“Contact me when you have found something.”
Louisa accepted the keys and the card, lingering before the Man for longer than seemed necessary. Looking on, Cato couldn’t help but scowl. The Benefactor had never given him a calling card, or a car. Then again, he wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Louisa Anastasi.
“Off you go, Ms. Anastasi,” spoke the Man, breaking the tenuous spell he had over the young Italian. “Do what you were born to do. Serve Roma—make us both proud.”
…
Firing up the Bentley’s 6.75 liter, twin-turbocharged V8 engine, Louisa felt the bassy throttle of the car surge through her body. Half-drunk on the power of the Man’s presence, she revved the motor loudly. Dipping in the front, the Bentley clawed the stones like a caged animal.
Gazing up through the tinted glass of her window, she watched the Man speak a few warning words to Cato. Fixating on the burning points of his eyes, she thought of Giorgio again—possessed.
Cato opened the passenger’s side door and got in.
“Ready?” He said.
By way of response, Louisa jumped off the brake and punched down on the gas. Left behind in a fading glow of red, the Man from Rome gazed after her like a lover. Spotting a ramp, she took a sharp right. Illuminated by the halogen lights, the cavernous walls flickered past in a honeycomb of bone-filled niches. Speeding toward the ramp, Louisa spun the wheel and drove the Bentley up, up, up. Fast approaching a segmented gate, she slowed only enough to give the thing time to rise. With mere centimeters to spare, she slid under the gate and emerged into the sunny day.
Blasted by brilliant skies and stately buildings, the scene outside of the Man’s house was a refreshing reminder that much of reality still remained unchanged. The piazza ahead was full of people, its fountain burbling pleasantly. Open for business, restaurants and bars offered edible delights, while vendors sold souvenirs.
Shaking a cigarette from his pack, Cato fumbled for a light. Louisa eyed the pack sideways, and read the brand—Nazionali.
“Can I have one of those?” She asked. “They are my favorite.”
“These?” Scoffed Cato. “You should have tried his—the Benefactor’s. He knows what a good smoke is.”
Louisa accepted a cigarette and bent to Cato’s fire.
“We don’t choose our first love, Mr. Fin,” she exhaled. “It chooses us.”
Breaking free of the foot traffic, Louisa turned up a lane and began to pour on speed. Barbed with vehicles and scooters on either side, the road narrowed and wound through ancient arches. She kept the pace up, snaking the Bentley along on a parallel track with Via del Corso.
“So,” said Cato nervously. “You really like to drive fast huh?”
Louisa laughed and shot him a smile.
“I can deal,” he grinned. “It’s just nice having another person around who isn’t, you know—Immortal.”
“What about the Greek?” Said Louisa. “Popi.”
“You’re easier on the eyes.”
Ignoring this, Louisa changed course to avoid a wedding procession.
“But really though,” Cato admitted. “These last few days have been crazy. The things I never knew, you know?”
Louisa nodded and glanced over.
“Yes,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Like—” Cato continued. “Like—did you know the Benefactor has a vampire? How fucked up is that? A vampire!”
“No! You’re joking!”
“I’m serious,” Cato insisted. “The Benefactor has a vampire in his house—I’ve seen it.”
Louisa rounded a corner and joined the main road.
“A real vampire?”
Cato bobbed his head.
“Yeah, it’s all bones at this point, but still—it was a vampire when it was alive. That means vampire myths are at least kind of true, right?”
Smoking in silence, Louisa digested this. Plastered on the bumper of a taxi in the next lane, a sticker bearing the words La verità è là fuori caught her eye.
“Maybe they’re aliens,” she said.
“Aliens?”
Louisa gestured to the bumper sticker.
“Yes, you know—The Truth Is Out There. What if that’s the explanation? What if your Benefactor, and his vampire, and Artemis, and Apollo—what if they’re all just visitors from another planet?”
Cato was quiet for a moment.
“Do you think Jesus was an alien?” He asked.
Unable to help herself, Louisa burst out laughing.
“Oh God, never mind! It’s such a mess, isn’t it? I can’t wrap my head around it.”
“You have no idea,” Cato agreed. “But like I said—it’s nice having another person who is as new to this as me.”
Louisa glanced over and saw sincerity in Cato’s eyes. She smiled and touched his hand.
“I’m glad we met Cato Fin,” she said.
“Me too,” he nodded. “And um—I’m sorry about what happened last night. I had no idea he was going to do that to you.”
Removing her hand, Louisa tightened the scarf at her neck.
“It’s not your fault,” she said.
Cato shrugged and lit himself another cigarette.
“Yeah well, I would never do anything like that—just so you know. I’m not like him. He’s a monster, I’m not.”
XXIX
Ten minutes later, the Bentley parked in the shade of a tall cypress tree. Lost in thought, Cato gazed out the passenger’s side window and watched old father Tiber flow south toward Ostia and the Tyrrhenian Sea.
“We should discuss protection,” Louisa announced.
“Protection?” Said Cato, turning.
Louisa nodded and dug a matte-black pistol from her shoulder bag.
“I’m armed,” she said. “But what if we run into…you know. This is just a regular Beretta with regular rounds. That won’t work will it?”
Picturing the molten spray of silver on Apollo’s face, and the stolen arrowhead in his pocket, Cato winced.
“No, you’re right—that won’t do much. Adamantine is what stops them.”
Crestfallen, Louisa pursed her lips.
“Don’t worry,” said Cato. “I’ve got us covered.”
He produced the Springfield and laid it on the dashboard.
“This is loaded with Adamantine so if that crazy bitch shows up and tries anything—just get behind me.”
Louisa looked at him, unconvinced, and furrowed her brow.
“No offense,” she said. “But can you even shoot that thing?”
Scooping up the .45, Cato checked the safety, then racked a round into the chamber.
“I’m Orphanus,” he winked. “Of course I can shoot.”
He opened his door and got out.
“What exactly is that?” Asked Louisa, following him. “Orphanus I mean? I heard the Man mention it too.”
Cato squinted in the sunlight.
“It’s Latin for orphan.”
“Yes, yes,” said Louisa. “But that’s not what I’m asking.”
Fishing for his cigarettes, Cato noticed that the pack was getting low.
“I don’t know how it is for all of us,” he sighed. “I’ve only met one other Orphanus in my life. But if the stories are true, we’re sort of like an ancient order—like spies or something.”
Louisa joined him on the sidewalk and tilted her head.
“Spies?”
“Yeah, I guess. Spies, agents, soldiers, you know—whatever.”
“And there are stories about the Orphanus?”
“Oh yeah,” Cato chuckled. “Tons of stories. As a kid, my adopted mother—she used to tuck me in every night with a story about ‘the Man from Rome and his magnificent, faithful Orphanus.’ She’s one too, like me. To hear it her way, we go as far back as Remus and Romulus.”
He struck a light and inhaled.
“But who knows if any of that is real,” he said. “All I know is what happened to me—what my life has
been like. I was adopted young—I don’t even remember it. While other kids were playing with Legos, I was learning how to pick pockets and locks. My mom taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to do some serious fucking damage. Growing up, I just thought she was weird, you know—some Sarah Conner shit. It wasn’t until I came here that I finally put it all together. She was never my mother—she was my trainer…”
Darkening Cato glanced at Louisa. She was listening intently.
“My mom,” he muttered. “She told me a lot of interesting things growing up, but she never told me that.”
…
The pair moved down the street in renewed silence. Overhead, the umbrella-like pines made their way easier in the dry heat. Out of respect for Cato’s mood, Louisa didn’t press him for any more information. Clearly, talking about his upbringing had reopened some kind of wound. Louisa could relate. Leave it to family to inflict the deepest scars.
Her cell phone vibrated, announcing the arrival of a new text message. She stopped and checked the sender. It was her uncle.
‘Tempus edax rerum,’ echoed the Man’s voice. ‘Time is the devourer of all things.’ Louisa closed the message without reading it, and put her phone away.
“Everything okay?” Asked Cato. “You look worried.”
“It’s nothing,” Louisa assured him. “Come on, this way.”
They came to a busy intersection and paused to let traffic flow by. When the light turned red and the road filled with idling cars, they stepped from the curb and crossed to the other side. There, a large promenade opened before them. Washed in broken sunlight, and dotted with shops and restaurants, the area bustled with tourists toting souvenir bags and sweetly melting cups of gelato. Cutting through the crowds like two sharks in a sea of aimless whales, Louisa and Cato headed deeper into the busy burrow. After several blocks, the neighborhood began to change, and the crowds began to thin. Soon, the gift shops and street hawkers gave way to narrow, divey-looking bars, and timeworn tenement houses.
Turning up a side street, Louisa snaked them along behind an old cinema. At the end of the alley, a piazza waited, unadorned save for a single statue whose head had long since vanished. Louisa hung back and nodded.
“This is it,” she said. “There’s the bar.”
She pointed to the opposite end of the square, where a wooden sign hung low amidst the creeping ivy.
“Do you have a picture of Leta—something I could show to the bartender?”
Biting the filter of his cigarette, Cato patted himself down.
“Here,” he said, handing over a small black and white. “This is her.”
Louisa took the photo and held it to the light. Bright and kissed with freckles, a young blond-haired woman smiled back at her.
“She’s—” Louisa hesitated. “She’s beautiful, Cato.”
“She was,” he corrected.
Shuddering uncomfortably, Louisa stared at the picture.
“Did you know her?”
“I never met her before in my life, but she probably grew up on the same diet of bullshit as me.”
Louisa pulled her eyes from the picture and frowned at Cato. Handsome in his own way, he had the same lean and defined look as Leta. Only his sooty black hair stood in contrast to her ashy blond curls.
“What?” Said Cato, catching her. “What’s wrong?”
“I—” Louisa began. “Forget it—never mind.”
She put the picture in her pocket and turned toward the bar. Following her gaze, Cato loosened his tie and commenced a series of quick callisthenic stretches.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“Stretching.”
“Why?”
Cato cracked his knuckles and blew out smoke.
“In case things go sideways in there.”
Smiling, Louisa patted his arm.
“Take it easy tough guy. Just let me do the talking, I am a police officer after all.”
…
Propped open to capture the mild breeze, the bar’s double doors stood wide beneath the ivy. Pushing her sunglasses up into her hair, Louisa peered around the dim interior. Cramped and low, the room was a hodgepodge of old film posters and faded wooden tables. Backed by liquor bottles, a wide bar spanned most of the far wall. Music played from somewhere behind closed doors, and the sound of voices rose and fell.
“Do you mind if we do this in Italian?” She asked.
“Fire away,” said Cato. “When in Rome and all that.”
Louisa walked to the bar.
“Ciao!” She called loudly. “Anyone here?”
The music died and a young man with a shaved head emerged from the kitchen. Shutting the door firmly, he eyed Cato, then Louisa.
“Ciao bella,” he said in French-accented Italian. “The kitchen isn’t open yet, but if you like, I can pour you both a drink.”
He smiled.
“I’ll even give you happy-hour prices baby, what do you say?”
Louisa met the Frenchman’s smile with one of her own, sweet and practiced. She leaned on the bar.
“Maybe some other time,” she said. “We’re actually here because we’re looking for someone.”
“Oh?” He replied, becoming slightly guarded. “I don’t know you, do I?”
Louisa held her smile.
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure.”
From the kitchen, the crack of splintering wood carried through the thin door. Louisa turned to look.
“Cooks,” said the Frenchman. “We’re uh—remodeling.”
He squinted his eyes at Louisa.
“Are you sure I don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then how come I have this perfect picture in my mind of you running around these parts in a blue uniform and pair of white jackboots, honey? You don’t happen to have a badge in that bag of yours, do you? A badge and a gun?”
“Look friend,” said Cato. “We aren’t with the police. We just want some answers.”
“Oh—American!” The bartender grinned. “I love Americans! Freedom fries and drones and shit. Yippee-ki-yay mother fucker, right?”
“Yeah,” grunted Cato. “Right. Look—if you help us out, there’s something in it for you.”
Still grinning, the bartender shifted his attention back to Louisa.
“I don’t want what you’re offering, friend—and I’ve spent enough time in handcuffs to know a cop when I see one.”
Louisa reached into her pocket and retrieved the photo of Leta.
“What about her?” She said. “Do you know her?”
A shadow passed behind the man’s eyes.
“Who’s this?” He covered. “I don’t know who this is.”
“You’ve never seen her before? Never poured her a drink?”
“No,” the Frenchman asserted.
“Are you sure? We know she came here—we just want to talk.”
“I said I don’t know her,” snapped the Frenchman. “You hear me? I don’t know her. Now, I think it is time for you and your scarecrow to get the fuck out of my bar. Go on—go.”
Another loud rending noise came from the kitchen, and the man’s gaze darted impulsively. Catching an edge of nervousness in the glance, Louisa decided to exploit it.
“What about them?” She said, gesturing to the kitchen. “Maybe those cooks of yours have a better memory than you.”
Plucking up Leta’s photo, she moved toward the door.
“How about I show them this and see what they say?”
The bartender let loose a string of profanities, and scrambled after her.
“Back off!” He shouted. “You can’t go in there!”
“Relax,” smiled Louisa. “I’ll just be a second.”
The Frenchman lunged, blocking her path.
“Get the fuck back,” he snarled. “Are you crazy?”
Brandishing a compact switchblade knife, he jeered.
“You go in
there and you’ll get hurt. You’re not trying to get hurt, are you?”
The blade shot forth with an airy click. In a flash, Cato was there. Stepping between the two of them, he caught the Frenchman by the wrist and gave a savage twist. The knife came free and the man yelped in pain. Twisting harder, Cato swung him away from Louisa, then kicked him in the back of the knee. Hobbled, the man went down and slammed his face on the corner of the bar.
Louisa gaped in astonishment. Rolling around on the ground, the weasely bartender moaned and clutched his face. Trickling between his fingers, red blood spurted from a broken nose.
“Cato,” she stammered. “What the hell was that?”
Dead-eyed and calm, Cato grabbed the whimpering man and pulled him to his feet.
“He’s lying,” he said. “He knows something.”
“I agree, but—”
“We tried your way, Louisa,” interrupted Cato. “Now we’re going to try mine.”
“Mon nez,” choked the bartender. “You broke my damn nose you American pig!”
“Yippee-ki-yay, mother fucker,” said Cato.
Inside the kitchen, two other men, also with shaved heads, looked up sharply. Wielding crowbars and hammers, they stood before a large wooden crate. Shoved through the door by Cato, the bartender tripped and sprawled out on the tiles before them. Like a cornered animal, one of the men bore his teeth and snarled. Showing signs of a recent beating, he had two black eyes and a bloodstained bandage over his right ear.
“C’est quoi ce merdier?” He shouted.
“Svek!” Cried the bartender. “They’re here about the blonde girl!”
The man called Svek grew pale and took a step back. Advancing on him, Cato shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it aside.
“Wait a minute,” the man said. “Wait—”
Cato struck out, punching him in the throat.
“Cato!” Balked Louisa.
Gagging, the Frenchman fell backwards and tripped over a stool.
“I’m tired of getting fucked around!” Growled Cato. “Tired of being lied to, and bullshitted by everyone!”
The Man From Rome Page 18
