So he made the suggestion to Creasy and Creasy looked blank.
“A bodyguard,” repeated Guido.
“You’re crazy,” replied Creasy. “In my state I couldn’t guard a corpse.”
Guido told him about “premium” bodyguards, but Creasy was unconvinced.
“People would hire a complete has-been — a drunk?”
Guido shrugged.
“It’s just a device to keep premium costs down,”
“But a drunk?”
Guido sighed.
“Obviously you would have to keep the drinking under control. Drink at night. You do here, and you don’t look so bad during the day.”
“And what happens if there’s a kidnap attempt?”
“You do your best. You’re not paid to perform miracles.”
Creasy thought about it but remained sceptical. He had always worked with military people of one kind or another. He raised a further objection.
“A bodyguard has to be close to someone all the time. I’m not good at that — you know it.”
Guido smiled.
“So you’ll be a silent type bodyguard. Some people might appreciate that.”
Creasy thought up other problems, but Guido pressured him gently. Elio had invited him to stay in Milan for a few days.
“Why not go up anyway, and look around?”
Finally Creasy agreed to see what kind of job was available. Then he went to bed, shaking his head and muttering incredulously, “Goddamn bodyguard!”
Guido fetched paper and a pen and wrote a letter to Elio. He knew that the agency would require information on Creasy’s qualifications and that Creasy would be reluctant to provide anything but the barest details. He wrote for a long time, first sketching Creasy’s career in the Legion and later in the various wars in Africa, the Middle East and Asia. Then he listed familiarity with different weapons. It was a long list. Finally he mentioned Creasy’s decorations. Italians are impressed by medals.
He sealed the letter and left it on the table with a note asking Pietro to post it first thing in the morning. He went to bed feeling more encouraged than at any time since his friend’s arrival.
Chapter 4
“Did they provide you with the gun?”
“Yes.”
“Show me, please.”
Creasy took his right hand off the steering wheel, reached under his jacket, and passed it over.
Ettore held it gingerly. He had never before held a pistol, and he was fascinated.
“What is it?”
“Beretta 84 “
“Have you used this type before?”
“Yes, it’s a good pistol.”
“Is it loaded?”
Creasy took his eyes off the road and glanced at the Italian.
“It’s loaded,” he said dryly.
Ettore handed the weapon back and they drove on towards Como.
He had asked the American to drive the Lancia so that he could judge his capability. He was relieved that Creasy drove easily and smoothly.
It had been less simple finding a bodyguard than Vico had suggested. At least, a bodyguard to suit Rika’s requirements.
She had been delighted with the result of his lunch with Vico and had immediately started making plans. She decided that the bodyguard would have a large room at the top of the house. She and Pinta busied themselves putting in extra furniture; a small table and a large easy chair, and several casual rugs. The room already had a big brass bedstead, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. He would eat with Maria, the housekeeper, and Bruno, the gardener, in the kitchen.
She drew up a list of his duties. Driving Pinta to school and picking her up in the afternoon were the most important. In between, he could chauffeur Rika herself to shopping and lunch engagements.
Naturally he would have to be presentable and of a polite and respectful disposition. She had also urged Ettore to hurry as the new school term started soon, and she wanted to join Ettore on his coming trip to Paris.
All this created problems. The first two applicants had been patently unacceptable, little more than street toughs whom Rika wouldn’t have let through the door. The third had been an obvious homosexual, and Ettore had a thing against homosexuals. He had phoned the agency and complained about the quality of the applicants, but they had answered that bodyguards were scarce. They also implied, politely, that you got what you paid for. Nevertheless, they rang up the next day to arrange for an appointment for a fourth applicant — an American.
Ettore had not been encouraged. A foreigner was something unexpected, especially an American. He anticipated a gum chewing, crew-cut gangster.
So he was pleasantly surprised when Creasy had been shown into his office. He looked hard enough, with the scars on his square face and the menacing eyes, but he was dressed smartly in a dark blue suit and beige shirt. He stood at the door holding a large Manila envelope sealed with red wax, looking at Ettore without expression.
Ettore gestured and Creasy moved forward and took a seat in front of the desk. Then he handed over the envelope.
“The agency told me to give you this.”
His Italian was almost perfect, with a slight Neapolitan accent.
Ettore took the envelope and asked, “Would you like coffee?” He was encouraged. He had not offered coffee to the others.
Creasy shook his head and Ettore broke the seal, pulled out the file, and began to read. It was a report on Creasy’s qualifications and history provided by the agency from Guido’s information.
Ettore read in silence and when he had finished he looked at the man in front of him for a long time. Creasy gazed back impassively.
“What’s the catch?”
“I drink,” came the flat reply.
Ettore digested this for a moment and glanced again at the file, then asked, “In what way does it affect you?”
Creasy’s eyes narrowed in thought and Ettore sensed that he would get the absolute truth.
“As it relates to this kind of job, it affects my coordination and reaction time. My ability to shoot fast and accurately is impaired. If I was a rich man, convinced that I or my family were going to be attacked, I wouldn’t employ a man in my condition.”
Ettore asked, “Do you get so drunk that you are incapable or a nuisance?”
Creasy shook his head.
“You wouldn’t notice anything. I only drink at night. In the morning I might feel bad but I look alright.”
Ettore studied the papers again. As long as Rika didn’t know about the drinking, there should be no problem.
“The pay is not good.”
Creasy shrugged. “If top professionals try to kidnap your daughter, the service will be on a par with the pay.”
“And what if amateurs try it?”
“If they’re truly amateurs, I’d probably frighten them off, or even kill them — is it likely?”
Ettore shook his head.
“I doubt it. Frankly, it’s my wife who is mostly concerned. She’s overreacting about all the recent kidnappings. Incidentally, part of your duties will involve transporting her about. She has her own car.” He glanced down at the file again — at the lists of wars and battles and weapons.
“You would have to become a little domesticated.”
“That’s alright,” said Creasy, “but I’m not good at social chitchat. I’ll do my job, best I can, that’s all.”
Ettore smiled for the first time.
“That’s fine. Can you start immediately?” A thought struck him. “Do you have a gun?”
Creasy nodded. “The agency provides one. You will have to give them a letter. They will arrange the police permit. It will be on your bill.” He stood up. “I can start anytime.”
They had walked to the door, Ettore saying, “I go up to Como tomorrow evening for the weekend. Please be here at six with your things. No one is to know about your drinking problem, and that includes my wife.”
The two men had shaken hands. Ettore said, “I can�
��t be sure how long the job will last. It depends on circumstances, but my contract with the agency will be for a three-month trial period. After that we can both review the situation. After all, you might not like the job.”
When they entered the lounge, Rika was by the French windows. She wore a plain black dress. Her face was a white oval in a framework of ebony hair.
Ettore made the introductions and she asked, “Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you — Scotch and a little water.”
She crossed to the bar and the two men moved to the French windows and looked out over the lake. Creasy could sense Ettore’s unease and wondered at it. Rika brought over the whisky and a martini for her husband.
“I didn’t catch the name exactly,” she said.
“Creasy.”
“You are not Italian?”
“American.”
She looked at Ettore with a slight frown.
“But his Italian is excellent,” he said hastily.
She was disconcerted.
“You have done much of this work before?”
Creasy shook his head. “Never.”
Her frown deepened and again Ettore quickly interjected, “Mr. Creasy has a lot of experience in related work. A great deal of experience.”
Creasy studied the woman with interest. He had needed time to get over the first impact of her beauty. He was indifferent to her reaction on hearing he was an American, but he was curious about her relationship with her husband.
Ettore had appeared positive and self-assured, but his weakness was now apparent. The woman, either through her beauty or personality or both, dominated him. Her confusion showed. Naturally she’d had a preconceived idea of the kind of man Ettore would hire. He would obviously be Italian, polite and deferential, young and athletic, and experienced in the work.
The man in front of her was first of all an American and, like many Italian socialites, she tended to look down on Americans. Also, although he was big, he wasn’t young, and he didn’t look very athletic.
She noted his clothes, casual and expensive: beige slacks, a fawn, knitted, polo neck shirt, and a dark brown jacket. She saw that the hand holding the glass had mottled scars on the back and that the tip of the little finger was missing. Then she looked up at his face and realized how tall he was. She took in the scars on his forehead and jaw, and the heavy-lidded eyes, indifferent as they gazed back at her. And she realized the effect he had — he frightened her. It was a shock. Men just didn’t frighten her. She had never before felt fright at the sight of a man.
Ettore broke the silence.
“Where is Pinta, darling?”
Her mind snapped back. “Upstairs. She’ll be down in a moment.”
Ettore could see that her irritation had gone, but it was replaced by a look of confusion.
She smiled slightly and said to Creasy, “She’s excited about having a bodyguard.”
“I’m the first?” asked Creasy.
“Yes. You speak Italian like a Neapolitan.”
“I was taught by a Neapolitan.”
“Have you lived there?”
“No, only visited.”
Creasy heard the door open and turned.
The girl was dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans. She stood at the door and looked at Creasy with interest.
Her mother said, “Cara, this is Mr. Creasy.”
She walked across the room and very formally held out her hand. As he shook it, she smiled tentatively.
The top of her head came level with his chest. Her small hand was lost in his.
“Why don’t you show Mr. Creasy to his room?” Rika said. “Perhaps he’d like to unpack.”
Creasy finished his drink and the girl led him out solemnly.
As the door closed Ettore waited for the explosion. But Rika sipped her drink reflectively.
“He’s very well qualified,” said Ettore, “and really, it’s hard to find good people in this line.”
She didn’t say anything and he went on persuasively.
“Of course it’s a pity he’s American. But as you heard, his Italian is excellent.”
“Has he worked in Italy before?” she asked.
“No.” He opened his briefcase and gave her the agency report. “That’s his background.”
She sat down and opened the file, and Ettore went to the bar and made himself another martini.
She read the report in silence, then closed it and put it on the coffee table.
Ettore nursed his drink and kept quiet. She was deep in thought. Then she said, “He frightens me.”
“Frightens you?” He was astonished.
She smiled.
“I think it’s nice he’s American. It’s different.”
“But why does he frighten you?”
She thought about it and shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked down at the file. “Perhaps the answer is in there. You realize that you’ve brought a killer into the house. God knows how many people he’s killed. All over the world.”
Ettore started to protest, but she smiled again and said:
“He dresses well — like a European.”
Ettore was relieved but puzzled. Evidently Creasy was acceptable.
She got up and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you, darling. I feel better now.”
She said it as if she were thanking him for a present — a piece of jewellery or even a bunch of roses.
After dinner, Creasy cleaned the gun. He worked automatically, his fingers moving from long practice, while his mind ranged over the events of the evening and the people. In the past, whenever he had started a new job, he had always catalogued the people around him and their possible effect on him and on the job itself. Now, even though the work was totally different, habit made him follow the same procedure.
Ettore, he decided, was preoccupied. Probably with business matters. When he told Elio who his new employer was to be, Elio had recognized the name. Balletto Mills was one of the largest producers of knitted silk fabric in Italy and therefore in the world. Ettore had inherited the business from his father, who had been very respected in Milan’s business community. Ettore himself was considered a good businessman but, like many other Italian textile producers, was facing fierce competition from the Far East. He was also known for the beauty of his wife.
Creasy’s thoughts moved to Rika. Quite dispassionately, he considered her effect on him. She had qualities in her looks that he particularly admired in women: a lack of obvious decoration, an uncluttered look, very little makeup. Her hair hung naturally; her fingernails were long and unpainted. She needed no aids, but he had also noted the lack of perfume. She was, he decided, completely female in herself. Her personality was linked to her looks, an extension of them.
Physically, she had attracted him with a jolt. It was a factor that had a bearing on the situation. He had watched her reaction to him carefully. The initial hostility and irritation, fading into curiosity. In his experience she was the type of woman who would respond to his past, be intrigued by its violence. She liked to dominate and find out the limits domination could take, first mentally and then perhaps physically. He would treat her with great caution.
He finished cleaning the gun and took a small can of oil and lubricated the trigger mechanism and the magazine release catch. He thought about Maria and Bruno. During dinner in the big, comfortable kitchen they had not been talkative and he had not encouraged them to be. His natural reticence had been obvious and he expected that after a while, once they got used to his presence, they would fall back to whatever their pattern of conversation had been before his arrival.
Maria, he guessed, was in her middle thirties, stout and cheerful and obviously curious about him. Bruno would be in his sixties, a small man with a brown, pointed face and a placid disposition.
The food had been good, and homey. Gnocchi Verdi followed by chicken marinated in oil and lemon juice. Although of late his appetite had not been good, Crea
sy was very fond of Italian food and knew a lot about it. He recognized the Florentine style of cooking and had asked Maria if she was from Tuscany.
She had been pleased at the question, recognizing its source. Yes, she had originally been from Tuscany but had come to Milan five years before to seek work. He had asked Bruno to show him around the grounds in the morning so he could fix the layout in his mind, and then had excused himself and come up to his room.
He emptied the gun’s magazine of the short, 9 mm bullets and tested the spring and those of the two spares. Then he opened a box of shells and filled all three. That done he picked up the new shoulder holster, and, with a cloth, started working oil into the leather, softening it still further.
Pinta — she would be the main problem. He was not good with children in general and he guessed this one would be no exception. He had no practice at it. Children had been no part of his life, except as an object of pity. In all the wars he had ever fought, children had suffered the most. Confused, often separated from their parents, nearly always hungry. He remembered them in the Congo, swollen bellied, eyes uncomprehending. And in Vietnam, looking like dolls, and all too often caught in the middle. Bombed and mined and shot. He had been told that there were over a million orphans in South Vietnam and, at times, he felt he had seen them all. He had grown a shell so he could ignore their suffering. Either you did that or you lost your mind. He had done it early. He saw them, but the message from the eyes to the brain got diverted.
Of all the brutalizing effects of war, the numbing of compassion was the most acute. But now he was to be put into close proximity with a child for the first time. Certainly not a child hungry, or hurt, or homeless, but for all that a problem to him.
When Pinta had shown him up to his room, she had stayed behind and chatted while he unpacked. Obviously his arrival was a big event in her life. An only child, she was too often bored. It was natural that she should look on Creasy as more than a mere protective presence.
Her first questions had been about America. He explained that he hadn’t lived there for years, but that hadn’t diminished her enthusiasm. She asked him what part he had come from and he answered, the South — Tennessee.
Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1) Page 6
