Roman Count Down

by David P. Wagner

  “I want to hear all about it. We have American tourists in the shop all the time, but I never get to ask them about their country since they don’t speak Italian. They just point at things and I wrap them up.”

  The water, wine, and bread arrived with a thump, and the waiter, seeing that the menus were still sitting unread in front of them, went on to another table. Rick poured them each a few fingers of the vino and they clinked glasses before tasting. Gina was dressed casually, as would be appropriate for the restaurant, with a simple print blouse over blue jeans. Her hair was brushed out more than it had been at the shop, and she’d added a touch of makeup. A gold chain was visible around her neck but the blouse was not open enough to see what dangled at its end. Rick imagined a medallion. He turned his attention to the menu.

  “What’s good from this kitchen, Gina? You seem to know everyone who works here, which I assume includes the chef.”

  “He’s a distant relative. I’d suggest Roman specialties. If they have maialino al forno tonight, that’s what I’d like. But you should try their saltimbocca, it’s wonderful. For pasta, if you’re hungry you might want the spaghetti al’Amatriciana. I think I’ll just have some antipasti and skip the primo.”

  “You haven’t even glanced at the menu, so I won’t either and just go with your suggestions.”

  A different waiter appeared, greeted Gina by name, and she ordered for both of them, including “my usual” for the antipasto course. If she was trying to impress him, she succeeded. Rick pushed his chair forward to let someone squeeze by and bumped his knees with hers.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s all right, Riccardo, it comes with eating in this place. They have about a dozen more tables than they should have, for the amount of space. But it adds to the atmosphere.” She patted his hand. “Now tell me about America.”

  He did, but began by explaining that it was not a single entity, despite chain restaurants and connecting highways. New Mexico was about as different from Maine as Tuscany was from Sicily. He told her that the country’s size was something that foreigners could not understand until they went there, that Italy’s square kilometers would easily fit inside New Mexico. And given its size, the state was really many different regions and climates, from desert to mountains to plains.

  She was fascinated.

  The first of the food arrived, a plate of antipasto for her and the spaghetti al’Amatriciana for him. Rick peered over to see what “the usual” was, and saw a single roman artichoke, a few small balls of mozzarella, and two paper-thin slices of prosciutto. He nodded his approval and checked out his spaghetti. The Amatriciana sauce was what he’d hoped for, thick and ruby red, with chunks of crisp guanciale. He sprinkled cheese and each wished the other buon appetito.

  “How long have you had Fellini?” he asked when there was a pause in the eating.

  “A few years. My mother found him on the street under a car. She thought at first he was feral, like so many cats in the neighborhood, but he came right up to her so she realized he was a stray and brought him home. He immediately took over like he’d always owned the place.”

  “It sounds like he owns the whole block.”

  “He loves to walk around on the roofs, and yours is one of the few apartments that he can get into. I’m sure the person who lived there before you fed him, so he expects you to do the same.”

  “Now that I have tuna, I will.”

  “Don’t spoil him. We just give him scraps from the table.”

  “Which from the looks of that lasagna are better than canned tuna.”

  She laughed and cut into her artichoke, tender and coated with oil. “You said you are looking for business, Riccardo. How does that work?”

  He dipped some bread into his sauce and took a small bite. “I just have to get the word out that I’m here, make contacts, that kind of thing. I did translations from America for several professors in universities here in Italy, and I’m asking them to let their colleagues know I’m available. The interpreting may be difficult to break into, but once I do a couple jobs and people know me, it should be easier.”

  “Not just in Rome, then.”

  “No, I’ll go anywhere in Italy where somebody can use me.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “No, and I’m not planning to get one. Do you?”

  She finished her artichoke and sopped up the oil with a piece of bread before popping it in her mouth. “Goodness, no. If I have to go outside Rome I take the train, and in town I use the bus.”

  “That’s what I’m planning to do.”

  “Be sure to always have some bus tickets with you. You never know when you’ll need to get on the bus, and you don’t want to be caught by an inspector without one.”

  “I’ll do that tomorrow. Would you like to taste my Amatriciana?”

  She didn’t hesitate; her fork darted out and she pulled a few strands from his bowl to her mouth. “Yes, as good as ever. Some prosciutto?”

  He held up his hand. “No, thank you. These spaghetti are filling me up and I have to save space for my saltimbocca.” He inserted his fork. “When you do travel, Gina, where do you go?”

  She held up her hand as she finished the last mouthful of antipasto. “In the summer, when we close for two weeks, we rent a beach house near Rimini.”

  “Fellini goes too?”

  “Of course. He hates the ride on the train, but loves it once he’s there.”

  The empty dishes disappeared, and Rick topped off their wineglasses. Despite the murder case going nowhere, the broken date with Giulia, and the anxiety that had earlier begun to creep in about whether he’d made the right decision by moving to Rome, he was in a decidedly good mood. It was helped considerably by wine, good food, and the company of a charming woman. Wasn’t there a poem about that?

  The secondi arrived.

  The strong aroma of rosemary wafted off Gina’s suckling pig, right out of the oven with a few crisp potatoes next to it. The meat fell easily off the bone when she touched it with her fork. Rick’s saltimbocca was almost ready to jump into his mouth, as the name suggested. Two thin pieces of veal were topped with thinner slices of prosciutto and sage leaves, all secured by toothpicks. They had been sautéed in butter with a splash of Marsala, giving the dish contrasting, yet complementing, sweet and salty flavors.

  Conversation, after comments on their choices for the main course, turned back to Gina. She was an only child, growing up in the same apartment where she still lived with her mother. When her father died she dropped out of the university, taking his place at the salumaio. Somewhat to her surprise, she found she enjoyed the work, from ordering the merchandise to dealing with clients. Most of the customers lived or worked nearby, and she realized that the store was more than just a place where people bought food; it was important for supporting the human fabric of the neighborhood.

  They passed on dessert, but lingered for a while over empty plates to finish the bottle of wine before Rick reluctantly called for il conto. Exiting the row was difficult, but the neighboring tables pushed their chairs in and they were able to make it to the central aisle and walk to the door. When they got outside there was a line waiting to get in.

  “Thanks for suggesting this place, Gina, it certainly is popular.”

  “Yes, for those of us who know—” She stopped in mid-sentence when she saw the people in the line. Toward the back was a couple about their age, she an attractive brunette, he with long black hair and a fashionable stubble on his face. As Gina approached the man he looked up from his conversation, noticed her, and smiled.

  “I didn’t know you were back in Rome,” she said.

  “It’s been a few weeks. I was going to call you. The job didn’t work out.”

  “I…I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  As Rick watched, the two continued to talk, all the wh
ile standing still and staring hard into each other’s faces. He couldn’t tell if the look on Gina was anger or relief, but whichever it was it was mixed with affection. He felt a tap on his arm.

  “I think we’re invisible.”

  Rick glanced to his side where the woman who’d been in line was now standing, and he could not help noticing that she was not at all unattractive. “It seems that way. Do you sense that there might be some history between them?”

  The woman rolled her eyes as only Italian women can, though she seemed especially good at it. “This may take a while,” she said. “Fortunately, I’m not very hungry.”

  “It’s worth the wait,” said Rick. He held out his hand. “By the way, my name is Riccardo Montoya.”

  She took it and held on for longer than necessary under the circumstances. “Piacere, Riccardo. I am Erica Pedana.”

  Chapter Eleven

  During the night the sky had changed. High-level winds carrying tiny grains of Sahara sand had moved north from Africa, blowing over the Mediterranean and Sicily, then continuing up the boot until they were now over Rome. The system had stalled, and sat like an evil presence over the city. When the Romans awoke and looked upward they saw the sun filtered through an ugly brown haze. It was the scirocco, bringing headaches, respiratory problems, an increase in automobile accidents, and a general heightening of irascibility in a city which, even on a normal day, was not known for the equanimity of its residents. Many of them recognized the signs and stayed in bed.

  Rick awoke to itchy eyes and wondered if the cottonwood allergy could possibly have followed him from Albuquerque to Rome. A shower made him feel somewhat better, and while shaving he vowed that this would be a productive day. Why not write down all his thoughts about the Zimbardi case? That’s what the cops always did in the British crime shows, and usually some thread appeared which when followed broke the investigation wide open. He would gather his thoughts over coffee and a cornetto at the bar around the corner before coming back and putting them to paper. Then it would be off to his uncle’s office to review everything and decide where to go next. After that, if time could be spared from the investigation, he would drop by the university and see a couple of contacts about possible translation and interpretation work. Yes, it would be a productive day indeed. He dressed in business casual, with a blazer and his best cowboy boots, and was walking to the door when his phone rang.

  “Buon giorno, Uncle.”

  “Buon giorno, Riccardo. You seem in good spirits despite the scirocco.”

  He glanced out Fellini’s window and noticed the dark sky. There was no sign of the cat, who clearly was smart enough to stay inside. “Is that what it is? No, I’m just fine. I was going to drop by your office this morning to talk about the case. Will you be there?”

  “That’s why I was calling. I very much appreciate what you’ve done regarding the Zimbardi investigation.”

  This is not sounding good, Rick thought.

  “But it is time for you to get on with your real work, Riccardo. Sergeant Lamponi and I will be meeting today to go over where we are, and I’m going to assign another officer to the case as well, to get a fresh viewpoint. Before that, I wanted to ask you if there is anything new you’ve found out, I mean since we talked about it over dinner.”

  Should I tell him I want to stay on the investigation? Rick was getting to know his uncle better, and the way Piero had started the conversation indicated that his mind was made up. No doubt he was having second thoughts about getting Rick involved beyond the translation of the count’s papers. The commissario was correct, of course; it was time for Rick to work on his business full time, especially since he hadn’t been much help in smoking out the killer. Well, being a cop was fun while it lasted.

  “The only new development since our dinner is that I spoke again with the Englishman, Syms-Mulford.” Rick decided to omit the details of how the meeting transpired. “He confessed to me that he was with a woman the night of the murder.”

  “What woman?”

  “He wouldn’t say, but I was sure it had to be the countess, and he was trying to protect her good name as well as his own. But Carmella spoke to the harp teacher, who claimed that she was with him that night.”

  “This is starting to sound like daytime television. But the harp teacher? Is she some kind of femme fatale?”

  “I would not have used that term to describe Signora Angelini.”

  Piero’s deep sigh was audible over the phone. “I have a meeting with the countess in the afternoon, at her request. I wasn’t looking forward to it before, and certainly am not now. She has friends in the Ministry of Justice who could make my life difficult.”

  “Sorry I have not been able to help you very much, Uncle.”

  “You have been of immense help, Riccardo, and I am most appreciative. We will have lunch when this is all resolved.”

  After they said their goodbyes, Rick put his phone in his pocket, picked up his keys, and left the apartment. When he came out of the elevator, he saw Giorgio wielding a broom around the courtyard, pushing into piles the usual dirt from the street, today mixed with specks of sand from the sky. The portinaio was not in a friendly mood, which was fine with Rick since at the moment he wasn’t up to engaging in small talk about movie westerns. He nodded at Giorgio and left through the back door, walking in the direction of what was becoming his regular bar for morning cappuccino.

  Coming out of the canyon formed by the narrow street, he emerged into Piazza Navona where the sky was a canopy of orange malevolence. The always calming smell of brewed coffee greeted him as he came through the door, and moments later he had a cup of it in his hands, along with an almond cornetto. After two bites and two sips, he felt considerably better. He promised himself that once this scirocco blew over he would go back to starting each morning with a dawn run around the neighborhood. He was a morning person, and with the jet lag gone, he could resume his normal schedule. The thought of jogging around an empty Piazza Navona boosted his morale even more, but the sting in his eyes brought him back to the present. He rubbed them, but it didn’t help. Gina’s image came to mind when his eyes were closed. The evening had not ended like he’d originally hoped, but it was probably for the best, especially for Gina herself.

  “Nasty out there, isn’t it?” said the barista. “I had to rinse my eyes when I got here this morning.”

  “It’s pretty bad,” said Rick, “but work has to go on.” He recalled his conversation with Gina about getting around Rome. “Is there somewhere nearby where I can get bus tickets?”

  “The giornalaio on the other end of the piazza.” He moved over to take care of another customer, and Rick finished his breakfast while continuing to think about the previous evening. He drank and ate slowly, trying to avoid the air outside for as long as he could. Reluctantly, he put down the empty cup, dropped a coin on the counter, and walked to the door.

  Outside, a group of intrepid tourists stared at the fountains in the square while the locals rushed to get where they were going. Rick walked to the newspaper kiosk where inside it a man’s head was framed by reading materials. The arrangement was standard: daily newspapers lay in rows closest to Rick, magazines were stacked behind the dailies, other magazines hung from clips, and some paperbacks lined up behind the man’s head. It was a paper recycler’s dream. Rick looked down at the headlines of the dailies and his eye was caught by a story of a strike by healthcare workers. Under the headline was a photo of the hospital next to which the count had met his attacker. He was reading the first few sentences of the story when he was interrupted by voice of the giornalaio.

  “You gonna buy something?”

  “Oh. Uh, bus tickets.”

  The man produced a wad of them. “How many?”

  “Give me ten, please.”

  He deftly fanned through them with his thumb until reaching the right number, then tore them o
ff and stretched his hand over the stacks to Rick. “Fifteen euros.”

  Rick paid him and dropped the tickets into his jacket pocket. He thought about getting a bus route map, but quickly decided he didn’t want to be taken for a tourist. For where he was heading, the university main buildings, he was sure a bus would be found on the Corso, so he walked in its direction. After a few steps he stopped.

  That’s it. It has to be it. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?

  He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the numbers before punching one.

  “Si, Riccardo.”

  “Uncle, something just hit me, and I think it could be important for the Zimbardi murder. We’ll need to check something.”

  “I could certainly use a break in the case. What is it?”

  Piero listened carefully to Rick’s explanation.

  “I’ll have Sergeant Lamponi get on it immediately. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll call you as soon as we know something.” He hung up. Rick stood in the piazza and stared up at the menacing sky, thinking that he wasn’t off the case yet. How long would it take to check on his hunch? Certainly more than enough time to have a second cup of coffee and even another cornetto, since he was suddenly hungry again. When he entered the bar, the barista did not appear surprised.

  “You found the kiosko?” he asked as he made a second cup for Rick.

  “Yes, thank you.” He drummed his fingers on the bar, lost in thought. When the coffee arrived he added sugar and stirred, watching what he was doing but not seeing.

  His phone buzzed and he ripped it from his pocket.

  “Zio?”

  The reply came in Spanish. “Reek, it is me. How are you this lovely morning?”

  “Kind of busy, Juan Alberto, to tell you the truth.”

  “Busy? Me as well. I wanted to let you know, Reek, that all the paperwork on the sale I made has gone through. The Vatican is very efficient. Not what I expected.”

  Did he say his sale? “That’s great news, Juan Alberto. So I imagine you’ll be flying back to Buenos Aires. Nice of you to call to say goodbye.” He looked at the clock on the wall over the coffee machine.