by John Grisham
Waking at such a dreadful hour could only be accomplished with the aid of an alarm clock set at high volume. The steady, piercing beep penetrated the darkness and finally found its mark. Rick, who seldom used an alarm and had developed the pleasant routine of waking whenever his body was tired of sleep, flopped around under the sheets until he found an off switch. In the shock of the moment he thought of Officer Romo and was horrified of another non-arrest. Then he shook off the cobwebs and wild thoughts. As his heart rate began a gradual decline and he propped himself up on the pillows, he finally remembered why he’d set the alarm in the first place. He had a plan, and darkness was a crucial element.
Since his off-season regimen had been nothing but golf, both legs felt broken to bits and his abs ached as if he’d been punched repeatedly. His arms, shoulders, back, even ankles and toes, were sore to the touch. He cursed Alex and Sam and the entire Panther organization, if it could be called that. He cursed football, and Arnie, and, beginning with the Browns, every team in reverse order that had given him the pink slip. As he conjured up vile thoughts about the game, he tried carefully to stretch a muscle or two, but the muscles were simply too sore.
Fortunately, he had laid off the beer at Polipo’s, or at least he had stopped at a reasonable limit. His head was clearing with no signs of a hangover.
If he could hurry and complete his mission as planned, he might be back under the covers in an hour or so. He passed on a shower—the pressure was startlingly weak and the hot water only passably lukewarm—and, forcing each movement with a grim determination, was outside on the street in less than ten minutes. Walking loosened the joints and circulated the blood, and after two blocks he was moving briskly and feeling much better.
The Fiat was five minutes away. He stood on the sidewalk staring at it. The narrow street was lined on both sides by compact cars parked bumper to bumper, leaving between them a single lane of traffic headed north, to the center of Parma. The street was dark, quiet, empty of traffic. Behind the Fiat was a lime green Smart car, a model slightly larger than a decent-sized go-kart, and its front bumper was about ten inches from Signor Bruncardo’s Fiat. To the front was a white Citroën, not much larger than the Smart car and wedged in just as tightly. Dislodging the Fiat would be a challenge even for a driver with years of stick-shift experience.
A quick glance right and left to make sure no one was stirring on Via Antini, then Rick unlocked the car and crawled in as sharp pains shot through his joints. He wiggled the stick to make sure it was in neutral, tried to unfold his legs, checked the parking brake, then started the engine. Lights on, gauges up, plenty of fuel, where was the heater? He adjusted mirrors, the seat, the seat belt, and for a good five minutes went through the preflight as the Fiat warmed itself. Not a single car, scooter, or bike passed him on the street.
Once the windshield was defrosted, there was no reason for further delays. His rising heart rate angered him, but he tried to ignore it. This was just a car with a clutch, and not even his car at that. He released the parking brake, held his breath, and nothing happened. Via Antini happens to be quite flat.
Foot on clutch, ease into first, a touch of accelerator, turn the wheel hard to the right, so far so good. A check of the mirror, no traffic, let’s go. Rick eased off the clutch and gave it some gas, but gave it too much. The engine growled, he let off the clutch, and the Fiat lurched forward and bumped the Citroën just as he slammed the brake. Red gauge lights lit up the dash, and it took a few seconds to realize the car had died. He quickly turned the key while shifting into reverse and pressing the clutch and pulling on the parking brake and cursing under his breath while glancing over his shoulder at the street. No one was coming. No one was watching. The trip in reverse was as rough as the one forward, and when he tapped the Smart car, he hit the brake again and the engine died. Now he cursed loudly, no effort to keep the language under control. He took a deep breath and decided not to inspect the damage; there really wasn’t any, he decided. Just a little nudge. Damned guy deserved it for parking on top of the Fiat. His hands moved quickly—steering, ignition, stick, parking brake. Why was he using the brake? His feet were all over the place, tap-dancing wildly from clutch to brake to gas. He roared forward again, barely nicking the Citroën before stopping, but this time the engine did not die. Progress. The Fiat was halfway in the street; still no traffic. Quickly into reverse again, but a bit too quickly and he lurched back, his head snapping and sore muscles aching. He hit the Smart car much harder the second time, and the Fiat was dead. His language was out of control as he again glanced around, looking for spectators.
She just appeared. He hadn’t noticed her walking down the sidewalk. She stood there as if she’d been standing for hours, her body draped in a long wool overcoat, her head wrapped in a yellow shawl. An old woman with an old dog on a leash, out for the morning stroll, and now stopped dead by the violent pinball action of a copper-colored Fiat driven by an idiot.
Their eyes met. Her scowl and heavily wrinkled face conveyed exactly what she was thinking. Rick’s wild desperation was quite evident. He stopped cursing for a second. The dog was staring, too, some type of frail terrier with a look as perplexed as the master’s.
It took a second for Rick to realize she was not the owner of either of the cars he was pounding; of course she wasn’t. She was a pedestrian, and before she could call the cops, if she were so inclined, he’d be gone. He hoped. Anyway, he started to say something like “What the hell are you looking at?” But then, she wouldn’t understand, and she would probably realize he was an American. A sudden patriotism sealed his lips.
With the front of the car jutting into the street, he had no time for a stare-down. He jerked his head arrogantly back to the matters at hand, re-shifting and restarting and urging himself to work the gas and the clutch with perfect coordination so the Fiat could finally roll away and be gone, leaving his audience behind. He pressed the gas hard, the engine strained again, and he slowly released the clutch as he turned the wheel hard and barely missed the Citroën. Free at last, he was rolling now, along Via Antini, the Fiat still in first and straining mightily. He made the mistake of one last triumphant look at the woman and the dog. He saw her brown teeth; she was laughing at him. The dog was barking and pulling on the leash, also amused.
Rick had memorized the streets along his escape route, no small feat since many were narrow, one-way, and often confusing. He worked his way south, shifting only when necessary, and soon hit Viale Berenini, a major street with a few cars and delivery trucks moving about. He stopped at a red light, shifted into first, and prayed no one would stop behind him. He waited for the green, then lurched forward without killing the engine. Atta boy. He was surviving.
He crossed the Parma River on the Ponte Italia, and a quick glance revealed quiet waters below. He was away from downtown now, and there was even less traffic. The target was Viale Vittoria, a wide, sweeping four-lane avenue that circled the west side of Parma. Very flat and almost deserted in the predawn darkness. Perfect for practice.
For an hour, as day broke over the city, Rick drove up and down the wonderfully level street. The clutch was dragging a bit halfway down, and this slight problem captured his attention. However, after an hour of diligent work he was gaining confidence, and he and the Fiat were becoming one. Sleep was no longer an option; he was far too impressed with his new talent.
In a wide median, he practiced parking within the yellow lines, back and forth, back and forth until he grew bored. He was quite confident now, and he noticed a bar near Piazza Santa Croce. Why not? He was feeling more Italian by the minute, and he needed caffeine. He parked again, turned off the engine, and enjoyed a brisk walk. The streets were busy now, the city had come to life.
The bar was full and noisy, and his first inclination was to make a quick exit and return to the safety of his Fiat. But no, he had signed on for five months, and he would not spend that time on the run. He walked to a bar, caught the attention of a barista, and said
, “Espresso.”
The barista nodded to a corner where a plump lady sat behind a cash register. The barista had no interest in making an espresso for Rick, who retreated a step and again thought about fleeing. A well-dressed businessman entered in a rush, holding at least two newspapers and a briefcase, and walked directly to the cashier. “Buongiorno,” he said, and she offered the same. “Caffè,” he said as he pulled out a five-euro note. She took it, made change, and handed him a receipt. He took the receipt directly to the counter and laid it where one of the baristas could plainly see it. A barista finally took it, they exchanged “buongiornos,” and everything worked fine. Within seconds a small cup and saucer landed on the counter, and the businessman, already deep in front-page news, added sugar, stirred, then demolished the drink in one long gulp.
So that’s how you do it.
Rick walked to the cashier, mumbled a passable “Buongiorno,” and flung over a five-euro note of his own before the lady could respond. She made change and handed him a magical receipt.
As he stood at the counter and sipped his coffee, he absorbed the frenzy of the bar. Most of the people were on their way to work, and they seemed to know one another. Some talked nonstop, while others were buried in newspapers. The baristas worked feverishly, but never wasted a step. They bantered in rapid Italian and were quick to return quips from their customers. Away from the counters there were tables where waiters in white aprons delivered coffee and bottled water and all manner of pastries. Rick was suddenly hungry, in spite of the truckload of carbs he had consumed just a few hours earlier at Polipo’s. A shelf of sweet rolls caught his attention, and he desperately wanted one covered with chocolate and cream. But how to get it? He wouldn’t dare open his mouth, not with so many people within earshot. Perhaps the cashier in the corner would be sympathetic to an American who could only point.
He left the bar hungry. He walked along Viale Vittoria, then ventured down a side street, looking for nothing but enjoying the sights. Another bar beckoned. He walked in with confidence, went straight to the cashier, another hefty old woman, and said, “Buongiorno, cappuccino please.” She couldn’t have cared less where he was from, and her indifference encouraged him. He pointed to a thick pastry on a rack by the counter and said, “And one of these.” She nodded again as he handed over a ten-euro note, certainly enough to cover coffee and a croissant. The bar was less crowded than the other one, and Rick savored the cornetto and cappuccino.
It was called Bar Bruno, and whoever Bruno was, he certainly loved his soccer. The walls were covered with team posters and action shots and schedules that dated back thirty years. There was a banner from the World Cup victory in 1982. Above the cashier Bruno had nailed a collection of enlarged black and whites—Bruno with Chinaglia, Bruno hugging Baggio.
Rick assumed that he would be hard-pressed to find a bar or café in Parma with a single photo of the Panthers. Oh well. This ain’t Pittsburgh.
The Fiat was exactly where he’d left it. The jolts of caffeine had raised his confidence. He eased perfectly into reverse, then pulled away smoothly as if he’d worked a clutch for years.
The challenge of central Parma was daunting, but he had no choice. Sooner or later he had to go home, and take his Fiat with him. At first glance, the police car did not alarm him. It was following at a benign pace. Rick stopped at a red light and waited patiently while mentally working the clutch and accelerator. The light turned green, the clutch slipped, the Fiat lunged, then died. Frantically, he re-shifted as he turned the key and cursed and kept one eye on the police. The black-and-white cruiser was on his rear bumper, and the two young cops were frowning.
What the hell? Something wrong back there?
His second attempt was worse than the first, and when the Fiat died another quick death, the police suddenly laid on the horn.
Finally the engine caught. He hit the gas and barely released the clutch, and the Fiat rolled forward, roaring in such a low gear but hardly moving. The police followed tightly, probably amused at the bucking and lunging ahead of them. After a block, they turned on the blue lights.
Rick managed to pull over in a loading zone in front of a row of shops. He turned the ignition off, pulled hard on the parking brake, then instinctively reached for the glove box. He had given no thought to Italian laws governing vehicle registration or driving privileges, nor had he assumed that the Panthers and specifically Signor Bruncardo would handle such matters. He had assumed nothing, thought of nothing, worried about nothing. He was a professional athlete who was once a high school and college star, and from that lofty perch small details had never mattered.
The glove box was empty.
A cop was tapping on his window, and he rolled it down. No power windows.
The cop said something, and Rick caught the word “documenti.” He snatched his wallet and thrust out his Iowa driver’s license. Iowa? He hadn’t lived in Iowa in six years, but then, he hadn’t established a home anywhere else. As the cop frowned at the plastic card, Rick sank a few inches lower as he remembered a phone call from his mother before Christmas. She had just received a notice from the state. His license had expired.
“Americano?” the officer said. His tone was accusatory. His name badge declared him to be Aski.
“Yes,” Rick replied, though he could’ve handled a quick “Sì.” He did not, because even the slightest use of Italian prompted the speaker on the other end to assume the foreigner was fluent.
Aski opened the door and motioned for Rick to get out. The other officer, Dini, strutted up with a sneer, and they launched into a quick round of Italian. From their looks, Rick thought he might be beaten on the spot. They were in their early twenties, tall, and built like weight lifters. They could play defense for the Panthers. An elderly couple stopped on the sidewalk to witness the drama from ten feet away.
“Speak Italian?” Dini asked.
“No, sorry.”
Both rolled their eyes. A moron.
They separated and began a dramatic inspection of the crime scene. They studied the front license plates, then the rear. The glove box was opened, carefully, as if it might just hold a bomb. Then the trunk. Rick grew bored with it and leaned against the left front fender. They huddled, consulted, and radioed headquarters, then the inevitable paperwork began with both officers scribbling furiously.
Rick was very curious about his crime. He was certain that registration laws had been broken, but he would plead not guilty to any moving violation. He thought about calling Sam, but his cell phone was next to his bed. When he saw the tow truck, he almost laughed.
After the Fiat disappeared, Rick was put into the rear seat of the police car and driven away. No handcuffs, no threats, everything nice and civilized. As they crossed the river, he remembered something in his wallet. He pulled out a business card he had taken from Franco’s office and handed it to Dini in the front seat. “My friend,” he said.
Giuseppe Lazzarino, Giudice.
Both cops seemed to know Judge Lazzarino quite well. Their tone, demeanor, and body language changed. Both talked at once in muffled voices, as if they didn’t want their prisoner to hear. Aski sighed heavily as Dini’s shoulders sagged. Across the river, they changed directions and for a few minutes seemed to go in circles. Aski called someone on the radio, but did not find whomever or whatever he wanted. Dini used his cell phone, but he, too, was disappointed. Rick sat low in the rear seat, laughing at himself and trying to enjoy the tour of Parma.
They parked him on the bench outside Franco’s office, the same spot Romo had selected about twenty-four hours earlier. Dini reluctantly went inside, while Aski found a spot twenty feet down the hall, as if he had nothing to do with Rick. They waited as the minutes dragged by.
Rick was curious as to whether this qualified as a real arrest, or one of the Romo variety. How was one supposed to know? One more altercation with the police, and the Panthers and Sam Russo and Signor Bruncardo and his paltry contract could all take a hike. He almost
missed Cleveland.
Loud voices, then the door swung open as his fullback charged through, Dini in tow. Aski bolted to attention.
“Reek, I am so sorry,” Franco thundered as he yanked him from the bench and smothered him with a bear hug. “I’m so sorry. There is a mistake, no?” The judge glared at Dini, who was studying his very shiny black boots and looked somewhat pale. Aski was a deer in headlights.
Rick tried to say something, but words failed him. In the doorway, Franco’s cute secretary watched the encounter. Franco unloaded a few words at Aski, then a sharp question for Dini, who tried to answer but thought better of it. Back to Rick. “Is no problem, okay?”
“Fine,” Rick said. “It’s okay.”
“The car, it is not yours?”
“Uh, no. I think Signor Bruncardo owns it.”
Franco’s eyes widened and his spine stiffened. “Bruncardo’s?”
Both Aski and Dini partially collapsed at the news. They stayed on their feet but couldn’t breathe. Franco shot some harsh Italian at them, and Rick caught at least two “Bruncardo”s.
Two gentlemen who appeared to be lawyers—dark suits, thick briefcases, important airs—approached. For their benefit, and Rick’s and his staff’s, Judge Lazzarino proceeded to blister the two young cops with the fervor of an angry drill sergeant.
Rick immediately felt sorry for them. After all, they had treated him with more respect than a common street criminal could expect. When the tongue-lashing was over, Aski and Dini scattered, never to be seen again. Franco explained that the car was being retrieved that very moment and would be returned to Rick immediately. No need to tell Signor Bruncardo. More apologies. The two lawyers finally drifted into the judge’s office, and the secretaries returned to work.
Franco apologized again, and to show his sincere regret at the way Rick had been welcomed in Parma, he insisted on dinner the following night at his home. His wife—very pretty, he said—was an excellent cook. He would not take no for an answer.
Rick accepted the invitation, and Franco then explained that he had an important meeting with some lawyers. They would see each other at dinner. Farewell. “Ciao.”
Chapter
11
The team trainer was a wiry, wild-eyed college boy named Matteo who spoke terrible English and spoke it rapidly. After several efforts, he finally made his point—he wanted to give their great new quarterback a rubdown. He was studying something that had something else to do with a new theory of massage. Rick desperately needed a rubdown. He stretched out on one of the two training tables and told Matteo to have a go. After a few seconds, the kid was hacking at his hamstrings and Rick wanted to scream. But you can’t complain during a massage—it was a rule that had never been violated in the history of professional football. Regardless of how much things might hurt, big tough footballers do not complain during rubdowns.
“Is good?” Matteo said between breaths.
“Yes, slow down.”
It didn’t survive the translation, and Rick buried his face in
