Chapter Thirty-six
9:00 a.m., Ray got out of bed, showered, dressed and rebandaged his arm. It looked bad, swollen and still oozing blood. He would have to go to a doctor, have it looked at. He'd only slept a couple hours, if at all, his mind racing, thinking about what he was going to say to Sharon. It had been almost two months since he had seen her. He could understand why she had left him, but after thirteen years of marriage, why didn't she call, tell him her plan, leave a note? It was way out of character. That's why he'd come to Rome. That's why he was standing in front of the Hotel d'Inghilterra forty-five minutes later, stomach queasy, hands sweating, wiping his palms on his pants. He wanted to get it over with, hear what she had to say, and get on with his life.
He walked in the tiny lobby with its black-and-white tile floor. There was a trim middle-aged guy with salt- and-pepper hair behind the dark wood reception counter. Ray told him who he was and showed the man his passport. He had just arrived in Rome and wanted to surprise his wife. What room was she in?
The clerk said 410, but he was too late. Signora Pope had checked out last night. Ray asked if he could see the room. Maybe he would find something, a clue about where she had been or where she was going. The clerk handed him the key, said it was okay but the room was scheduled for cleaning, and the maid might be there already.
He took the small elevator up to the fourth floor and found room 410. The door was open. The maid's cart was in the hall as predicted. He entered and looked around. The maid was in the bathroom. She saw Ray, excused herself and walked out. There was a queen-size bed with end tables and lamps. There was a desk and chair against one wall, and two chairs and a table in front of the window that looked out on Via Bocca de Leone.
He sat at the desk, glancing down at a brochure listing the hotel services. Next to it was an empty Eclipse gum sleeve, a flavor called Polar Ice, and an empty Marlboro Lights pack. Sharon didn't smoke, or maybe she did and he didn't know it. He looked down and saw an empty shopping bag on the floor, heavy high-gloss silver paper and the name DOMUS in black type, big on the front, and an address: Via Belsiana 52.
Next to the bag was a waste basket. He reached in and took out a folded piece of paper. It was a boarding pass, KLM Flight 8934, New York-Rome, Sharon Pope, seat 14E. Okay, so she really was here. He'd still had his doubts. He got up and checked the closet. Nothing but empty hangers.
There were a couple of wet towels on the floor in the bathroom, and cotton balls black with mascara in the waste basket. He pictured Sharon standing in front of the mirror before she went to bed, wiping off eyeliner while he brushed his teeth.
He went back to his hotel, wondering what to do, and remembered the receipts he had found in Joey's shirts at the villa. He dug them out of the jeans he'd worn, and studied them. One was from a tavola calda,?1.50 for a cappuccino. The second one was a restaurant tab from Doney, Via Veneto 125, dated October 13th. Doney, he noticed, was at the Westin Excelsior Hotel.
11:10 a.m., McCabe was looking out the window, watching the street below for Chip's black BMW, wondering where he was. If you were coming from Rome this was the road you'd take into Soriano. He tried calling him and got his voicemail.
Just after noon he felt Angela's phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. He took it out, saw Chip's number on the screen, flipped it open and said, 'Where the hell are you?'
'Right here,' Joey said. 'I'll put him on but first I want to ask how you're doing? Relaxing up there, enjoying the clean mountain air? I guess we just missed you at the villa. Don't worry, we're not coming after you. This time you're coming to us.'
'McCabe,' Chip said, 'they broke my fucking hand — ' panic in his voice.
'That's not all we're going to break,' Joey said back on now. 'Chipper's a little upset right now, and I won't lie to you, he's in a lot of pain, but he's learned a valuable lesson and I hope you have too. We're not fucking around.'
'I'm not either,' McCabe said. 'Tell me where and when.'
'We'll let you know,' Joey said. 'Listen, what happens to Chipper is up to you. Do something like you did before, it's over.'
The phone went dead. McCabe could feel a surge of adrenalin like he was back on the ice, nothing quite like it, ready to take somebody's head off.
Joey was standing in a basement room under a vacant restaurant in Trastevere, Chipper tied to a chair, hands behind his back, head slumped forward looked like he was sleeping. They were near the river and the air was wet, musty. There were marks on the walls showing where the Tiber had flooded the room on a number of occasions, oily lines where the paint had broken down and separated from the pigment. Naked bulbs hung from the ceiling. Empty wine racks lined one wall, and furniture was piled up in the corner, tables stacked on tables, chairs on chairs. The floor was brick, broken in places, exposing the damp earth below.
Mazara was sitting on one of the old restaurant chairs, smoking a cigarette. Grabbing Chipper had been his idea, and Joey had to admit it wasn't bad. He remembered Mazara saying, you want McCabe? I tell you how to get him.
Joey had said, 'Don't tell me, do it.'
They'd driven back to Rome, dropped Joey off at the Excelsior, and gone to Chip's school, Loyola University, ended up sleeping in the car, waiting till they saw a black BMW pull out, 9:07 a.m., Chip behind the wheel, and followed him. When Chip stopped at a traffic light, Mazara and Psuz walked up to his car, broad daylight, bandanas over their faces, opened the door, yanked him out and threw him in the trunk of the Opel. Joey had finally found something these clowns were good at. Mazara had called to tell him and Joey had gotten in a cab and come right over.
The odd thing, at first, Chipper didn't seem concerned or afraid, had sat in the chair mouthing off.
'Listen,' Chipper said. 'You know who I am?'
'No, who are you?' Joey said.
'Charles Tallenger III.'
He said it cocky like the rich Grosse Pointe assholes he knew. 'No shit,' Joey said. 'Charles Tallenger III. Wow. I'm impressed.'
'My father is United States Senator Charles Tallenger.'
Joey'd heard of him. Sure. Remembered seeing him on TV one time, running for something, got beat by the good- looking babe with the glasses from Alaska.
'Let me go and all is forgiven,' Chipper said.
'All's forgiven. You believe this guy?' Joey said to his Roman buddies. 'See, we don't give a fuck who your dad is or who you are. We just want to know where McCabe's at.'
'I don't know,' Chipper said, losing the attitude. 'Honestly.'
'Well since you're being honest I believe you. But these guys still think you're bullshitting us,' he said, indicating Mazara, Sisto and Noto.
'I don't know where he is,' Chipper said, cocky attitude creeping back in his voice. 'What don't you understand?'
'Okay,' Joey said to Mazara. 'He's yours.'
The Romans picked him up and carried him to one of the round restaurant tables, stretched him out and held his right arm down, hand flat against the wood, fear in his eyes.
'Hey, what're you doing?' Chip said. Voice cracking, a couple octaves higher than normal.
'What's it look like?' Joey said. 'You had your chance.'
Sisto walked over and picked up a crude-looking hammer out of a toolbox and came back to the table, Chipper's eyes following him the whole way. He was afraid now, squirming and trying to free himself as Sisto raised the hammer.
'McCabe's in Soriano, in the mountains. I'm supposed to pick him up.'
'How 'bout that,' Joey said. 'Forgot where his buddy was at, regained his memory just in the nick of time.'
Sisto brought the hammer down and busted his hand.
Chipper yelled and they let him go and Joey watched him roll around on the table in pain, holding his broken knuckles. Jesus that must've hurt.
