All He Saw Was the Girl (4 page)

    "Dude,"
Chip said. "We're out, who cares? If the senator knew I drove the cab, I'd
be home right now. You don't know him. He's perfect, never made a mistake in
his life. Ask him."

    McCabe
remembered the ride home from the courthouse. They were in a Mercedes-Benz
Maybach driven by the senator's aide, a yes-man in a seersucker suit and bow
tie, named Todd, who kept looking at them in the rearview mirror.

    Charles
Tallenger was impressive. He looked Hollywood's idea of a US senator, tall,
good-looking, well-dressed, with dark hair, graying at the temples, sixty years
old, the build of a tennis player, six two, 180, a two-term Democrat from
Connecticut. Played lacrosse at Princeton. Was a Rhodes Scholar. Went to
Harvard Law. Started a software company he took public ten years later and
cashed out for $500 million.

    Chip
was right, he was perfect. Yeah, McCabe thought, he'd be a tough act to follow.
Tougher if your name was Chip. They were driving along the Tiber past Castel
Saint Angelo, the dome of St Peter's in the distance. The senator was turned
sideways in the front seat, looking back at them.

    "Do
you guys know how lucky you are?"

    Chip
wouldn't look at him, eyes on the floor.

    The
senator said, "Whose bright idea was it to steal the cab?" Chip
looked up and glanced at McCabe.

    The
senator said, "What were you thinking?"

    McCabe
didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.

    The
senator fixed his attention on Chip now and said, "And you went along for
the ride, huh? That's just as bad. Why didn't you do something, try to stop
him?"

    Chip
squirmed in his seat. "I did."

    McCabe
couldn't believe it, Chip throwing him under the bus like that. He could see
Chip was afraid of the guy.

    "You
didn't try very hard, did you? You guys are what, twenty-one years old? Still
acting like kids. It's time to grow up." He looked over at the driver.
"Todd, you're only a few years out of college, you understand any of
this?"

    Todd
glanced at the senator and said, "No, sir, I honestly do not. I couldn't
fathom doing something like that."

    McCabe
wanted to pull the little weasel with the bow tie out of the car and pop him.

    The
senator said, "You know what I was doing when I was twenty-one?"

    Todd
said, "If I may, Sir? I believe you were Princeton's Rhodes Scholar
attennding Oxford University, the world's most prestigious international
fellowship."

    Todd
flashed a weasel grin.

    Charles
Tallenger glanced over his shoulder at McCabe.

    "You
hear that? I was trying to learn and grow as an individual —what you should he
doing in this spectacular city."

    He
had a disc jockey's voice and liked to hear himself talk. McCabe felt sorry for
Chip, having to live up to this overachiever's expectations.

    "McCabe,
do you have any idea what it cost to make this go away?" the senator said,
eyes on him.

    "Senator,
I appreciate your help," McCabe said. "Tell me what I owe you and
I'll pay you back. I just can't do it right now."

    "I
like your attitude. You sound like a stand-up guy." He'd made his point,
turned away from them, square in his seat now, looking out the windshield.

    They
drove along Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Looking past Chip, McCabe could see the
dome of the Pantheon to his right and then got a quick glimpse of Fontana del
Moro in Piazza Navona. They crossed the river, drove through Vatican City to
Piazza Risorgimento, and started the climb up Monte Mario, no one talking, the Maybach
solid and quiet like a bank vault.

    They
turned on Via Trionfale, in the neighborhood now, moving past Pietro's, a cafe,
and Max's Bar, another student hangout, pulling in the entrance to the school
that looked like a country club with its stucco pillars and ornate iron gate.
Cruised up the winding drive past sculpted shrubs and rows of cypress trees
evenly spaced, to the three-story villa painted a pastel color called umber.

    The
senator glanced back at them and said, "Tell me you learned something from
all this."

    "I
did," Chip said with a solemn expression. "I'm sure McCabe did
too," Chip said, glancing at him.

    McCabe
had never seen Chip intimidated by anyone. He'd been cocky and overconfident
till his dad showed up, and now he was a different person, nervous and unsure
of himself.

    There
was a group of students standing at the entrance as the Maybach pulled up,
students glancing over to see what visiting dignitary had arrived in this
$300,000 car. Chip got out first, approaching the group.

    "We're
baaack," he said, playing to his audience.

    When
McCabe got out, he looked over and saw Frank Rady, the dean of students,
staring at him from the window of his first-floor office.

    McCabe
hadn't been in his room ten minutes when the RA, a straight-arrow former
student named Mike Fagan, knocked on the door and said Mr Rady wanted to see
him ASAP. Now McCabe was sitting across the desk from him, Rady shuffling
through papers, keeping him waiting, a pair of reading glasses balanced on the
end of his nose.

    There
was a nameplate on the desktop that said,
Frank Rady Dean of Students.
McCabe wanted to say, what's that for? In case you forget who you are. There
was a pen and a pencil holder and assorted photographs of his family in
matching gold frames on his tidy desk. Frank had been a high-school football
coach for fifteen years and looked the part: a big, freckle faced guy with a
strawberry-blond flat-top. He took off the glasses, leveled his gaze on McCabe.

    
"I assume you know why you're here."

    McCabe
didn't
say anything.

    "Well,
let me enlighten you." He picked up a sheet of paper and started to read:
"On September 10th you were caught sneaking out of the women's dorm after
2:00 a.m., a strict curfew violation. On October 7th you got in a fight with an

    Italian
soldier on a 913 bus."

    McCabe
said, "Guy was smashed, trying to take Celeste Laveccha's clothes
off."

    "Come
on, a little harmless touching? It's the national pastime."

    "He
was humping her. Does that sound like harmless touching? You talked to Celeste,
didn't she tell you what happened?"

    "That
could've caused an international incident."

    "Come
on?" McCabe remembered grabbing the soldier, pulling him off Celeste,
telling him if he bothered her again he was going to throw him off the bus.
That was it, the soldier sat down, kept to himself after that.

    "And
your latest move, stealing a taxi. What were you planning to do with it? Will
you tell me that?"

    "I
didn't steal it."

    "You
didn't steal it, huh? That's why you spent five days in prison?"

    Rady
was dumb, there was no doubt about that, but it was his self-righteous tone
that really annoyed McCabe.

    "You
have any idea how this reflects on the university?"

    McCabe
could see the maintenance crew trimming trees and cutting grass through the
window behind Rady's desk.

    "Seen
the newspapers? Your story picked up in every one of them."

    McCabe
said, "You think the fact that a US senator's son was involved might have
something to do with it?"

    Rady
stared at him but didn't say anything.

    McCabe
said, "Think you're overreacting?"

    "Let
me try to make it easy for you to understand. Screw up again, your
scholarship's done and gone, and you're on a plane back to De-troit. Still
think I'm overreacting?" He grinned at McCabe.

    McCabe
was going to say you can't help yourself, but decided to not say anything, keep
his mouth shut for once.

    Rady
stood up. "I'm going to be watching you, McCabe. One more mistake and
you're through."

    Sharon
used her maiden name when she went out at night. She sat at the far end of the
bar with the windows behind her, looking down the long stretch of granite and
wood, studying the guys sitting there, scanning them in slow motion like a
movie camera, stopping, holding on a face or passing it quickly, depending how
old, interesting or good-looking the guy was.

    Sharon
had just completed her maintenances, had her hair colored and decided on a new
style her hairdresser said was snappy. He said it with a lisp so she believed
him, figured he knew what he was talking about and he did. Looking in the
mirror when he was finished, she didn't feel "snappy" though, she
felt sexy. She'd also had her nails done, a French manicure. She liked the
satin finish and the white painted edge on the nail tips. It was classy. It was
elegant. Sharon had been married for thirteen years - talk about bad luck — to
a man she rarely saw and felt she hardly knew any more. He was out of town
three out of four weeks, or more, and when he did come home he was usually
stressed out. She'd be sitting at the kitchen table and see his car pull in the
driveway and get nervous. She didn't know what kind of mood he'd be in, whether
he'd be angry, drunk or what.

    Over the
years he'd been gone for her birthday, their anniversary — she doubted he even
remembered when it was — Christmas, New Years, most national holidays. She'd
gotten used to living without him around. Preferred it.

    She
hadn't had sex with him in nine months. When he was home, Sharon stayed on her
side of the queen-size bed, her back to him, hoping he wouldn't touch her —
thinking the last few times they'd tried to do it had been disastrous.

    When
he was home she felt like she was walking on eggshells. They'd have dinner,
sitting across the table from each other, eating in silence. She'd say,
"Come on, Ray, talk to me. How's the job?"

    "Are
you making conversation? You really want to know how the job is. Come on…"

    "You've
got to get out of there," Sharon said.

    "I
do, I lose my pension, everything I've worked for."

    "You
don't," Sharon said, "you're going to lose your mind."

    "What
do you care?"

    He
was right, she didn't. She'd given up. He was drinking Scotch, Dewar's with
ice. "Dewar's—rocks," he'd say when he ordered a drink in a bar. He
looked drunk, face puffy, eyes bloodshot. She said, "How many is
that?"

    "You
counting my drinks now?"

    "Somebody
better." She was trying to remember why she married him. Trying to
remember why she'd stayed with him so long—determined to get a divorce every
time he left the house. But then changed her mind. Not sure why. It was weird,
like he had some strange hold over her.

    She
lit a cigarette, sipped her wine and looked down the bar. There was a
good-looking guy smoking a cigar, talking on his cell phone. He saw her looking
at him and smiled. He closed the phone, put it in his pocket, got up with his
drink and his cigar and came over to her. He was a big man and she liked big
men.

    He said,
"Know what my horoscope said?"

    Sharon
said, "You’d fall in love with a mysterious blonde." She’d gone from
blonde streaks to full blonde a month earlier and got more attention from men
than she ever had in her life. Her mother thought she looked like a $20 hooker.
Sharon wondered how her mother knew what hookers charged, but she liked her new
look. Had her eyebrows done too, waxed and colored to match her hair. Sharon
worked with a girl who dyed her muff with a product called Fun Betty that came in
three colors. You could be red down there, brunette or blonde. Sharon thought
that was going too far. She didn't care if the carpet and drapes didn't match.
No guy she'd been with had ever mentioned it.

    He
said, "You're close. It said, 'You're starting to design a life for
yourself that is truly custom-fit to your proclivities.'"