chandeliers and expensive-looking furniture. The room was big and expensive-looking too. It ought to be for $750 a night, the euro still kicking the dollar's ass.
He went to his room, laid on the bed, relaxed and looked at the Herald Tribune, checked the NFL scores, the Lions had lost another one, now o and 7, Jesus. Worst team in football. He turned on CNN and watched for a few minutes, wondering what the hell was going on in the world. He felt out of touch, hadn't seen a newspaper or TV for six days.
There was a knock on the door. He opened it and saw a good-looking blonde reminded him of Sharon, standing there, same hairstyle, same height and build. He smelled perfume. Jesus, like she took a bath in it.
She said, 'Signor Bitonte?'
'Call me Sal,' Joey said.
She came in and moved past him and sat on the queen-size bed and he closed the door and said, 'What's your name?'
'Lia.'
'Lia, huh? Okay, Lia, let's see what you got.' Joey's rule: when he was alone with a babe, she had to be naked. He liked to look at her body. At first girls would resist and pretend to be shy, but the truth was they couldn't wait to show him the goods. He dated one chick with huge bozos liked to stand in front of the window and shock people driving by. At first she was like — no way. You think I'm going to prance around in my birthday suit?
Another one liked to walk out to the end of the driveway and get the newspaper in a robe with nothing under it. When the wind blew it open she'd pretend to be embarrassed. Oh, don't look. I'm naked under here.
It was Joey's belief that all women were whores. Some like Lia were up front, straightforward about it. They came to your room and you paid for their services. Girlfriends got paid in other ways: gifts and dinners and trips. But they all took your money, one way or the other.
Lia got up and took her clothes off and Joey looked at her and grinned and said, ' Succhiami il cazzo.'
She got on her knees, knelt before him. See, his command of Italian was coming in handy again. As it turned out, Lia was nothing special, going through the motions, giving him a C- blowjob and a C+ fuck. When they were finished he paid her?250 and booted her out. He needed to be alone for a while. He went to the mini bar and took out a bottle of Grey Goose and made himself a Martini.
He sat on the bed, leaned back against the headboard, more relaxed now, the edge taken off, and thought about Sharon, Sharona his nickname for her. She'd been the exception to the all-women-are-whores rule. She refused to parade around in the nude, and when he gave her a present, she told him it wasn't necessary and meant it. She was a keeper. That's why he asked her to marry him. He'd dated dozens of girls and realized that meeting the one was like luck roulette.
He pictured Sharon with the blonde hair and the black beaver that was like a mohair sweater he couldn't keep his hands off of. She wasn't the best-looking girl he'd ever dated, but she was the sexiest. She was also girlish and feminine and funny. Only one he'd ever gone out with made him laugh. He saw himself showing her the sights of Rome, and then taking her to Positano on the Amalfi Coast, this beautiful picturesque town, and he got horny again just thinking about it.
It was his father who’d arranged for his passport that was the real thing, and snuck him into Canada — through the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel in the back of a panel truck so there’d be no record with Canadian customs. He was driven to Toronto where he got on a plane with his new identity, headed for Frankfurt, Germany, biggest goddamn airport he’d ever seen in his life. From there he flew to Milan and was picked up by Mauro who took the Autostrada del Sole 350 kilometers to Rome in a little less than four hours.
He’d been in Italy now for six days and he had a craving for Coney dogs and thick rare cheeseburgers. He missed Edy's mint-chocolate-chip ice cream too and the idea of staying with his uncle, hearing opera every day had him on edge. But the situation with Angela presented an interesting opportunity. Joey had a vision. Saw Mazara and his crew working for him, Joey sitting back, relaxing, getting rich. Yeah, he'd take some of that.
Chapter Twenty-four
It was just before 9:00 p.m. when he opened the refrigerator and took the chicken out and put it on the counter, its long neck and head still attached. 'You want to make something — a side dish to go with this?'
Angela said, 'I don't know how to cook.' She came toward him and clinked his glass with hers. 'But I know how to do this,' and took a sip.
'An Italian girl who doesn't cook…' McCabe said. 'That's got to be a first. In ancient Rome learning to cook was a girl's duty.'
'Does this look like ancient Rome?'
'What was your mother thinking?'
'She died when I was young.' She put her glass down and pulled her hair back behind her ears. 'We lived in a small house, one floor, on the outskirts of Palermo.'
McCabe said, 'You don't look Sicilian.'
'My mother was from Cinque Terra. She had blonde hair. It was just before seven in the morning.' Angela paused, took a breath. 'I heard a knock on the door and wondered who would be coming to our house so early. I was getting ready for school. We didn't have to wear our uniform that day. I had a new pair of jeans and a blouse, but my mother said I could not wear jeans to the Ave Maria School — even on special days. I heard the door open and then voices, men arguing with my father. My mother told me to stay in my room and went out to see what was happening. I wanted to see, too, so I crept down the hall and peeked into the salon. There were two men aiming guns at my father. One was stocky and losing his hair, almost bald. The other man had a big mustache. That's all I remember, a face with a mustache. They tied up my father and then my older brother, Massimo, who was fourteen, and then my mother. The men made them sit on the floor. I could tell by the way they spoke, their accent, they were not Sicilian.'
McCabe said, 'Who were they?'
'Calabrians. The bald one kept saying, ' Dove il denaro? Dove il denaro.''
McCabe said, 'Where's the money?'
'My father said, 'What money?' He didn't know what they were talking about. Mustache walked over and put a knife to my brother's throat. I remember my father saying, 'I don't know.' I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest. I thought the men could hear it too. I thought it might explode.' She paused and sipped her wine. 'The bald man asked my father again for the money. My father said, 'Don't you think I would tell you if I knew.' This time Mustache did not hesitate, put the knife under my brother's chin and cut his throat. My mother screamed and now Mustache moved to her with the knife.' Angela's eyes were wet. 'My father begged them but it did no good and the man cut her throat. I was shaking. I went back to my room and got under the bed and closed my eyes as tight as I could, and put my hands over my ears.' Angela took a breath. 'I remember the sounds my father made when they stabbed him — ' She paused again. 'They thought he was dead.'
McCabe said, 'They didn't hurt you?'
'They didn't find me. One of the men, I don't know which one, came in my room. I could hear his feet on the wood floor, coming toward me. I put my hand over my mouth. I could see his shoes, ordinary black shoes that were scuffed and needed polish, and the bottom of his dark trousers. That was the scariest time of all, thinking they were going to kill me. I closed my eyes and pretended I was invisible, and a few minutes later I heard the front door close.'
'But your father was alive?'
'The men walked out and I could hear him moaning, in agony, shirt covered with blood. I ran to our neighbor's house. An ambulance came and took him to the hospital. He had been stabbed four times and should have died.'
'He must be tough,' McCabe said. 'That's where you get it, huh?'
'A few months later we moved to Rome. Carmella, my nanny, raised me.' She picked up her glass, sipped some wine. 'You would think an experience like this would have brought me and my father closer together, but just the opposite. I think he has always resented me because my brother was killed and I wasn't. Massimo was his
