“No chance.”
Bridgette responded with a pouty face, and Lux finally relented and let her have a small bite. Bridgette’s eyes rolled back in other worldly pleasure, and she, like Lux, was looking as though she too might climax. I’d had Torta la Cappuccino before, and it was delicious, but this was getting a little ridiculous.
“OK fine, Lux. Can I try it?” I asked.
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah—go use your Agency credit card and buy your own.”
“Never mind. I can do without the extra calories, and more importantly, I’m betting that the cheesy filling in that pastry was fermented in our barista’s sweaty ballbag,” I said, doing my best to make Lux’s dining experience as unappetizing as possible.
“Maybe that’s why it’s so delicious,” she countered.
“Yeah,” Bridgette added.
“Oh, it’s so nice to see you two bonding over Italian semen.”
Lux gave me the finger, although I found it less effective coated in ricotta cheese and chocolate. Either way, I’d had enough of the spectacle of Café Gigolo and was ready to get back on the road, but, first, however, I had to hit the baño.
“OK, jugs, can you at least keep an eye on my coffee while I go pee?”
“Sure. I’ll do my best to keep your figaccino safe.”
I headed for the bathroom, and Babs tagged along, which made me hope it had multiple stalls, because it would be a little awkward if we had to hot swap one toilet. Thankfully, the bathroom was deserted and had three empty standard stalls. Babs went left, and I took the far right, leaving the middle stall unoccupied. It was the universally accepted concept of personal space that went unspoken in every bathroom, on every continent, the world over, or at least the world that I’d thus far experienced—with the only exception being my double deuce with my tiny dumper on the way to Davos.
I had just unzipped my pants and was bringing out the bacon when I heard Babs laying down a seat cover and realized that he was going to take a shit. A bold move by all accounts, but now I was going to have to pee and get out of there quickly before the fireworks started. Unfortunately, my bladder was feeling more like a horse’s, and the steady stream of urine seemed to have no end in sight, thus keeping me tethered to my toilet like a fluid umbilical cord. At that moment, I heard a relieved exhale, a fart, and then what sounded like a sizable turd splash into the still waters of his commode. Then he farted again, only this time it was a lot louder, as, apparently, the turd had been blocking a large pocket of gas that was finally able to escape. I instantly had a terrible case of the giggles, which often occurred in public restrooms when people around me farted. It wasn’t my fault—there was just something innate in a man’s programming that made farts funny, and any man who denied it was lying to himself and all of mankind.
Babs found my giggling childish and told me to grow up, but that only made it funnier, the result being that my convulsions were sending my stream of urine everywhere but the toilet. This was, in fact, the most I had laughed since my double deuce the previous day, but my enjoyment was interrupted when I heard the main door open, and, shortly thereafter, our new arrival took up residence in the stall between Babs and me. Stifling my giggles to a low murmur, I heard the familiar sound of an ass hitting the seat but no sound of him using one of the sanitary seat covers. We had a risk taker in our midst—a veritable rogue on the porcelain.
Our middleman sat quietly, uttering not a single word from his mouth, though his ass would soon be another story altogether. A short, sharp grunt was the only warning before his formerly quiet stall erupted into a war zone when a great concussive explosion of gas bounced off the bowl and echoed across the room. The next wave included solid matter and was slightly more intense, sounding a bit like creamed corn being shot out of a cannon at point blank range into a bucket of water. It wasn’t pretty and made me wonder about the potential for collateral splatter and overspill, and I unconsciously found myself taking a step step further away from the middle stall. The gastric violence, of course, brought on yet another round of uncontrolled laughter, and, while it was OK to laugh at a friend on the toilet, it was mean and awkward when it was directed at a total stranger.
Soon, however, the combination of flatulence and violent splashes made me incapable of holding back any longer, and the laughter came on like a great summer tempest. Even Babs, the consummate gentleman broke from his French aristocratic breeding and began to giggle, though not a word of protest was uttered by our mystery dumper. At long last, my urine supply was depleted, and my face was actually a little sore from laughter as I flushed and retreated to the sink to wash my hands. There, I had a clear view in the mirror of each occupant’s feet in the stalls behind me. Babs was, of course, wearing understated loafers, which didn’t seem very appropriate for the mountains, but he was French and, therefore, got away with wearing just about anything. Our mysterious middleman, however, had on some trendy suede brown leather sneakers and, combined with his bunched up jeans at his ankles, looked like typical Eurotrash. Of course, a pair of yellow pants would have taken his Eurotrash score from a nine up to a solid ten, but his clothing was only one aspect of his peculiar persona. He also had unusual toilet body language, and, while Babs kept his feet wide, looking casual and secure, our mystery dumper maintained a pigeon toed, somewhat guarded, formation, and the psych major in me would hypothesize that it potentially signaled his roguish nature might be an attempt to cover up a deep seated toilet insecurity. With my analysis concluded, I returned my attention to the sink, pumping some soap out of the dispenser before vigorously rubbing my hands together to kill all the germs I’d potentially picked up in the bathroom stall. Babs joined me a moment later to wash his hands then we both heard the stranger’s toilet flush and turned to look, ever curious of the identity of our mystery dumper. The door opened, and there, to our surprise, stood our sassy barista.
“Buona sera—cagone,” I said, to him.
“Ahh—ciao figas! You have a good time listening to a real man take a shit?” he asked, as he came up beside us and looked at himself in the mirror.
I wanted to respond, but I couldn’t help but watch in mild horror as he completely avoided the soap and water and, instead, ran his hands through his dark wavy hair. When the shock of seeing his poor personal hygiene wore off, I finally found my words.
“We did, actually, which of course begs the question of whether or not you’re going to wash your hands after that growler.”
“No need—I didn’t touch anything in there.”
“Except your ass.”
“Eh, I use a' de toilet paper. You Americanos—so anal,” he said, as he walked out of the room.
Heh—anal indeed. That was certainly an understatement considering I was almost done silently singing happy birthday to myself, the duration of which was the minimal allotted time you should wash your hands in order to kill all the germs after using the bathroom.
“I guess the Italians aren’t as picky about cleanliness,” I said.
“Certainly not that Italian, and I must say that I’m now extremely relieved I didn’t have any of that Torta la Cappuccino.”
“Me, too, and you know I saw a science show on the Discovery Channel that revealed how fecal particles travel right through the toilet paper.”
“That dessert should have been called Torta la diarrhea,” Babs said, as he finished washing his hands and turned off the water.
“Ci,” I said, as I waited for him to dry his hands.
We went back outside to join the girls but paused when we saw them talking to the Italian stallion. He was once again doing his best to lay on the charm, but things suddenly turned ugly when, to our horror, he picked up the dessert and hand fed Lux. She saw us watching and gave us a smug smile as she licked some of the ricotta cheese filling off his finger. Before we could issue a warning, the barista fed Bridgette as well, popping the last bite into her mouth. It was too much for Babs to bear, and he im
mediately walked over and intervened.
“That’s enough, Bridgette,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be jealous,” she said, moving in to kiss him.
He caught her at arm’s length and held her back as though she were an obstinate child.
“Ahhh, my darlings. I must get back to my customers. Ciao, ciao,” he said, kissing both girls on the lips before heading back to the counter.
Lux and Bridgette looked at us with self-satisfied smiles as they licked the remnants of ricotta and chocolate from their fingers, but Babs and I turned to each other and cringed.
“What’s up with you two?” Lux asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Bullshit? Why are you two acting so weird?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, he’s right. You really don’t want to know, but you may want to wash your hands,” Babs said.
“And rinse out your mouths,” I added.
“Seriously—what the hell are you assholes not telling us?”
Babs and I looked at each other uncomfortably, then I turned to the girls and responded.
“Your Italian stallion barista just decimated that bathroom with a gnarly shit.”
“So?”
“So, he didn’t wash his hands afterward.”
Lux’s expression soured.
“Are you joking?”
“I never joke about shitting. Farting maybe, but never shitting. What he did in there was utterly disgusting, and I will likely be scarred for life.”
“OK, that’s it—please stop talking. We’ll be right back,” Lux said, grabbing Bridgette and looking as though she might heave as they made a beeline for the bathroom.
“Karma neh?” I said, quoting a line from the book Shogun.
“Hai,” Babs said, which meant yes in Japanese.
The two of us waited for the girls, and I took visual inventory of all the people eating in the café. Men, women, and children—any one of them could be enjoying a little piece of our barista. Disgusting. The girls finally came out of the restroom, and we headed out to the car, where I hit the unlock button and everyone silently took a seat. I started the beast and caught a glance of Babs in the rearview mirror, and we shared a brief smile.
“Mmmmm—Torta La Diarrhea!” Babs said.
“Magnifico!” I said, kissing my fingers then splaying them out.
“Fuck off,” Lux responded.
“Yeah, fuck off,” Bridgette added.
I put the car in gear and roared out onto the highway. Next stop, Lake Como.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Lake House
WE DROVE THROUGH the beautiful little town of Cosio Valtelino, and that meant we were only a short distance from the fabled Lake Como, a picturesque Italian alpine vacation spot that had been popular since the days of the Roman Empire. The scenic locale had also been used as a backdrop for movies such as Casino Royale, Oceans Twelve, and Star Wars-Attack of the Clones, and, while I had hoped to see it one day, I never expected to be lucky enough that my work would actually take me there.
Our journey thus far had gone as smooth as butter, and we’d seen hardly a car, let alone an Italian policeman since our quaint little restaurant brawl. Hopefully, the humiliating loss of face our mustachioed friends suffered would deter them from calling in a nationwide alert to find the four tourists who kicked their asses. I glanced in the rearview mirror, and the dark highway behind us made it seem as though we might just have gained a little breathing room to rest, enjoy a decent meal, and have a glass of Soft Taco Island Rum while we relaxed in front of a warm fireplace.
We came around a bend in the road, and there just ahead of us was the lake, it’s smooth surface and surrounding mountains bathed in the soft light of a nearly full moon. It was the kind of view that took your breath away, and I instantly understood why celebrities were buying houses up here faster than you could say Gina Lollobrigida. Babs directed me onto SS-340, which wound around the northern end of the lake before turning south and taking us thirty miles to Lennod. Along the way, we passed an endless procession of quaint little towns before exiting to the left and driving along a quiet one-lane road that took us to Babs’s villa. Considering his swank palace on Soft Taco Island, it wasn’t a surprise to find that his Como residence was equally grandiose. The property was the size of a city block, and the terra cotta colored house had three stories and was easily large enough to double as a hotel. It of course resided directly on the lake, and the surrounding grounds consisted of beautiful manicured gardens and spacious lawns. Around all of this stood ten-foot tall ivy covered stone walls, and the only opening was the imposing looking wood and wrought iron front gate, which meant I was fairly certain that it would be a pretty secure place to spend the night.
Babs reached out of the car and entered a code into the little control panel, and the monstrous gate started sliding open with an audible whine. We drove onto the grounds and continued on to the front door, at which point our host left us to go inside the main house so that he could go around and open up the garage door. I drove the short distance ahead, and we waited only a moment before the door rolled up to reveal Babs standing there with a glass of wine already in his hand. Only a Frenchman could manifest the super human ability to secure a glass of wine in such a small window of time yet annoyingly forget to pour one for the rest of us—the fucker. I eased into the garage to find it was well-kept and mostly empty except for a small Vespa scooter, refrigerator, and some bicycles hung neatly on the far wall. He closed the door, and I popped open the trunk, allowing everyone to grab their things and follow him inside the main house. We entered via the kitchen and continued on into the living room before descending a wide marble staircase to the bottom level, where we paused to wait for instructions from our host. Babs pointed down the hall to a series of doors.
“There are six guest bedrooms, and the ones on the left side face the lake, so choose whichever you prefer.”
“I call this one,” I said, pointing at the first door on the left.
“Fine, I wanted the second one, anyway,” Lux said.
“All right then. Feel free to freshen up and come upstairs whenever you’re ready.”
I opened the door to my room and found it to be the perfect blend of opulence and homey comfort. The floor was a light colored hardwood, and on it resided a thick, white berber throw rug that would make chilly mornings more tolerable on bare feet. In the middle was a cozy looking king sized bed, and beyond it resided a combination of floor to ceiling windows and French doors which opened onto a veranda that overlooked the lake. Babs certainly knew how to live.
I took a minute to gaze out at the lake then brushed my teeth, peed, and headed back upstairs, eager for a glass of Babs’s rum. I’d developed quite a taste for it in the Caribbean and was starting to feel as though it might border on addiction. When I got to the living room, Bridgette was behind the bar, making a pitcher of Dark and Stormies, and I saddled up to a stool and watched her work. I hadn’t seen her lift a finger since we had set off for Soft Taco Island, so I was curious if she actually knew how to make a decent cocktail. She noticed me watching and handed me a knife and some limes and told me to get to work. I sliced them up and squeezed the juice into the pitcher while she added the ice, ginger beer, and rum. With all the ingredients in place, she stirred it all together with a long silver spoon then filled four glasses and handed me one.
“Seems like old times,” she said.
“Indeed, and now all we need is grass-fed filet mignon and grilled asparagus,” I said, referring to the dinner we had shared back on my houseboat in Sausalito.
“That was quite a night.”
“Yeah, though I’m pretty sure your sister doesn’t feel the same way about it.”
“No shit, and she can really hold a grudge.”
“Who can hold a grudge?” Lux asked, as she strolled silently into the room.
Holy shit was she sneaky.
“Oh, I don’t know—how about old times?” Lux responded, in an obvious reference to my earlier exchange with Bridgette.
Fucking Lux never missed a thing and, worse still, apparently had super human hearing. We all clinked glasses and Bridgette gave me a little smile which made Lux eye us suspiciously as she sipped her drink. I decided to ignore her, however, and instead focused on the delicious cocktail playing out on my palette. There was nothing like the proper ingredients to make a proper cocktail, and now we were enjoying the fruits of our labors. Soon thereafter, Babs came strolling into the room and asked if we were happy with our accommodations. Of course we were happy. It was like asking the Pope if he liked the Vatican. I handed him his cocktail and clinked his glass, and a distinct silence overtook the room as we sipped our adult beverages. Lux, seeming a little thirstier than usual, pounded down her entire drink then asked for a refill. I topped it off then watched as she dug into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“Corn,” she said.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yeah, I need to update him so he can arrange our new pickup point with the Sozo—assuming you actually want to leave Europe at some point.”
“I do, but who knows who might be monitoring your phone—or even his for that matter. We have too many unknowns at the moment to be talking over an open line.”
“I think you’re being paranoid.”
“Paranoia is how you stay alive in this business, and right now, all we can depend on are the four people in this room, so, until we’re back on American soil, I suggest a communications blackout.”
“I understand, but I have to call him. I’ll keep it short and sweet. I promise.”
Lux dialed Corn then grabbed her drink and walked out onto the deck. The fact that she wanted to talk to him away from us made me a little nervous. What was she going to discuss that she didn’t want us to hear? We were in this shit together, and I didn’t want to be left in the dark while I was running around Europe with my ass on the line. I might understand if it were more of a goo-goo gaga personal conversation, but anything business better be shared with the rest of the group. I continued to quietly sip my drink and stew until eventually looking at my watch to find that she had been talking for well over ten minutes. So much for short and sweet. Worse still, she didn’t look too happy as she paced back and forth and shot us the occasional uncomfortable glance. What in the hell could they be talking about?
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