All He Saw Was the Girl (35 page)

    Next
to the bag was a waste basket. He reached in and took out a folded piece of
paper. It was a boarding pass, KLM Flight 8934, New York-Rome, Sharon Pope,
seat 14E. Okay, so she really was here. He'd still had his doubts. He got up
and checked the closet. Nothing but empty hangers.

    There
were a couple of wet towels on the floor in the bathroom, and cotton balls
black with mascara in the waste basket. He pictured Sharon standing in front of
the mirror before she went to bed, wiping off eyeliner while he brushed his
teeth.

    He
went back to his hotel, wondering what to do, and remembered the receipts he
had found in Joey's shirts at the villa. He dug them out of the jeans he'd
worn, and studied them. One was from a
tavola calda
, ˆ1.50 for a
cappuccino. The second one was a restaurant tab from Doney, Via Veneto 125,
dated October 13th. Doney, he noticed, was at the Westin Excelsior Hotel.

    11:10
a.m., McCabe was looking out the window, watching the street below for Chip's
black BMW, wondering where he was. If you were coming from Rome this was the
road you'd take into Soriano. He tried calling him and got his voicemail.

    Just
after noon he felt Angela's phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. He took it out,
saw Chip's number on the screen, flipped it open and said, "Where the hell
are you?"

    "Right
here," Joey said. "I'll put him on but first I want to ask how you're
doing? Relaxing up there, enjoying the clean mountain air? I guess we just missed
you at the villa. Don't worry, we're not coming after you. This time you're
coming to us."

    "McCabe,"
Chip said, "they broke my fucking hand -" panic in his voice.

    "That's
not all we're going to break," Joey said back on now. "Chipper's a
little upset right now, and I won't lie to you, he's in a lot of pain, but he's
learned a valuable lesson and I hope you have too. We're not fucking
around."

    "I'm
not either," McCabe said. "Tell me where and when."

    "We'll
let you know," Joey said. "Listen, what happens to Chipper is up to
you. Do something like you did before, it's over."

    The
phone went dead. McCabe could feel a surge of adrenalin like he was back on the
ice, nothing quite like it, ready to take somebody's head off.

    Joey
was standing in a basement room under a vacant restaurant in Trastevere,
Chipper tied to a chair, hands behind his back, head slumped forward looked
like he was sleeping. They were near the river and the air was wet, musty.
There were marks on the walls showing where the Tiber had flooded the room on a
number of occasions, oily lines where the paint had broken down and separated
from the pigment. Naked bulbs hung from the ceiling. Empty wine racks lined one
wall, and furniture was piled up in the corner, tables stacked on tables,
chairs on chairs. The floor was brick, broken in places, exposing the damp
earth below.

    Mazara
was sitting on one of the old restaurant chairs, smoking a cigarette. Grabbing
Chipper had been his idea, and Joey had to admit it wasn't bad. He remembered
Mazara saying, you want McCabe? I tell you how to get him.

    Joey
had said, "Don't tell me, do it."

    They'd
driven back to Rome, dropped Joey off at the Excelsior, and gone to Chip's
school, Loyola University, ended up sleeping in the car, waiting till they saw
a black BMW pull out, 9:07 a.m., Chip behind the wheel, and followed him. When
Chip stopped at a traffic light, Mazara and Psuz walked up to his car, broad
daylight, bandanas over their faces, opened the door, yanked him out and threw
him in the trunk of the Opel. Joey had finally found something these clowns
were good at. Mazara had called to tell him and Joey had gotten in a cab and
come right over.

    The
odd thing, at first, Chipper didn't seem concerned or afraid, had sat in the
chair mouthing off.

    "Listen,"
Chipper said. "You know who I am?"

    "No,
who are you?" Joey said.

    "Charles
Tallenger III."

    He
said it cocky like the rich Grosse Pointe assholes he knew. "No
shit," Joey said. "Charles Tallenger III. Wow. I'm impressed."

    "My
father is United States Senator Charles Tallenger."

    Joey'd
heard of him. Sure. Remembered seeing him on TV one time, running for
something, got beat by the good- looking babe with the glasses from Alaska.

    "Let
me go and all is forgiven," Chipper said.

    "All's
forgiven. You believe this guy?" Joey said to his Roman buddies.
"See, we don't give a fuck who your dad is or who you are. We just want to
know where McCabe's at."

    "I
don't know," Chipper said, losing the attitude. "Honestly."

    "Well
since you're being honest I believe you. But these guys still think you're
bullshitting us," he said, indicating Mazara, Sisto and Noto.

    "I
don't know where he is," Chipper said, cocky attitude creeping back in his
voice. "What don't you understand?"

    "Okay,"
Joey said to Mazara. "He's yours."

    The
Romans picked him up and carried him to one of the round restaurant tables,
stretched him out and held his right arm down, hand flat against the wood, fear
in his eyes.

    "Hey,
what're you doing?" Chip said. Voice cracking, a couple octaves higher
than normal.

    "What's
it look like?" Joey said. "You had your chance."

    Sisto
walked over and picked up a crude-looking hammer out of a toolbox and came back
to the table, Chipper's eyes following him the whole way. He was afraid now,
squirming and trying to free himself as Sisto raised the hammer.

    "McCabe's
in Soriano, in the mountains. I'm supposed to pick him up."

    "How
'bout that," Joey said. "Forgot where his buddy was at, regained his
memory just in the nick of time."

    Sisto
brought the hammer down and busted his hand.

    Chipper
yelled and they let him go and Joey watched him roll around on the table in
pain, holding his broken knuckles. Jesus that must've hurt.

    12:45
p.m., Ray was at the reception desk in the Excelsior Hotel, asking what room
his dear friend Joseph Palermo was in. The clerk checked the computer in front
of him and said there was no guest by that name in the hotel. He had the guy
try Sharon Pope too and got the same response. Ray unfolded a Xerox photo of
Joey and showed it to him. The clerk's eyes lit up. He smiled and said,
"Signor Bitonte." He had seen Joey leave the hotel but he had not
returned.

    Ray
left Joey a note, then sat in the lobby for a while, reading the
Herald
Tribune,
an article about Somali pirates seizing a luxury yacht in the Gulf
of Aden off the north-eastern coast of Africa, and were holding the crew for
ransom. It seemed hard to believe these ragtag pirates getting away with it.

    He
checked the football scores. Michigan State beat Wiconsin and were 6 and 1. He
finished the paper and watched a good-looking woman walk past him in tight
jeans, moving toward the front desk. He sat there for a few more minutes, stood
up, went outside and got in his car that was parked on the street in front of
the hotel.

    1:48
p.m., Joey walked up the steps and went through the revolving door into the
Excelsior, moving across the lobby to the front desk, his Bruno Maglis clicking
on the tile floor. He stopped and got his key and the hotel guy handed him an
envelope. It was cream-colored Excelsior stationery.

    "For
you, Signor Bitonte."

    Joey
thought it was from his Unk, probably asking when he was coming back to the
villa. Joey put it in his pocket, got on the elevator and pressed the button
for the seventh floor. He took the envelope out and ripped it open. There was a
folded piece of paper. He pulled it out and looked at it. Two words in capital
letters: WHERE'S SHARON?

    Joey
freaked. Jesus! Had to be the husband, the Secret Service agent. But how the
hell'd he find him? Joey felt the elevator slowing down, heard the bell ring,
and the doors open. Expected to see a guy aiming a gun at him. It was the wrong
floor, the fifth. Nobody there. He got off and ran to the stairs. The agent
could've been waiting for all he knew, watched him get in the elevator. Maybe
even knew what room he was in.

    Joey
took the stairs, went down to the basement and ran along a hallway, passing
workers in their hotel uniforms. He slowed down and walked through a stock
room, past banks of shelves to a loading dock with stairs that took him down to
street level. He was on the east side of the hotel. Raised his arm, signaled a
taxi that was heading toward him. It stopped and he got in.

    McCabe
checked the time on Angelas cell phone. It was 3:28 p.m. He moved along Via Sistina,
up the hill past the Hassler Hotel where Senator Tallenger had stayed, Rome's
best, past the taxi queue, half a dozen Fiats parked, the drivers standing
around talking, past the Beverage/Gelati truck parked in the square.

    The
street was one-way, and he was conscious of traffic, cars, trucks and
motorbikes coming up behind him, passing by, and the sounds of the city coming
alive again after siesta. The strap of the soccer bag was on his left shoulder,
angling to the right across his chest, resting against his side.

    He
and Angela had taken a taxi from Soriano a couple hours earlier and gone to her
apartment. He'd gotten Joey's call at 3:15, giving him forty-five minutes to
get to the location. McCabe stood at the base of the obelisk, turned and looked
up at the twin bell towers of Trinita dei Monti, the French Gothic church with
a Renaissance facade, the famous church at the top of the Spanish Steps. He
thought he saw something move in the tower on the left, and now a pigeon flew
out and glided over the obelisk and disappeared down Via Sistina.

    He
scanned the top of the steps. There were a couple of black merchants with
knock-off purses and umbrellas displayed on a wicker mat, and a painter setting
up an easel. He glanced over and saw Angela at a table, drinking coffee at the
terrace restaurant. He kept going, walked past Trinita dei Monti, the city of
Rome spread out in perfect blue-sky panorama to his left. On his right was a
twenty-foot-high salmon-colored wall that bordered Villa Borghese.

    He
went down almost to the park entrance and came back, studying the scene from a
different angle. He walked down the Spanish Steps to the second level and
leaned against the balustrade. It was all going to be over one way or the other
in thirty minutes. He looked down at the bottom of the steps, always more
crowded than the top, people sitting in rows, side by side like they were at a
concert, people standing around Fontana della Barcaccia, the boat-shaped
fountain, and more people crisscrossing Piazza di Spagna, heading for the
shops. There were carriages lined up and he caught the faint odor of horse
manure. There were flower vendors and photographers and black merchants selling
jewelry, bags and sunglasses.

    The
Spanish Steps had to be at least one hundred yards from top to bottom, and
maybe fifty yards from side to side. He thought they would come from the top.
It was a better vantage point, and it was easier to go down than up.

    3:48,
Joey stood at the bottom of the Spanish Steps, the lower level packed with
people, eyes going left to right. He looked up at the balcony on the second
level, half a dozen tourists standing there, too far away to recognize. He was
more relaxed now after getting out of the hotel, sure he'd lost the agent, and
there was no way he was going back. It was time to get out of Rome, too. That's
why the ransom money was more important than ever. He had a couple hundred
grand in a Swiss account, but it wasn't enough. This was his stake in the
future. He'd called Sharon and told her to pack her bag and meet him at the
train station, the main terminal, at five.

    "First
tell me what's going on?" Sharon had said. "You were supposed to come
back and get me. We were going to have lunch. Where are you?"

    "I
can't talk right now," Joey said. "I'll tell you later. Just meet me
at the train station. Bring your things and bring mine. There's a bag in the
closet."