Her brown hair parted down the middle and held in place by a headband, barefoot, the tops of her milky white breasts visible as she leaned forward, stepping out of the front passenger seat, closing the door and going in the store. It was like being in a time warp. Seeing her reminded him of the time he was on a detail to protect Tipper Gore at a Grateful Dead concert. A1 was a US senator at the time, Bill Clinton's vice-presidential candidate on the Democratic ticket. The girl looked like the Deadheads he'd seen that afternoon and night in their pastel tie-dyes, braids, beads and flowers, hippies throwing Frisbees and playing hacky-sack in the RFK Stadium parking lot.

  Ray had just completed his first year as an agent. He was on temporary assignment in the Washington office. Protective Services was short-handed, so that's how he happened to be sitting on a riser, stage left next to Tipper Gore on June 14th' 1991.

  He remembered the caravan of spotless black Chevy Suburbans following two Virginia State Troopers, driving into the parking lot past the VW bugs and microbuses, Deadheads looking like some bizarre tribe, staring at Ray and his fellow agents like they were aliens.

  He'd called Sharon after the concert and told her about it.

  "There were guys wearing these weird headdresses just standing in front of the stage, smiling, and guys dressed as skeletons and some as Uncle Sam."

  "They were high," Sharon said.

  Ray said, "They were more than that. I saw a guy drink water out of a bong."

  "God's herb," Sharon said.

  "God's herb, huh?"

  Sharon said, "You and Tipper expand your consciousness? Drop any blue Osley?"

  Ray said, "What's that?"

  "Acid."

  "Sure," Ray said, "we do it all the time in the Service."

  "Did you feel a connection with the band?"

  Ray said, "I wouldn't go that far."

  "Did you feel like part of the family?" Sharon said.

  "No, I felt like I was protecting the wife of a vice-presidential candidate."

  "Why'd Tipper want to see the Dead?"

  "She said she likes their music."

  Sharon said, "How'd she like it after a twenty-minute Jerry solo?"

  "Not too much I guess," Ray said. "We didn't stay very long."

  "They do 'Big River'?"

  "I don't know," Ray said.

  Sharon said, "How about 'Dark Star'?"

  "You're enjoying this," Ray said, "aren't you?"

  They'd gotten along in those days, liked each other and had a good time. Sharon sold space in Rolling Stone and got a big kick out of Ray, the straightest guy she knew, going to a

  Grateful Dead concert with Tipper Gore. He saw Teegarden glance over at him. "What're you looking at?"

  "Nothing," Ray said. He lowered the binoculars and glanced at Teeg. They were in his Jeep parked behind Desmond Funeral Home on Crooks Road in Troy. The 7-Eleven was next door. They were watching people leave after Joe P.'s visitation.

  "Think it's a coincidence?" Teegarden said. "I give you the man's address, the next day he's dead."

  "Yeah," Ray said, "I can see why you might be a little suspicious, but the Free Press said he died of natural causes." "Massive heart attack," Teeg said. "I'd say it was a stroke of luck," Ray said. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

  Ray grinned. "You think I'd be that callous and insensitive?" Teegarden shook his head.

  "I'm looking for Joey," Ray said. "This seems like the perfect opportunity to find him."

  Teegarden aimed his binoculars at the rear entrance of the funeral home. "You see them? They're all here," he said. "There's Vito Uno himself."

  "Guy in the black suit, I'll bet," Ray said deadpan, looking at a dozen guys in black suits.

  Teegarden looked over at him. "You're in a good mood, I see."

  Ray flashed a grin.

  "Vito's the tall silver-haired guy. Walking with his brother Santo 'Big Sam' Corrado, his consigliere."

  "Who's that in the tan outfit?" Ray said, pointing to Anthony from the used car lot.

  "Antonio 'Tony the Barber' Barbara."

  Ray said, "He cut hair?"

  Teegarden looked at him with a hint of a smile. "He's an enforcer works for Joey, or did. His weapon of choice is a straight razor."

  "That's Mrs P., I'll bet." Ray trained his binoculars on a silver- haired woman with a black scarf over her head. He remembered her from a framed photo on the desk in Joe P.'s office.

  "Angela Palermo," Teeg said. "How'd you know it was her?"

  "She looks like a grieving widow."

  "What are you, an expert on grieving widows?" Teegarden lowered his binoculars. "I see the whole Detroit Mafia but I don't see Joey. Which is odd. His dad passes, he should be here don't you think?"

  Ray said, "Where's Joe P. from?"

  "Sicily. Town called Ribera."

  "Maybe that's where Joey is," Ray said. "You see The Godfather? Michael Corleone shoots the New York cop, hides out in the village where his father was born."

  "Seems kind of obvious, don't you think?"

  "Yeah, probably." But Ray was thinking you never knew. "Maybe he's somewhere they can't get in touch with him."

  "Where's that? I could call you from the summit of Mount Everest."

  Ray agreed, expected Joey to be there. He didn't show up at the funeral either, a high mass at St Hugo's Church celebrated by Monsignor Tocco, the good monsignor praising Joseph Palermo for his strong Catholic faith and his many contributions to the parish and the community.

  Ray stood in back, every seat taken, and watched Mrs P. and the other family members in the first pew, but no sign of Joey. He wasn't at the gravesite, Holy Sepulchre on Ten Mile in South- field, black Caddy limos lined up on the road near the grave. Again, well attended by the top brass of the Detroit Mafia.

  "Who's the old guy in the gray suit next to Mrs P.? Right there. He's got his arm around her." Whoever he was, he obviously knew her well to be holding her like that.

  "I don't know," Teegarden said. "Never seen him before but I'll find out." He picked up his camera with the long lens, like the kind sports photographers used, and aimed it at the guy and
Ray heard the speed-winder clicking.

  "He's probably a visiting dignitary. Could be from a Chicago or New York family, paying homage to Vito Uno or Joe P. himself."

  "How about the skinny dark-skinned guy?" Ray said.

  "No idea," Teeg said. "Not a clue."

  "Get him, too, will you?"

  Teegarden aimed the big camera again and clicked a couple of shots, and looked over. "Seen enough?"

  Ray nodded. He started the Jeep and made a U-turn and drove through the cemetery. On the way downtown he told Teeg Sharon had disappeared.

  "I knew something was up," Teegarden said. "Your sudden interest in the Palermo family. You obviously haven't gone to the police, have you?"

  Ray said, "Would you?"

  "Probably not." Teeg paused. "They'll think you had something to do with it."

  "I came to the same conclusion," Ray said.

  "Let me see what I can find out," Teeg said.

  Ray pulled up in front of the McNamara Building and Teegarden got out and stood in the open door. "I'll call you."

  And he did about an hour later, Teeg saying he'd scanned the shot of Mrs P. and the mysterious stranger.

  "Know who he is? Joey's uncle, his mom's brother from Italy. But wait, it gets better. He's Carlo Gennaro. That name mean anything to you?"

  "No," Ray said.

  "He's Don Gennaro, head of the Roman Mafia."

  Maybe that's where Joey was, staying with his uncle the don. Sharon too. The more he thought about it the more plausible it seemed. Ray glanced at Teegarden. "You don't happen to have his address, do you?"

  "What're you going to do? Every time I give you an address somebody dies."

  Ray got online and booked a Northwest flight, Detroit to Rome. He booked a room at the Hotel del Senato on Piazza della Rotondo near the Pantheon. He'd stayed at the Grand Hotel on Via Del Corso one time, protective detail for the vice president. The Grand was big and opulent and expensive and had excellent accommodations for an advance detail, and twelve agents on three shifts, but he didn't need that on this trip. The del Senato was described as having small clean rooms with great views of the Pantheon, and they served breakfast. It sounded perfect.

  He drove to Borders and bought a Berlitz Italian phrasebook and dictionary, and a Michelin map that detailed Rome and its outskirts. Joey's uncle lived near Mentana. Ray Googled it and found out Mentana was a small town northeast of Rome about twelve kilometers. Had a population of 16,288, and the mayor's name was Guido Tabanella.