Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  Rick could not understand why the tattoos confirmed the monkey business, but was afraid to ask. He pulled out his phone and punched in Juan Alberto’s number. From the encounter at St. Peter’s Square with the Argentine, he was sure they guy was running low on cash. In New Mexico, Juan Alberto had always been low on cash, and now he was probably spending his money from the wine company like he spent his college allowance—loosely and quickly. This job with Giulia’s bus tours would be just the thing to tide him over.

  “Hola, Reek.” There were voices in the background. Was he at a bar at this hour?

  “Hola, Juan Alberto. I have a couple things. First, I got an appointment for you tomorrow morning at ten with a certain Father Galeazzo, at the Vatican. He should be the guy who can make a decision on wine purchases. Write down this address.”

  “Wait a moment, let me get something to write with.” His voice became muffled, like he was putting his hand over the phone. “Mijita, can you give me a pen and paper?” was what Rick thought he heard, spoken in Spanish. A moment later he was back and took down the information. “This is excellent, Reek. I will meet you there at ten.”

  “What do you mean meet me? This is your appointment.”

  “I cannot do this alone, Reek. What if this Galeazzo does not speak Spanish? No, no, you must be there with me. It is what good friends do, no?”

  Rick rubbed his eyes. “Sure, Juan Alberto, I’ll be there. Oh, and there’s another thing. I have an American friend who runs a tourism business and wants to expand into dealing with groups from South America. She needs a Spanish-speaker, at least temporarily, and I thought of you. I’ll give you her number.”

  There was hesitation from Juan Alberto. “I don’t know, Reek. I’m pretty busy.”

  Busy with what? Chasing women? “She’ll pay you, of course.”

  “Well, since you are my good friend, Reek, I will call her as a favor to you.”

  Via Anacleto was nearly as deserted as the previous day when Rick had walked it with Carmella. A scruffy cat was curled up in the doorway of the garage in the middle of the block, catching a bit of sunshine that made its way through the clouds and landed on the paving stones. Two boys with school backpacks clutched greasy squares of Ahmed’s pizza and strolled down the middle of the street as they ate. Chugging along past them was the same ancient Fiat 500 he’d seen on the street before, driven by a man so old Rick guessed him to be the original owner.

  First stop would be Signor Avellone, who had some explaining to do after they had found out it was his mother who was giving the count harp lessons. Rick pushed open the door and his sense of smell was immediately enveloped by mineral spirits. His vision took longer to adapt to the darkness, and an annoying buzz pushed into his ears. When he finally got all three senses in order, he spotted Avellone passing an electric sander over what appeared to be a small table or bench. The man wore no mask over his face, but perhaps breathing in all the varnish fumes made him immune to the effects of sawdust. He looked up, noticed Rick, and turned off the sander.

  “You’re back. Where’s the sergeant?”

  “Working another case. I have some more questions.”

  Avellone wiped his hands on his apron, mixing dark brown spots with lighter brown dust. “I didn’t think you were here to have a dresser refinished. So ask.”

  “You didn’t tell us that your mother was giving the count harp lessons.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a question.” When Rick stood silent, Avellone shrugged a forced shrug. “It didn’t seem important. I know my mother couldn’t have had anything to do with the count’s murder, so why mention it?”

  “I think that would have been something for the police, I mean us police, to decide.” Rick folded his arms over his chest. He’d read somewhere that doing so was a body language way to establish authority, but the man before him didn’t appear fazed. “How did the subject of harp lessons come up? I suppose he just asked you out of the blue if you knew a harp teacher?” Rick snickered.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, there was something else.”

  “Aha, I thought so.”

  “When he came in that day he saw a harp that I was restoring for one of my mother’s students, and he said he had always wanted to learn to play one. Something about the Beatles. So I gave him Mamma’s name.”

  “Oh. Well, you should have said something. Is there anything else that you ‘forgot’ to tell us yesterday?” Rick made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

  Avellone gave the question some thought and shook his head. “No. If I had, I would have called you. I mean called the sergeant.”

  Rick ignored the slight, if it was one. The man was inscrutable, staring at Rick and never changing his expression. No other questions came to mind. “Any detail that you might recall, no matter how trivial it might seem to you, could mean something to us. Don’t forget that.” Rick heard that said so many times on TV that he thought it would be a good exit line. He turned and left.

  Once again, there could not be more of a contrast between the atmosphere of Avellone’s shop and that of Pina’s deli. The former was eerie darkness with a noxious mixture of the chemical and the distilled hovering in the air. Alimentare Giuseppina overwhelmed the senses in a pleasant and almost sensual way, full of brightness and rich profumi. He thought of the place near his apartment where he’d shopped that morning, with that lovely young lady behind the counter. He couldn’t very well find fault in the count for returning to this place to enjoy the company of a woman. But was the count meeting with Pina as part of his historical research? Sure, Rick.

  He was starting to think like Carmella.

  Pina, holding court for two women, stood behind the counter wearing the same apron as the day before. One woman clutched the bag with her food, having already paid. The other was ordering items from Pina, who sliced and wrapped as the three talked. Rick could overhear the conversation and it was clearly not about dinner. Someone’s son had shamed the family by turning down a good government job, the coveted posto, to instead study art at the university. What kind of job can he get with an art degree, assuming he ever finishes? He would have been set for life. How could they let him do that? Rick was glad Carmella wasn’t with him, or she might have joined in. At one point Pina noticed Rick and acknowledged him with a stiff smile.

  He raised his hand, using a “take your time” gesture that worked in any language. As he waited, he checked out a row of semolina gnocchi under the glass counter. They were cut into yellow disks, ready to be put on a baking sheet and slipped into the oven, then garnished with sauce, perhaps tomato. Or maybe gorgonzola. As always happens in a salumaio, Rick began thinking about his next meal. Pina’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “You have returned.”

  He looked up from the display case. “Yes, Signora, with the hope that something else had come to mind since I was here with Sergeant Lamponi.”

  She wiped her hands on a cloth pulled from below the counter and looked around, as if to be sure no one else would witness their conversation. “I didn’t sleep last night, thinking of Umberto. I thought I was over it, but then your visit yesterday brought back all those times he came by here and we…we talked. And laughed. He had quite a sense of humor, Umberto did.”

  Rick thought it better to let her talk. He sensed there was something coming that could help the investigation. Also, he didn’t have any questions in mind to ask her.

  “…We had a lot of laughs. He loved to tell me jokes, and some of them were ones I couldn’t repeat to you now, if you know what I mean. Not that he wasn’t serious about his historical research, mind you. I remember that last day I saw him…” She put her hand to her mouth, took a breath, and regained her composure. “That last day I saw him, he said something about learning from history, and how history repeats itself. That was very profound, don’t yo
u think?”

  “Yes, indeed it was.”

  “That’s the kind of person he was, profound. Serious. But funny as well. Do you understand what I mean?”

  He didn’t understand at all. “Of course, Signora. From what you said, it sounds like the count was being reflective that day. Deep thoughts, and all.”

  She chewed on the observation before replying. “Could be. I don’t remember him telling any jokes.”

  An idea jumped into Rick’s head. “Had he been to talk to any other people on the block that day? Before he came to see you?”

  “Oh, that I wouldn’t know. I don’t think he mentioned seeing anyone else. But I could have forgotten. You’ll have to ask them.”

  “I will.” So much for that line of questioning.

  “Are you closer to finding Umberto’s killer?”

  “I hope so, Signora.”

  Rick thanked her and left, though not before taking another glance at the gnocchi. Outside, he continued down the block and tried to convince himself that he’d not wasted his time with Pina. What new information had been gleaned? That the count that day had been more reflective than usual? It was thin gruel indeed.

  Ahmed was at his post behind the counter, averting his eyes after spotting Rick, who decided it wasn’t worth asking the man any questions. A sign on the metal grill of Signor Leopoldo’s motorbike repair shop read “TORNO SUBITO.” If the mechanic really was coming right back, he would see him after a visit to the print shop, the next door down.

  The Stampatelli operation was in full swing, if the thump thump of the large printing press and the presence of all three generations gave an indication of such. At the long table at one side, grandfather Eugenio was carefully stacking sheets of paper into equal piles. Next to Eugenio, studying what Rick guessed to be a ledger book, was his son. Carmella had been correct; Ludovico Stampatelli was the man they had seen going into Pina’s shop the previous day. He wore a black tee-shirt that looked a size too small, but he struck Rick as the type who would buy shirts that size to show off his biceps. A stubble of black beard covered his chin and cheeks, the color matching his thick hair. His hands, like his father’s, were stained with ink. Silvio, the youngest of the three, was the first to notice Rick. He was sweeping the floor around the press, and when he saw the visitor a frightened look spread across his face. Quickly he pushed a small pile of paper scraps into a dustpan and emptied them into a bin in the corner, like he would be punished if the place were not neat for the arrival of visitors. The boy’s father looked up from his ledger, then the grandpa also noticed the visitor.

  “Can I help you?” asked Ludovico Stampatelli.

  “He’s the policeman who came by yesterday, asking about the count,” the old man said to his son. Then to Rick: “Where’s your sergeant?”

  “She was called away on another case.”

  Ludovico’s facial expression noticeably darkened when Rick changed from potential customer to cop. He stepped forward. “Didn’t my father answer all your questions yesterday?”

  “I’m talking again to everyone on the block who spoke with the count. It’s standard procedure since people often remember things. And you weren’t even here yesterday, so you can tell me now what conversations you had with the count.”

  “The nosy old coot wasn’t interested in talking to me. He spent most of his time with Pina, and when he was here, my father told him enough stories to keep him happy. If you ask me, that history thing was just an excuse to poke his nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “Did you see him the day he was killed?”

  “What day was that?”

  The son jumped in at that point. “It was the anniversary of the founding of Rome, and we went to the Campidoglio Museums in the afternoon since we could get in for free. You were out that morning delivering a print job when the old man was here. Wasn’t he, Grampa?”

  “I can’t remember, Silvio, my brain isn’t as sharp as yours.”

  Frowning, Ludovico stared at his son for a few moments, and then glanced at his father. “I can’t remember either, but I didn’t see the count at all that week.”

  Rick tried to think what Carmella or any other real policeman would ask now, but came up empty, reinforcing his belief that he wouldn’t make a good cop. He gave the three Stampatellis the standard “call us if you think of anything” line and left. Outside on the street, he checked to see if the mechanic had returned from his break. The sign was still there, so Signor Leopoldo was still about to be right back. Checking the time on his phone, he decided to walk to the Il Tuffo, only a few blocks away, but then, in Rome’s centro storico, everything is only a few blocks away. It was about lunchtime, so he hoped that the card players were home eating pasta and he could avoid buying them another round. He didn’t need to talk to them again. His purpose in going to the bar was to talk with the woman who worked there. What was her name? Ah, yes, Gilda. How could he forget?

  The route took him along Via dei Coronari, a narrow street open only to foot traffic and known for its antiques shops. He remembered being dragged down it as a kid by his mother when she was looking for just the right piece of furniture for their apartment. Her tastes had leaned toward the ornate, and there were plenty of establishments that catered to it. What had surprised him then—and he was reminded of it now—was how few people actually entered these antiques stores. He stopped at one and looked through the glass. The unifying theme of the merchandise, if there was one, he guessed to be early nineteenth century. A woman sat at a writing desk, surrounded by lamps, armoires, busts, tapestries, chandeliers, chairs, and shelves filled with all manner of brick-a-brac. Napoleon could have been sitting next to her and fit in perfectly. He shook his head. Who buys this stuff? The only explanation was that the store had a cadre of loyal customers who popped in on occasion or were alerted when some new old piece was acquired. The woman at the desk did not show concern. Boredom perhaps, but concern, definitely not.

  He kept walking, and to his left a small piazza appeared with a fountain at its edge. Unblocked by buildings, the sun flowed into the square and reflected off its shiny cobblestones. Rick walked to the bowl of the fountain, scooped some cool water from it, and rubbed it over his face. Just beyond him, at the far end of the piazza, potted plants gave partial privacy to the tables of a restaurant, most of them with diners sitting under large umbrellas. The scene couldn’t have been more Italian, and it hit him that this hosteria would be a perfect place for dinner with Giulia the next night. Rick walked to the opening between the plants, read the posted menu, and went inside to make the reservation. Two minutes later he was working his way through a tangle of alleys to Il Tuffo.

  The tables were full, but of blue-collar workers lunching on panini and white wine rather than pensioners playing cards. Gilda, with the same haggard look and spotted apron, was bringing a plate of sandwiches to one of the tables when he came in. She gave him a puzzled look which turned to a toothy smile of recognition. Rick remembered that his unfamiliarity with euros caused him to leave her a substantial tip on his previous visit. He’d kicked himself at the time, but now was glad for another rookie error.

  “Umberto’s distant relative, right?”

  “That’s correct, Signora. Can I have a coffee, please?”

  She got right to it, ignoring an order for another wine at one of the tables, and manhandling the stainless steel machine until it extracted the dark liquid into the tiny cup. She whisked it in front of him and pushed the sugar bowl next to it. “When are you returning to America?”

  Rick at first didn’t understand, but quickly remembered the cover story Gonzalo had concocted for him: the distant relative from America. “Not for several days. I’ve been talking to people who knew my…who knew the count. You know, forming a picture of the man.”

  “That’s why you came here the other day.”

  “Exactly. I talked yesterday with o
ne of his…another of his friends. He told me he’d been here the day the count was killed. Do you remember that?” He spooned sugar into his espresso and stirred, waiting for a reply.

  “The British guy? Yeah, I remember that well. Rospo was here too, I think.”

  “Rospo?” Rick played dumb.

  She coughed. “An acquaintance of Umberto. I think Rospo left before the British guy arrived, but maybe it was the other way around. I can’t be sure.”

  “I can’t help thinking how sad that was, since the British gentleman didn’t realize that it would be the last time he’d see the count.”

  “From the way they were arguing, it might have been the last time even if Umberto had lived. The two were really going at it. I remember thinking how unlike Umberto it was. He was always so easygoing. And kind. And generous.” Lost in memories, she stared into the distance and seemed to be misting up.

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “What? Oh, the argument? I have no idea. They were speaking English.”

  Rats. “All in English?”

  “Well, now that I think of it, there was at least one word of Italian, but it’s the only one I remember. Umberto at one point yelled out ‘mascalzone.’”

  Rick pondered that one as Gilda tended to the men at the tables. The count was calling his boyhood friend a rascal? Maybe they were arguing about a mutual acquaintance. Rospo? More likely it would be Syms-Mulford characterizing Rospo as the mascalzone, but then again, the count could have been mad at his bookie for something. Rick’s only firm conclusion was that he would have to pay another visit to Mister Gerolamo Syms-Mulford.

  He remembered his coffee and added sugar to the small cup. “That was the last time you saw the count as well?”

  “No, he came back that evening to play cards.”

  Rick was about to put the cup to his lips, but stopped. This was news. Why hadn’t that come up when he met with the card players? Probably because at that time he was pretending to be a relative of the count and not a policeman, so asking such questions didn’t occur to him. The men had no reason to volunteer the information, even if they knew the count was with them the night of his murder.