“Are you a cop of some sort?” Rick suddenly thought of his neighbors and the commotion he was creating by yelling through a closed door.
“No.”
Rick unbolted the door and came face-to-face with a barrel-chested man in a cheap black suit. Large head, thick mustache, heavy circles around the eyes. Probably a long history with the bottle. He thrust out a hand and said, “I’m Lee Bryson, a private investigator from Atlanta.”
“A pleasure,” Rick said without shaking hands. “Who’s he?”
Behind Bryson was a sinister-faced Italian in a dark suit that cost a few bucks more than Bryson’s. “Lorenzo. He’s from Milan.”
“That really explains things. Is he a cop?”
“No.”
“So we don’t have any cops here, right?”
“No, we’re private investigators. Please, if I could just have ten minutes.”
Rick waved them through and locked the door. He followed them into the den, where they awkwardly sat knee to knee on the sofa. He fell into a chair across the room. “This better be good,” he said.
“I work for some lawyers in Atlanta, Mr. Dockery. Can I call you Rick?”
“No.”
“Okay. These lawyers are involved in the divorce between Dr. Galloway and Mrs. Galloway, and they sent me here to see Livvy.”
“She’s not here.”
Bryson glanced around the room, and his eyes froze on a pair of red high heels on the floor near the television. Then a brown handbag on the end table.
All that was missing was a bra hanging from the lamp. One with leopard print. Lorenzo stared only at Rick, as if his role was to handle the killing if it became necessary.
“I think she is,” Bryson said.
“I don’t care what you think. She’s been here, but not now.”
“Mind if I look around?”
“Sure, just show me a search warrant and you can inspect the laundry.”
Bryson swiveled his massive head again.
“It’s a small apartment,” Rick said. “With three rooms. You can see two from where you’re sitting. I promise you Livvy is not in there in the bedroom.”
“Where is she?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I was sent here to find her. That’s my job. There are folks back home who are very concerned about her.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to go home. Maybe she wants to avoid those same folks.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s fine. She likes to travel. You’ll have a hard time finding her.”
Bryson picked at his mustache and seemed to smile. “She might find it difficult to travel,” he said. “Her visa expired three days ago.”
Rick absorbed this, but did not relent. “That’s not exactly a felony.”
“No, but things could get sticky. She needs to come home.”
“Maybe so. You’re welcome to explain all this to her, and when you do, I’m sure she’ll make whatever decision she damn well pleases. She’s a big girl, Mr. Bryson, very capable of running her own life. She doesn’t need you, me, or anyone back home.”
His nighttime raid had failed, and Bryson began his withdrawal. He yanked some papers out of his coat pocket, tossed them on the coffee table, then said, with an effort at drama, “Here’s the deal. That’s a one-way ticket from Rome to Atlanta this Sunday. She shows up, no one asks questions about the visa. That little problem has been taken care of. She doesn’t show, then she’s AWOL here without proper documentation.”
“Oh, that’s really swell, but you’re talking to the wrong person. As I just said, Ms. Galloway makes her own decisions. I just provide a room when she passes through.”
“But you will talk to her.”
“Maybe, but there’s no guarantee I’ll see her before Sunday, or next month for that matter. She likes to wander.”
There was nothing else for Bryson to do. He was being paid to find the girl, make some threats, scare her into coming home, and hand over the ticket. Beyond that, he had zero authority. On Italian soil or otherwise.
He climbed to his feet, with Lorenzo following every movement. Rick stayed in his chair. At the door, Bryson stopped and said, “I’m a Falcons fan. Didn’t you pass through Atlanta a few years ago?”
“Yes,” Rick said quickly and without elaboration.
Bryson glanced around the apartment. Third floor, no elevator. Ancient building on a narrow street in an ancient city. A long way from the bright lights of the NFL.
Rick held his breath and waited for the cheap shot. Maybe something like: “I guess you’ve finally found your place.” Or, “Nice career move.”
Instead, he filled the gap with “How did you find me?”
As Bryson opened the door, he said, “One of her roommates remembered your name.”
· · ·
It was almost noon before she answered her phone. She was having lunch outdoors at Piazza San Marco and feeding the pigeons. Rick replayed the scene with Bryson.
Her initial reaction was one of anger—how dare her parents track her down and force themselves into her life. Anger at the lawyers who hired the thugs who barged into Rick’s apartment at such an hour. Anger at her roommate for squealing. When she settled down, curiosity took over as she debated which parent was behind it. It was impossible to think they were working together. Then she remembered that her father had lawyers in Atlanta, while her mother’s were from Savannah.
When she finally asked his opinion, Rick, who’d thought of little else for hours, said that she should take the ticket and go home. Once there, she could
work through the visa issue, and hopefully return as soon as possible.
“You don’t understand,” she said more than once, and he truly did not. Her baffling explanation was that she could never use the ticket sent by her father because he had managed to manipulate her for twenty-one years and she was fed up. If she returned to the United States, it would be on her own terms. “I would never use that ticket, and he knows it,” she said. Rick frowned and scratched his head and was once again thankful for a dull and simple family.
And not for the first time he asked himself, How damaged might this girl be?
What about the expired visa? Well, not surprisingly, she had a plan. Italy, being Italy, had some loopholes in the immigration laws, one of which was called the
permesso di soggiorno
, or a permit to stay. It was sometimes granted to legal aliens whose visas had expired, and typically ran for another ninety days.
She was wondering if Judge Franco perhaps knew someone in immigration. Or maybe Signor Bruncardo? And what about Tommy, the career civil servant, the defensive end who couldn’t cook? Surely someone in the Panthers organization could find a string to pull.
A wonderful idea, thought Rick. And even more likely if they won the Super Bowl.
Chapter
30
Last-minute wrangling with the cable company pushed the kickoff back to eight o’clock Saturday night. Televising the game live, even on a lesser channel, was important for the league and the sport, and a Super Bowl under the lights meant a bigger gate and a rowdier crowd. By late afternoon, parking lots around the stadium were filled as football diehards celebrated the Italian version of the tailgate. Buses of fans arrived from Parma and Bergamo. Banners were stretched along the edges of the field, soccer style. A miniature hot air balloon hovered over the field. As always, it was the biggest day of the year for
football americano
, and its small but loyal base of fans arrived in Milan for the final game.
The site was a beautifully maintained little arena used by a local soccer league. For the occasion, the nets were gone and the field was meticulously striped, even down to the sideline hash marks. One end zone was painted black and white with the word “Parma” in the center. A hundred (exactly) yards away, the Bergamo end zone was gold and black.
There were pregame speeches by league officials and introductions of former greats, a ceremonial coin
toss, won by the Lions, and a prolonged announcing of the starting lineups. When the teams finally lined up for the opening kick, both sidelines were hopping with nerves and the crowd was crazy.
Even Rick, the cool, unflustered quarterback, was stomping the sideline, slapping shoulder pads, and screaming for blood. This was football the way it was meant to be.
Bergamo ran three plays and punted. The Panthers did not have another “Kill Maschi” play ready. Maschi wasn’t that stupid. In fact, the more tape Rick watched, the more he admired and feared the middle linebacker. He could wreck an offense, just like the great L.T. On first down, Fabrizio was double-teamed by the two Americans—McGregor and The Professor—just as Rick and Sam expected. A wise move for Bergamo, and the beginning of a rough day for Rick and the offense. He called a sideline route. Fabrizio caught the ball and was shoved out by The Professor, then nailed in the back by McGregor. But there were no flags. Rick jumped an official while Nino and Karl the Dane went after McGregor. Sam charged onto the field, screaming and cursing in Italian, and promptly drew a personal foul. The refs managed to prevent a brawl, but the brouhaha went on for minutes. Fabrizio was okay and limped back to the huddle. On a second and twenty, Rick pitched wide to Giancarlo, and Maschi slapped his ankles together at the line. Between plays, Rick continued to bitch at the referee while Sam chewed on the back judge.
On third and long, Rick decided to give the ball to Franco and perhaps survive the traditional first-quarter fumble. Franco and Maschi collided hard, for old times’ sake, and the play gained a couple with no change of possession.
The thirty-five points they had put up against Bergamo a month earlier suddenly looked like a miracle.
The teams swapped punts as the defenses dominated. Fabrizio was smothered and, at 175 pounds, was getting shoved around on every play. Claudio dropped two short passes that were thrown much too hard.
The first quarter ended with no score, and the crowd settled into a pretty dull game. Perhaps dull to watch, but along the line of scrimmage the hitting was ferocious. Every play was the last of the season, and no one yielded an inch. On a bobbled snap, Rick raced around the right side, hoping to make it out of bounds, when Maschi appeared from thin air and nailed him, helmet to helmet. Rick jumped to his feet, no big deal, but on the sideline he rubbed his temples and tried to shake off the dust.
“You okay?” Sam growled as he walked by.
“Great.”
“Then do something.”
“Right.”
But nothing worked. As they had feared, Fabrizio was neutralized, thus so was the passing game. And Maschi could not be controlled. He was too strong up the middle, and too quick on the sweeps. He looked
much better on the field than on the film. Each offense ground out a few first downs, but neither approached the red zone. The punting teams were growing tired.
With thirty seconds to go before the half, the Bergamo kicker nailed a forty-two-yarder, and the Lions took a 3–0 lead into the locker room.
Charley Cray—twenty pounds lighter, his jaw still wired, gaunt with flesh sagging from his chin and cheeks—hid in the crowd and during the half pecked out some notes on his laptop:
—Not a bad setting for a game; handsome stadium, well decorated, enthusiastic crowd of maybe 5000;
—Dockery could well be in over his head even here in Italy; in the first half he was 3 for 8, 22 yards, and no score;
—I must say, however, that this is real football. The hitting is brutal; tremendous hustle and desire; no one slacks; these guys are not playing for money, just pride, and it is a powerful incentive;
—Dockery is the only American on the Parma team, and you wonder if they would be better off without him. We shall see.
· · ·
There was no yelling in the locker room. Sam praised the defense for a superb effort. Keep it up. We’ll figure out a way to score.
The coaches left and the players spoke. Nino, first as always, in passionate praise of the heroic defensive
efforts, then an exhortation to the offense to get some points. This is our moment, he said. Some of us may never be here again. Dig deep. Gut check. He wiped away tears when he was finished.
Tommy stood and proclaimed his love for everyone in the room. This was his last game, he said, and he desperately wanted to retire as a champion.
Pietro walked to the center. This was not his last game, but he would be damned if his career would be determined by the boys from Bergamo. He boasted loudly that they would not score in the second half.
As Franco was about to wrap things up, Rick stood beside him and raised his hand. With Franco translating, he said, “Win or lose, I thank you for allowing me to play on your team this season.” Halt. Translation. The room was still. His teammates hung on every word.
“Win or lose, I am proud to be a Panther, one of you. Thank you for accepting me.”
Translation.
“Win or lose, I consider all of you to be not just my friends but my brothers.”
Translation. Some appeared ready to cry.
“I’ve had more fun here than in the other NFL. And we are not going to lose this game.” When he was finished, Franco bear-hugged him and the team cheered heartily. They clapped and slapped him on the back.
Franco, eloquent as always, dwelled on history. No Parma team had ever won the Super Bowl, and the next hour would be their finest hour. They had
thrashed Bergamo four weeks earlier, broken the mighty streak, sent them home in disgrace, and they could certainly beat them again.
· · ·
For Coach Russo and his quarterback, the first half had been perfect. Basic football—far removed from the complexities of the major college and pro games—can often be plotted like an ancient battle. A steady attack on one front can set the stage for a surprise on another. The same monotonous movements can lull the opponent to sleep. Early on, they had conceded the passing game. They had not been creative with the run. Bergamo had stopped everything, and was confident there was nothing left.
On the second play of the second half, Rick faked left to Franco on a dive, faked a pitch left to Giancarlo, then sprinted right on a naked bootleg. Maschi, always quick to the ball, was far to the left and badly out of position. Rick ran hard for twenty-two yards and stepped out of bounds to avoid McGregor.