All He Saw Was the Girl Read online

  All He Saw Was the Girl

  Peter Leonard

  Peter Leonard

  All He Saw Was the Girl

  Chapter One

  McCabe watched Chip offer the long-haired guy a cigarette, the guy surprising him, taking the pack of Marlboros out of Chip's hand. Chip tried to get it back and the guy pushed him. He was six feet, maybe a little taller, with dark hair, shoulder length and reminded McCabe of Fabio, the romance-novel model. McCabe watched him tap a Marlboro out of the pack, put it in his mouth and light it with a plastic lighter, blowing smoke in Chip's face, and slipping the cigarettes in the front pocket of his shirt. Now a stocky guy with close-cropped red hair, like a Marine, came up next to him and Fabio said something in Italian and they both glanced at Chip and laughed.

  Chip came toward McCabe and McCabe said, "You let him take your cigarettes?"

  "I didn't let him, he just did it," Chip said.

  McCabe looked down at his black $40 °Cole Haan boots with a zipper on the side. "He's going to take your shoes next and then he's going to take anything else he wants."

  Chip looked over at the guy and back to McCabe. He looked nervous now, afraid. "No he isn't," Chip said, like he was trying to convince himself.

  "You better hope not," McCabe said.

  "What do you want me to do? There're two of them."

  McCabe was pissed at him for getting them in this situation in the first place.

  Chip said, "You think I'm going to get in a fight over a pack of cigarettes?"

  "I wish you luck," McCabe said.

  An hour earlier they were coming out of a bar in Santa Maria di Trastevere, fountain in the middle, church at one end. It was a little after midnight, Chip walking drunk toward a taxi that was across the piazza, a dark silhouette shape in the moonlight. Chip ahead of McCabe, stopping now, stumbling, arms outstretched, gaze fixed on something in the distance.

  '"There, Spartacus, is Rome,'" he said in a theatrical British accent, voice echoing off the buildings that surrounded the square. '"The might, the majesty, the terror of Rome. There is the power that bestrides the known world like a colossus."' McCabe grinned, he'd heard it all before, but it was still funny the way Chip got into, the way he delivered the lines. Chip started moving again, walking to the taxi, a yellow Fiat, leaning against it, facing McCabe as he approached.

  '"There is only one way to deal with Rome,'" Chip said. " 'You must serve her. You must abase yourself before her. You must grovel at her feet. You must love her.'"

  "Dinner theater ever comes to town," McCabe said, "you're all set."

  He got in the rear passenger seat of the cab, looked forward and noticed the driver wasn't there. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, feeling the buzz from eight Morettis, resting for a few seconds. He heard a door open and close. Heard the engine start up and rev. He opened his eyes, Chip glancing back at him, grinning. Chip putting it in gear, accelerating around the square, picking up speed, doing a donut, tires squealing.

  McCabe said, "This how Connecticut rich kids get their kicks?" He figured Chip would lose his nerve or lose interest, but he didn't.

  He looked at McCabe in the rearview mirror and said, '"Are you afraid to die, Spartacus? When one man says no, I won't, Rome begins to fear.'"

  McCabe saw the taxi driver come out of a restaurant now, old dude running into the piazza after his car, yelling and shaking his fist. " Basta! Aspettaf

  McCabe felt bad for the guy and said, "Come on. That's enough."

  Chip ignored him and drove out of the square, made a wide right-hand turn, going into the oncoming lane, forcing a car to swerve out of the way.

  McCabe reached between the seats, grabbed Chip's arm and said, "Pull over, you dumbass, you're going to kill somebody."

  "We're going to Harry's for a nightcap," Chip said, slurring his words.

  They were in Trastevere, a maze of narrow cobblestone streets and medieval buildings on the west bank of the Tiber. They blew through an intersection, took a right on Via Garibaldi, passed a cop car parked on the side of the road, the word Carabinieri in white type on the side of a blue sedan, two cops in the front seat, looking at them. The scene felt like it was happening in slow motion. McCabe glanced back through the rear window as the police car, lights flashing, took off after them. He saw Chip's face in the rearview mirror, the happy drunk grin gone, replaced by a worry, concern.

  Chip said, "Jesus Christ."

  McCabe said, "I can't wait to see what you're going to do next.

  Chip braked hard and went left down an alley that didn't look wide enough for a car, laundry hanging overhead on ropes strung between the buildings. Chip turned the wheel, taking a left on Via dei Riari, the back end of the taxi sliding, then going all the way around, spinning out of control, crashing into a parked car. McCabe was on the floor when the police pulled him out and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  Now they were in the center of a holding cell at police headquarters in Rome, wondering what was going to happen. Prisoners spread out across the room that looked to be sixty by forty, bars along one side, guys staring at them, two American students looking out of place among the Italian drunks, thieves and cons. The long-haired guy and his friend were still looking at them, grinning, mocking them.

  McCabe said, "I'll be right back." He turned, heading for the two Italians.

  Chip said, "What're you going to do?"

  McCabe could feel all the eyes in the room watching him as he approached Fabio, walked up to him and said, "I see you looking over laughing at us like a little girl. Is that what you are? With that hair, I can't tell if you're a woman or a sissy." He didn't know if the guy understood what he was saying or not, but his arm muscles tightened like he was going to throw a punch. McCabe stepped in, grabbed the cigarette pack, ripping the pocket off his shirt. Fabio stood there, looking surprised. "You took this from my friend, forgot to give it back." McCabe turned and went back over where Chip was and handed the pack of Marlboros to him. "Somebody else takes them," he said, "you're on your own."

  Chip gave him a big wide-eyed look. "Unbelievable. What did you say to him?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You don't remember? Come on."

  They were taken to a room and interrogated by a no-nonsense cop, a detective in a black sport coat. He was built like a soccer player, stocky and still muscular in middle age, thinning salt-and-pepper hair combed back. He introduced himself as Captain Ferrara. McCabe told him their names and told him they were students at Loyola University.

  Chip said, "We weren't actually stealing the taxi."

  Ferrara said, "No? What were you doing?"

  Chip said, "We were drunk. It was a joke. Scherzo."

  Captain Ferrara said, " Scherzo? This is how a man makes his living and you dismiss it as something trivial, unimportant. You have too much to drink and use this as an excuse? The man's automobile is damaged. Now he has no way to earn a living, support his family."

  Chip said, "I'll buy him a new one."

  He held Chip in his laser gaze, eyes locked on him.

  Chip said, "You know who Senator Charles Tallenger is, right?"

  He sounded drunk.

  Captain Ferrara stared at him, studying him.

  Chip said, "Well I'm his son, Charles Tallenger III."

  Captain Ferrara didn't say anything, didn't seem impressed, gave him a stern look.

  Chip was a smartass, but McCabe had never seen him turn on this arrogant superiority. Based on the captain's expression it didn't seem to be going over very well.

  Chip said, "I have to make a phone call.''

  He said it like a spoiled Greenwich rich kid, which McCabe decided was redundant, maybe even tri-dundant if there was such a
word.

  "It's my right as an American citizen," Chip said.

  Captain Ferrara said, "You are a prisoner, you have no rights. In Italy, you are guilty until proven innocent."

  Chip said, "I don't think you understand what I'm saying."

  The captain's face tightened, like he wanted to go over and knock Chip on his ass.

  He said, "No, I think you are the one who does not understand, but you will."

  He turned and walked out of the room and closed the door.

  McCabe said, "Do me a favor, don't say anything else, okay?"

  Chip said, "What's your problem?"

  "You're being an asshole. Every time you open your mouth the situation gets worse." He'd never seen Chip act like this before. Jesus.

  "You want to get out of here?" Chip said. "We've got to tell these idiots who they're dealing with."

  "All you're doing is pissing him off," McCabe said, "making things worse. I'm in this thanks to you, and I don't want you talking for me."

  Captain Ferrara never came back, and a few minutes later a cop in a uniform came in and cuffed McCabe's hands behind his back and took him to the garage and pushed him in the rear seat of a Fiat. Two heavyset cops squeezed in on both sides, flanking him like he was a hardened criminal, a flight risk.

  The cops sitting next to him had breadcrumbs on their jackets and there was a comic-opera quality about them, big men in fancy, over-the-top uniforms with red stripes running down the sides of the pants and white leather sashes worn diagonally across their jackets, and matching white leather holsters. They held their brimmed blue hats in their laps. McCabe thought they looked like cops from some made-up Disney dictatorship.

  They pulled out of the garage and turned right and drove down Via del Corso past Victor Emmanuel, the Wedding Cake, also known as the Typewriter, past the Colosseum and the Forum and Campidoglio, the cops talking about Italy playing in the World Cup.

  The cop on his left said, "Did you see Grosso score the winning penalty?"

  The cop on his right said, "How about that crazy Frenchman?"

  "Unbelievable," the cop behind the wheel said. "Zidane's a madman. Ten minutes to go, he headbutts Materazzi. That was the game."

  "It was a factor, sure," said the cop to his right.

  The cop to his left said, "A factor, it was the difference."

  The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and said, "What are you, head of the Zidane fan club?"

  "I don't like him," the cop to his right said. "But you have to admit he is one of the all-time greats — up there with Vava and Pele."

  "How much have you had to drink?" the cop to his left said.

  When they got on the autostrada, McCabe said to the cop on his right, "Where're we going?"

  The cop looked at him and grinned like something was funny.

  Twenty minutes later McCabe understood why, the walls of a prison looming in the distance, 3:30 in the morning.

  The cop on his right said, "Rebibbia. Your new home."

  He'd heard of Rebibbia, the prison for hardcore cons, and wondered why they were taking him there. Stealing a taxi didn't seem serious enough. They drove along a fence topped with razor wire, the prison set back on acres of flat open land.

  They entered the prison complex and McCabe's carabinieri escorts took him into the processing area, released the cuffs and handed him over to the Polizia Penitenziara, a prison cop signing a form and giving it to one of the carabinieri cops, making the transaction official.

  Then he was standing in line with at least twenty other prisoners — some he recognized from the holding cell — waiting to be processed. Each prisoner was photographed and fingerprinted. Then they went through a room where they were given a blanket, a tin cup, a spoon, a bar of soap, a towel.

  McCabe heard Chip's voice and saw him at the far end of the line. "I'm an American. My father is a US senator. Capisce? "

  The guard looked bored, his expression saying he had no idea what Chip was talking about, but there was no way he could mistake Chip's attitude, his arrogance.

  McCabe said, "Hey, Tallenger, with your connections I thought you'd be out by now. Don't they know who you are?"

  He spent the night in an eight-by-eight-foot cell, solitary confinement. As he was waking up, he was thinking about

  Chip and the taxi and being taken to Rebibbia, wondering, before he opened his eyes, if it was a dream, and then opening them and seeing sunlight coming through the barred window, making a distorted pattern on the floor.

  He sat up studying the room in daylight for the first time. The door was made out of steel, painted blue. It had a little square window about three quarters of the way up, so the guards could look in, check on him, which they did on a fairly regular schedule.

  There was a metal sink against the wall, and the bunk he was sitting on, the frame painted orange, bolted into the wall. There was a stainless-steel toilet without a seat, squares of newsprint cut for toilet paper. The walls were cracked and scarred with graffiti. Some guy named Ricki professing his love for Anna in black marker.

  McCabe got up, went to the sink, turned on the faucet and scooped water in his hands and splashed it on his face. He dried himself with the towel they gave him, gray-white and stained. He wondered how many inmates had used it before him to dry their own parts. He moved to the window and held the bars, looking out at the prison walls and guard towers, and below him the exercise yard, an expanse of concrete surrounded by a high fence topped with razor wire, the yard empty first thing in the morning. It looked like ghetto playgrounds he'd seen in the projects around Detroit.

  A guard came to his cell and got him, 3:30 in the afternoon, took him through the cellblock, passing blue steel cell doors just like his, to a barred gate at the end of the hallway. It felt good to get out of the little room, stretch his legs. He'd never been in a confined space for that long without being able to leave and it was getting to him, messing with his head.

  Adding to the problem, McCabe was on an academic scholarship, thirty-five grand's worth of tuition, room and board. He'd lose it if he was involved in a disciplinary situation, school rules listing a dozen things that would get a student kicked out: drinking, drugs, fighting, cheating, missing classes, not maintaining an acceptable grade point average and a few more infractions he couldn't remember, but stealing a taxi was definitely not one of them.

  The school would bend the rules where Chip was concerned. He wasn't on scholarship and his dad was a US senator who had generated a lot of positive PR for the Rome Center Year Abroad Program.

  Mazara watched him walk across the yard and stand with his back to the fence, face tilted up feeling the sun after almost twenty-four hours in a cell, the white box as prisoners referred to it. Mazara studied him, one of the Americans from the holding cell. He was not big, but looked like he was in shape, about his age. He had surprised Mazara, taking the cigarette pack out of his pocket, surprised him and caught him off guard by the boldness of the move, not expecting it. Now Mazara wanted to see how good he was, see if he could back it up.

  He dribbled the basketball over to the American, inmates watching him, wondering what he was going to do. Mazara bounced the ball off the concrete at him, the ball thudding into his chest. The American opened his eyes, reached over, picked it up and held it, eyes on him.

  "I don't have any cigarettes, if that's what you're looking for."

  Mazara said, "Want to play? You and me. The winner walks through the gate a free man."

  The American smiled, looking up at him, eyes squinting in the sun.

  Mazara said, "They catch you selling drugs?"

  "Stealing a taxi," the American said.

  " Va bene," Mazara said. "They keep you here eight, ten months, no more than a year."

  The American said, "What about you?"

  Mazara said, "Is a misunderstanding." He pulled his hair back and wrapped a rubber band around the ponytail.

  "They put you in Rebibbia for a misunderstanding, huh?"<
br />
  "It can happen," Mazara said.

  The American bounced the ball to him and got up.

  Fabio, as McCabe thought of him, took it out. He started with the ball straight up over his head. Moved it down to his chest and waist, then his knees and back up. He faked left with his eyes and McCabe went for it. Fabio dribbled to his right and went up for a shot, arms bent, snapping his wrist as he released the ball, the ball arcing up and swishing through the cylinder. He raised his fist, looked at McCabe, nodded his head a couple times. There were hoots and cheers from the inmates that had formed a circle around the half court.

  Now McCabe brought it in. He went right, crossed over, drove for the hoop, Fabio all over him, bumping him with his body. McCabe hesitated, faked left, went left, threw up a half hook that kissed the glass and went in.

  The prisoners went crazy.

  Fabio brought the ball in, faking left with his eyes, going to his right with his right hand, knees bent, made his move, juked McCabe with a shoulder fake, crossed over, right to left, and back, had him off balance as he went up for a fifteen-footer, but McCabe regained his balance and stripped the ball.

  McCabe brought the ball in, went full tilt for the basket, stopped, pulled up and launched a twenty-five-footer. Fabio tried to block the shot, but he was too late. The ball bounced around the rim and in.

  Fabio was pissed off now, McCabe could see the strain on his face, McCabe making him look bad in front of his boys. Fabio brought the ball in, did a shoulder fake, froze McCabe and launched a high thirty-footer that landed on the rim and bounced off.

  The prisoners were really getting into it, shouting, taunting.

  McCabe worked his way toward the basket, keeping his dribble low, protecting the ball. He went in for a short jumper, left his feet and Fabio hit him, fouled him in mid-air. The ball hit the glass and went in. McCabe went flying, landing hard on the concrete. He got up slowly, gaze locked on Fabio, "This the way you want to play? Okay."