Pronto (10 page)

"Being, they think you're from North Africa, the Sahara, and know all about rain."

"They don't put that together. The sun can be out, it don't matter. I sniff the air. Like that, smell it coming. See, I knew I wasn't going to sell you a umbrella. I can also tell when I ought'n try to bullshit the person."

"You didn't think I was Italian?" Harry said.

"Uh-unh, not even you wearing your coat like that, like Fellini. You from somewhere on the East Coast. New York?"

"Miami. The Beach most of my life."

"You could be Italian, yeah, but not from around here the way you're dressed. Well, you could come from Milan, I guess, close by. But to look all the way Italian, man, you got to have the suit with the pointy shoulders and the pointy shoes with the little thin soles. You staying here on your holiday?"

"I've got a place," Harry said, and then came right out and told him, "a villa. I'm making up my mind if I want to live here."

"Rapallo? Man, this is all there is to it. You hiding out?"

"Do I look like I am?"

"I've run into all kinds of people over here hiding from something -- the only reason I ask. I don't care, you understand. I see a man like yourself come to a place like this? Pretty much strictly for locals? I have to wonder, that's all."

"You live around here," Harry said, "don't you? Or you come over from Africa with your umbrellas?"

"Where I came over here from was Houston, Texas. Man, a long time ago, after doing Vietnam and not finding things at home to my liking: everybody from up north down there trying the oil business. I came over to the Mediterranean, did Morocco, the Greek islands, Egypt. For a while I became an Islamic brother, named myself Jabal Radwa after a mountain in Saudi Arabia. But then, you know what I finally did? I went to Marseilles and joined the Foreign Legion. I did, I'm not kidding, under the name Robert Gee. And you don't believe me, do you?"

Harry shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

"Influenced by a former legionnaire," Robert Gee said, "I knew when I was in Saigon, a Frenchman that stayed over there from the fifties -- you know when I mean? -- married a woman there and became part of that life. He kept telling me what I should do was stay, get me a cute woman like he did. ... But I couldn't see myself going Asiatic. You know what I'm saying? So I come over here instead and join the French Foreign Legion, full of mercenary-type motherfuckers had been fighting in wars in Africa, for pay and also the chance to shoot brothers. And here I am in the same outfit, sleeping and marching with these racists."

"And if I happen to lean that way," Harry said, "too bad."

"You might. Though I don't think you lean too much one way or the other. Or give a shit what I think especially."

Harry let him believe what he wanted. He said, "How long were you in?"

"The whole five years, made corporal and got my jump wings. Served in Corsica, where they train, and in Djibouti on the Gulf of Aden, over in East Africa. I got out, found myself after a while in Kuwait before Desert Storm and got a job as this sheik's bodyguard and driver. I was the only one he trusted to drive his stretch in some of the capitals of Europe. Pretty soon, though, I had enough of the sheik and his ways. I quit being Jabal Radwa and changed my name back to Robert Gee for the second time."

Harry said, "I've got a couple of names."

It brought a smile, Robert Gee saying, "I thought you might. Running some kind of game and they caught up with you, huh?"

"I retired," Harry said.

"Well, I'm semi," Robert Gee said. "I sell umbrellas sometimes or can get you whatever you might need, or your imagination allows. You want American cigarettes, Scotch whisky? A pistol, shotgun? For sport or whatever your reason. I can get you some pretty good hashish. Smoke it watching American sitcoms on TV. Andy Griffith talking Italian. Cocaine, you have to go someplace else."

"What kind of pistol?" Harry said.

It got another smile from Robert Gee.

"Beretta. We in Italy, man."

"You hire out?" Harry asked.

"To do what?"

"Hang around. See if anything comes up."

"Sounds like bodyguarding."

"Drive to Milan and meet a lady who's flying in. Bring her back here?"

"I could do that. Tell me how much you paying for these services?"

"Why don't you put your umbrellas away," Harry said. "We'll step over to Vesuvio's or the Gran Caffe and talk about it." He said, "You don't by any chance cook, do you?"

Chapter
Eleven.

Jimmy Cap was having his dinner, some kind of fish baked with the head and tail and a plate of linguini, it looked like, with clam sauce. His tongue was moving around in his mouth in search of something that shouldn't be in there as the Zip came into the dining room with Nicky Testa, brought him in, sat him down at the table opposite Jimmy Cap and stood behind him. Jimmy Cap pulled a fish bone out of his mouth. The Zip, using the heel of his hand, popped Nicky in the back of the head.

"Tell him."

Jimmy Cap worked his tongue around. He pulled out another fish bone and said, "Fucking snapper."

The Zip popped Nicky again. "I said tell him." Nicky hunched his shoulders as the Zip said, "He's watching Harry Arno's girlfriend. This afternoon five o'clock -- go on, tell him."

Nicky leaned against the table, away from the Zip. He said to Jimmy Cap, almost in confidence, "I don't need this kind of shit."

"Tell me," Jimmy Cap said, "what you're suppose to tell me."

"Tell him to keep his fucking hands off me."

"Work it out between you," Jimmy Cap said. "Now talk to me, what?"

"I followed this lady," Nicky said, "from her apartment to a travel agent's on Lincoln Road."

Behind him the Zip said, "What was she driving?"

"She was driving Harry Arno's Cadillac. She comes out of the travel agent's, gets in the car, and takes the Julia Tuttle and One-twelve over to the airport and parks in the long-term place there. I'm right with her. I get out of my car, I ask can I give her a hand with her suitcases. She's got a big one and two smaller ones."

Jimmy Cap sucked in linguini and said, "The Macho man. Never sees a broad he don't make a fucking move on her."

"Hey, come on, this one's old."

The Zip popped him with the heel of his hand. "Tell him what happened."

Nicky hunched his shoulders and then straightened slowly, staring at Jimmy Cap sucking in linguini, Jimmy ignoring him.

"Tell him," the Zip said, "what you talked about."

"I start a conversation with her, tell her I'm meeting somebody, my mother. The idea, get her so she don't think, you know, I'm trying to find out anything."

"But he never asked her," the Zip said, "where she was going."

"I didn't have to. We go in the terminal right to British Airways. Where do they go? They go to fucking London, England. I asked her there at the counter, you going to England, huh? She says yeah, she is. So what do you want?"

Jimmy Cap looked up at the Zip as though asking the same question.

"Half the people that get off in London," the Zip said, "go on to someplace else. They stop off there. So we don't know where she went because this stronzo wouldn't ask her."

Jimmy Cap said, "Ask the travel agent."

"Yeah, that's what I have to do."

"So, what's the problem?"

"I got to wait till tomorrow, when the guy opens. Lose a whole day."

"You don't know she's going to meet Harry."

"She drove his car," the Zip said. "Watch and see somebody turns out to be a friend of his picks it up tomorrow." The Zip, standing behind the chair, looked down at Nicky. "The woman's going to meet Harry and I'm going to be a day late because of this stronzo."

Nicky hunched his shoulders, waiting to get popped.

Thursday, November 26, Raylan Givens had coffee with Buck Torres in a Cuban joint down the street from Miami Beach police headquarters. Raylan had a plate of beans and rice too; he'd missed lunch. He asked Torres if they were going to get Interpol into it, try to locate Harry and have him extradited. Torres said they might do that if he had shot an upstanding citizen and not some lowlife ex-con who was known to have worked for Jimmy Cap. He said as a favor to Harry he was on the lookout for sawed-off shotguns. One had been picked up at a dope house the past week and they were checking it out.

"The reason I ask about extradition," Raylan said, "I leave tomorrow. I'm going over there and look for Harry."

Torres didn't seem surprised. He said, "Going on your own?"

And Raylan nodded. He said, "Nobody cares about him, huh? I think they're even dropping Jimmy Cap's investigation anyway."

"You can count on it," Torres said. "But you're going over there? Italy's a big country."

"I know, I been looking at maps."

That was all Raylan said about Italy. Nothing about where Harry might be, not with extradition still a possibility.

"Twice now he's ducked out on me," Raylan said, without any show of emotion. "I owe it to myself, you might say, to go look for him." He poked at the black beans with his fork, not as hungry now.

"It's too bad," Torres said, "you didn't leave yesterday. You know the flights Harry took, here to Heathrow and then on to Milan? That information I got from Harry's travel agent?"

"I remember, sure," Raylan said.

"First thing this morning," Torres said, "a guy comes to see the travel agent, the same one. He says, 'I want to know where Joyce Patton went yesterday besides London.' Doesn't give him a story or anything why he wants to know. The guy looks the travel agent in the eye and the travel agent tells him."

"Tommy Bucks," Raylan said, "the Zip. The travel agent knew he was serious."

"Knew he didn't want to get hurt," Torres said. "We show him pictures and he picks out, you guessed it, Tommy Bucks. So now, we checked, he's going over there too. Leaving this evening, seven-fifteen, the same flight Harry and then Joyce took. The Zip and a guy named Nicky Testa."

"You're not going to pick him up, huh?"

"What do I charge him with? He asked the travel agent where Joyce Patton went."

"No intimidation of any kind?"

Torres shook his head. "Outside of the guy himself, the way he looks? Not a word. You know him."

"I only had that one run-in with him," Raylan said. "See, first I had to get the time off. Which I did, only I can't leave till tomorrow. By the time I get there... What if the Zip's called one of his friends over there to meet Joyce's plane in Milan?" Raylan looked at his watch. "Getting in just about now, as a matter of fact. They'd follow her, see where she goes. The Zip gets there tomorrow." Raylan paused. "I doubt Harry will have her come directly to where he is, Harry'd know better'n that." Raylan took a few moments to think about it some more. "What I have to do is get to him before the Zip does."

"You have an idea where he is you're not telling," Torres said.

Raylan didn't say yes or no. He was anxious now, wishing he could leave tonight. Get on the same flight the Zip was taking. Watch him. Except the Zip and this other guy would be up in first class while he was back in coach.

That Thursday, Joyce took a taxi from the Milan airport to the Hotel Cavour on Fatebenefratelli. They were ready for her at the reception desk, cordial, English speaking, the clerk saying, "Yes, and a message for you, please," as he handed her a sealed envelope. She opened it right away. Handwritten on hotel stationery the note said:

Harry sent me. I'm the Afro-looking person in the suede jacket sitting across the lobby from you. Look if you want but don't come over.

She did, looked up and saw the black guy in a suede jacket sitting, as he said, across the lobby from the desk. He stared back, raising his hand to fool with the tuft of hair on his chin. She looked at the note again.

Go up to your room and I will call you in about 30 minutes, after I see if anybody comes in looks unfriendly. My name is Robert.

When she looked over at him again, Robert was reading a newspaper. Joyce went up to her room.

It was small but okay, moderately priced modern. Outside were the traffic sounds of a big city, the view from the window the building across the street. She waited, wondering if she should unpack; if Harry was here in Milan; if he had really sent the black guy, Robert; if her electric curlers would work in the bathroom outlet.

When Robert called he asked what everyone did when you've just arrived somewhere: how was the flight and was she tired and would she like to rest awhile. He could call back later.

Joyce said, "First you check to see if I was followed and then you ask if I want to rest. Does it seem to you under the circumstances I'd want to take a nap?"

"It's what you say," Robert said. "You don't want to rest, that's cool, but we ain't going anyplace till tomorrow. Some people, two guys came in after you went up and they're still hanging around, but I can't tell nothing about them."

"Are you still in the hotel?"

"I'm someplace else now. What we going to do, in about an hour, go on over to the trattoria across the street from the hotel, down just a bit, and I'll meet you there. Go through the front to the back part. I'll see if anybody follows you."