All He Saw Was the Girl (28 page)

    He
said, "Got my Unk's money?"

    "There,"
Mazara said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the bag on the back seat.
It was a white soccer bag that said
Adidas
on the side. Joey turned, got
on his knees, reached over the seat, picked up the bag and put it in his lap.
He unzipped it and saw banded packs of bright-colored bills that looked like
play money.

    "How
much?" Joey said.

    "Four
hundred and thirty-seven thousand euro," Mazara said.

    That's
all that was left after paying the don ˆ60,000, and he still owed him ˆ90,000
more, thirty per cent. His crew had already spent three thousand from their
shares, and Roberto said they were angry and didn't want to give any of it
back. Joey wanted to count it, see if he was telling it straight, but it was
too difficult to do in the car.

    Mazara
had gotten him a Beretta Nine and a fancy five- shot twelve-gauge with a walnut
stock you'd shoot skeet with. He wanted something simple and sawed off, a
sixteen-inch barrel he could carry under a coat.

    The
Beretta was in his belt under the Tommy Bahama, the gay shotgun was in the
trunk. They were cruising past fields of crops on both sides of the highway
that reminded Joey of the farms he'd see driving to northern Michigan. He saw
stone farmhouses, and occasionally a little walled village in the distance.
They were listening to Italian rock music that sounded like shit. "You
call this music, what the hell is it?"

    "Negramaro,"
Mazara said, "they are very popular in Italy. The singer, he was a plumber
before he start the group."

    "With
a voice like that he should go back to unplugging drains. What else you
got?"

    Mazara
handed him a CD, and flashed a smile. He said, "Eminem from Detroit."

    Joey
said, "I know where he's from. It doesn't make him sound any better. I
can't listen to rap." He hated it. Joey imagined hell as a never-ending
hip-hop concert. "You got anything good? Frank Sinatra, maybe." In
his head he could hear Frank singing:

    I get
no kick from champagne Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all…

    "Or
how 'bout Tony Bennett?"

    Mazara
looked confused. "No."

    "Why
am I not surprised?" Joey looked out the window and saw a farmer on an
old-fashioned tractor, dust trailing in his wake, looked over at Mazara and
said, "How long you been seeing Angela?"

    He
ignored the question, kept his eyes straight ahead, two hands on the steering
wheel, holding the Fiat steady. He zoomed in close to a semi, put his signal on
and sped around the truck that was carrying pigs, a foul smell coming through
the interior of the car. "Jesus," Joey said.

    
"Miale
,"
Mazara said.
"Porco,"
and pinched his nose with thumb and
index finger.

    "No
shit," Joey said. The inside of the car smelled like a sewer.

    Mazara
looked over at him and cracked a smile.

    Joey
said, "You're banging Angela, aren't you, Bob?
Scopatta. "

    Mazara's
grin faded fast. He looked away from Joey, turned his head, staring straight at
the highway again, the muscles in his face tightening.

    "I
don't blame you, she's a nice piece of ass even if she is my cousin." Joey
saw an aqueduct in the distance. "You have any idea what the don would do,
he found out you were knifing his little girl?"

    Mazara
kept his head straight, but Joey saw his eyes dart over at him. He looked
nervous now.

    "Listen,
partner, I'm not going to say anything, okay? That's between you and Angela.
But if the don finds out…" He didn't finish. It was more fun this way, let
him imagine what would happen.

    Mazara
could not believe this situation he was in, the strange sequence of events that
had him driving Joey, the loudmouth American, to Viterbo. First it was the don
challenging him about the money. He remembered the man's harsh words and his
angry expression, remembered being nervous, sweat rolling down his face.

    Then
Angela was kidnapped, taken from her apartment by the American student, McCabe.
What kind of student was he? What kind of student did that? Mazara was
concerned about him taking advantage of her. And although they were not married
he wore the
corno
, the horn on a chain around his neck to prevent her
from being unfaithful. He also gestured, making the horn sign, the
mano
cornuta,
extending his index and little finger while holding down his two
middle fingers and his thumb to repel adversity.

    And
then Joey coming to Angela's apartment while he was there. It was too strange.
Getting the money back was another problem, telling his crew the don wanted a
larger percentage of the ransom.

    Sisto
had said, "This is your problem. We did not negotiate with the man. You
make the mistake, the money should be taken out of your share."

    "I
will go to the don's villa," Noto had said, "and cut his throat like
a pig."

    Mazara
had considered the same course of action, but the don was the most powerful man
in Rome, and if they did not succeed, and even if they did, they would be
hunted and killed. He was thinking about this as he drove to Viterbo, listening
to Joey taunt him, trying not to lose his temper, but it was very difficult. He
grabbed his
cazzo
for good luck.

    They
drove into Viterbo through the opening in the wall that Mazara said was the
Porta Romano, the door to Rome. Huh? The building above it looked like a castle,
and reminded Joey of Epcot Center at Disney World, but it was real, built in
the Middle Ages. When was that?

    Mazara
wound through narrow empty streets, the walls of buildings made of gray stone,
rising up on both sides, making the streets seem even narrower. The town looked
deserted. Then they turned a corner and wow, this street was wider and there
was traffic, a lot of it, and people everywhere, like they'd just driven into a
different town.

    He
could see distant parts of the city as the elevation changed, domes and towers,
far and near, giving him a better sense of how big Viterbo actually was. Now in
the hectic business center the buildings were fancier, painted yellow with
green trim.

    Joey
said, "Know where you're going?"

    "I
think this is Piazza San Lorenzo," Mazara said.

    He
pulled over in a space on the street and parked. Joey got out and walked to
this big open area surrounded by buildings, a church and bell tower on one
side. This is where McCabe had told him to go, but why here? Not many people
around, a few tourists taking pictures.

    Mazara's
phone rang. Joey opened it, brought it to his ear and said, "You better
have Angela."

    "You
better have the money," McCabe said.

    Joey
said, "You really think you can pull this off?"

    McCabe
said. "I see anyone who looks familiar it's over, say goodbye to your
cousin."

    "Let's
see how good you are," Joey said. So McCabe was somewhere close by,
watching him. The phone went dead. He turned in a complete circle, looking for an
American student. It was hotter than hell, Joey squinting, glancing around, the
sun beating down on him. He'd already pitted out his shirt.

    A fat
blonde tourist eating an ice-cream cone walked right into him and got chocolate
ice cream on the front of his teal Tommy Bahama Easy Breezer. "Why don't
you open your fucking eyes," he said, trying to wipe the ice cream off
with his hand.

    The
fat lady said, "Rude."

    He
said, "What's a big load like you doing eating ice cream, anyway? Seen a
mirror lately?" Joey knocked the cone out of her hand and kept moving. The
phone rang again. He took it out and brought it to his ear.

    "We're
going to take a walk," McCabe said.

    "You
want the money?" Joey said. "You better quit fucking around."

    "I
haven't even started," McCabe said.

    Joey
could feel the adrenalin pumping now, thinking what he was going to do to this
guy when he caught him.

    "Walk
out of the piazza and head right down Via San Lorenzo," McCabe said.
"I'm going to stay on the phone, keep you company till you get to where
you're going. How's that sound?"

    "You're
pressing your luck," Joey said.

    "You
better get moving. You've got five minutes," McCabe said. "And you
don't look like you're in very good shape."

    "You'll
see what kind of shape I'm in."

    McCabe
was going to run Joey around Viterbo, try to separate him from Mazara and his
crew, knowing they were around somewhere. He watched Joey walk along Via San
Lorenzo, the soccer bag angled across his right shoulder, cars cruising by,
phone pressed against his ear.

    Occasionally
McCabe would say, "Joey, how you doing? You okay?" Or, "How
about this weather? You believe it's late October? Or, how about those Lions? I
hear they're o and 7, think they'll win a game this year?"

    McCabe
told him to go through Piazza della Morte, Death Square, with its
spindle-shaped fountain, and take a left on Via Macel Maggiore and a right on
Via San Pellegrino. He could hear him breathing hard, and could hear the anger
in his voice when he spoke. He was in front of Joey, watching him come down the
street, checking to see if anyone was following him. He appeared to be alone,
but he knew Mazara and his gang were somewhere close by, he could feel them.

    McCabe
walked Joey all the way to Piazza San Pellegrino. Let him rest for a few
minutes, McCabe standing out of sight on the side of the church. Joey shifted
his weight and moved the soccer bag to the opposite shoulder again. It must've
been heavy. He turned in a complete circle a couple of times, glancing around
the medieval square. There were a dozen or so people scattered across the
piazza, looking at places of interest and taking pictures. No sign of Mazara
and his boys. McCabe said, "Joey, hey, you ready? Let's go."

    McCabe
guided him to Piazza del Plebiscito, a couple hundred yards back to the center
of town, and watched him in the crowded square, drenched with sweat, Joey
turning his head side to side, looking around like a penguin in an island shirt.

    "Where're
you at?" Joey said. "Where's Angela? Let's do it."

    McCabe
decided to make his move now and came out of the courtyard and headed into the
square toward Joey, Joey with his back to him. As McCabe got close Joey must've
heard him or sensed him and turned around. "You better have money in that
bag." He looked exhausted, sweat streaming down his face, legs apart,
hands on his thighs, breathing hard. "Where's Angela at."

    McCabe
said. "First let me see what you've got. You put phone books or newspapers
in there, thinking you're clever, I want to know now before we waste any more
time."

    "First,
I want to see my cousin and if she's got so much as a scratch —"

    "Listen,"
McCabe said. "Nothing's going to happen till you open the bag."

    Joey
unzipped it and showed him a pile of banded, bright- colored euro notes.

    "That's
all you get, just a peek till Angela's standing here, I can see she's
okay."

    McCabe
felt relieved now, thinking it was going to work out. He pointed to a
second-story window in Palazzo dei Priori, the Renaissance building in front of
them. "There she is. You see her?"

    Joey
was squinting, looking up, the morning sun hot and bright overhead.

    "I
don't see nobody."

    "Right
there in the window," McCabe said, pointing, assuming she was there
because that was the plan, that's where she was supposed to be.

    Joey
said. "Is that her? Okay, yeah."

    "Give
me the money," McCabe said. "I'll bring her down."

    Angela
walked along the hall, looking in offices. She was on the second floor of
Palazzo dei Priori, and she'd been right, all the municipal employees had gone
for lunch and siesta. She had entered the building and walked up the stairs. No
one had said a word or had given her a second glance.