definitely the car.
The number of the building next to it was 44. It had a decorative black wrought-iron door with glass panels. He checked the directory, two rows of names on a brass plate: Di NelLo, Gabriel, M. Puraro, L. Terrachina, Sacelli, Liquori, Soave, J. Fabiano, G. Migliorelli, and P. Confalone.
He walked back around the block, across San Pietro in Vincoli, went back through the tunnel to his car. He drove west and took a left near the Roman Forum. The Colosseum was straight ahead. He drove past it and took another left on tree-lined Via delle Terme di Tito. There was a park, deserted now, set back behind a fence. He drove around the block and parked next to a green city trash bin twenty yards behind the Lancia. He had a good angle on the car and the apartment building. He put the window down and turned off the engine and waited. It was 7:19 p.m., almost dark.
At 8:45, he saw a woman appear down the street, coming toward him. Even from thirty yards he knew it was Angela. He could tell by the way she walked, the way she carried herself, looking good in dark slacks, a white blouse and a black leather jacket, dressed nice, going out for the evening.
He was thinking about what Captain Ferrara had said, profiling the street gang that grabbed him, contrasting that with the expensive car and upscale neighborhood Angela was living in, and it didn't fit. What was this well- heeled girl, with an apartment near the Colosseum, doing with a Roman street gang?
As she came toward him, McCabe wondered if she shared the apartment with Mazara. Of the gang members he'd be the obvious choice. Or did she live by herself? He saw the
Lancia's front parking lights flash as she pressed the remote, and saw her open the door and get in behind the wheel. She started the car, put the lights on and pulled out. McCabe stayed close, following her across town to a restaurant near the Trevi Fountain called A1 Moro. He'd read about it, a place that catered to wealthy Romans and tourists. He watched her park, and saw her walk in the restaurant. Saw the maitre'd kiss her on both cheeks.
McCabe figured he had some time and drove back through the city, over the river and up Monte Mario to school. Chip was standing at the sink brushing his teeth when McCabe came in the room, Chip barefoot in a pair of sweatpants and a tee-shirt. McCabe moved past him and went to his dresser, opening drawers, pulling out clothes — a pair of Levis and a couple of tee-shirts and a blue long-sleeved work shirt. He folded the clothes in a pile on his bed. He could see Chip looking in the mirror, watching him.
Chip turned away from the sink and came toward him, still brushing his teeth. He took the toothbrush out of his mouth.
'What're you doing?'
'Taking some time off.'
Chip went back to the sink, spit out the toothpaste and said, 'What does that mean?'
He had been hoping Chip wouldn't be there so he wouldn't have to explain himself, answer any questions. Just get his things and go. He put the clothes in his backpack. He opened his desk drawer and grabbed his Swiss Army knife and sunglasses and threw them in too.
Chip walked over and sat on his bed. 'Rady's looking for you.'
'I know,' McCabe said. There was a note in his mailbox that said to see him ASAP. He showed it to Chip then crumpled it into a ball and threw it at the wastebasket next to his desk, nailing a ten-footer. McCabe went to the sink and got his toothbrush and shaving kit, and came back and put them in his backpack.
'You leave,' Chip said, 'he's going to take your scholarship.'
McCabe said. 'Got some money I can borrow?'
Chip got up and went to his desk and picked up his wallet, opened it and took out a wad of euros. 'How much you need?'
'All of it.'
He gave the money to McCabe, and McCabe folded the bills in half and put them in the front pocket of his Levis. 'I'll pay you back.'
'I'm worried about you, Spartacus,' Chip said. 'You're wigging big time. What the hell're you doing?'
McCabe picked up the backpack and slipped his arms through the straps. He said, 'Take it easy,' and walked out of the room.
In the lobby, he was surprised to see Franco behind the desk. Canzio had been there when he walked through twenty minutes earlier. McCabe said, 'Yo, Franco, what's up?'
Franco said, 'McCabe, listen, Signor Rady is looking for you and he is very angry.'
McCabe had missed his Italian class again, and that's what Rady wanted to talk to him about. Rady appeared now, coming from the administrative wing, his pale white face almost as red as his flat-top.
'McCabe, in my office, now,' he said, raising his voice.
McCabe said, 'I'm kind of busy.'
Rady said, 'I don't think I heard you right.'
He moved toward the door.
Rady said, 'I'm warning you, McCabe, walk out of here, you're through.'
McCabe could see Franco waiting to see what he was going to do. He pushed the door open and went out. The Fiat was parked in the circular drive. He got in it and drove to a hardware store on Via Trionfale and bought a roll of duct tape, fifty feet of rope and a green plastic tarp. He drove back toward school and stopped at Pietro's. He went in. It was packed at 9:00, Pietro working the room, shaking hands, talking to people. McCabe waited till Pietro was alone and made his move.
'McCabe, you here for dinner?'
'Can I talk to you for a minute?'
McCabe drove back to A1 Moro and saw the red Lancia still there where Angela had left it. He pulled up and parked on the narrow street thirty feet from the front door of the restaurant, two cars behind the Lancia, and waited. It was 10:06 p.m.
He was tired, closed his eyes. Just for a couple minutes, he told himself. Next thing he knew it was 11:25. Fie heard voices and footsteps on the cobblestone street. He looked through the windshield and saw Angela walking with a well-dressed grey- haired guy, mid-sixties. There were two men walking behind them. He couldn't tell if they were all together or not.
Angela and the old dude stopped next to a Mercedes sedan. McCabe's side window was down, and he could hear them arguing in Italian. When the two men caught up to them they stopped talking and stared at each other. One of them, a heavyset guy, said, 'See you tomorrow, Cuz.' He was an American, no mistake about it. Angela said, 'What time you want to start?' The heavyset guy said, 'I'm up early.' 'I'll see you at ten,' Angela said. No you won't, McCabe was thinking.
Chapter Sixteen
Teegarden called Ray back the next day and said, 'The one in Harrison Township's registered to a Joseph Palermo. Know who he is?'
'Should I?'
'Swinging Joey. He's a mob lieutenant that works for the Corrodos. Know how he got his name?'
'He likes to dance?'
'He likes to bust heads open with a baseball bat. Second number's registered to Venice Motors on Van Dyke in Warren,' Teeg said.
'You see Joey's name connected to the car lot?'
'I don't see his name, but I see him all over it. They hide gambling profits in the business books and accept cars as payment for debts. Let's say you borrow money, you can't pay it back. Joey shows up with his Louisville Slugger and takes your car. That's how I think it works. What I don't see is why a guy like Joey is bothering Sharon.'
'That's the big mystery, isn't it?'
'What's Sharon say?'
