Fletch said, “Sylvia. Something is burning.”
“Ooo,” she said, grabbing up her gown for the run to the kitchen.
In their momentary privacy, Fletch said to Andy: “I guess I’m tired.”
She said, “That’s why we’re having such a nice dinner.”
“I should have planned something.”
“Yes. You should have.”
“I never guessed Sylvia would make such an effort.”
Andy said, “I don’t guess she has.”
The entree was a burned frankfurter each, sliced lengthwise.
At the edge of each plate was a tomato, obviously hand-squeezed. The indentations of four fingers and a thumb were clear. In fact, Sylvia’s thumb print was clear:
“Oh, my god,” Fletch said.
“What’s the matter?” Sylvia was screwing herself into her chair again. “Good American meal! Hot dog! Ketchup!”
Andy said, “Sylvia, really!”
“You live in America, you get used to American food,” ‘Sylvia said. “I been here nearly one week already. See?”
“We see,” said Fletch.
“Bastard Rosselli say what Menti’s will say about my paintings?”
Fletch said, “What paintings? There are no paintings.”
“There are paintings.” In her insistence, Sylvia leaned so far forward she almost dipped one in the ‘catsup.’ “My paintings you two find. If you no look for, why you here? If you no find, why Angela come? Eh? Answer me that, Mister Flesh Ass-pants.”
Fletch said, “We, just came for dinner.”
“Rosselli said nothing about the will, Sylvia.”
Fletch said, “I’m in love with Jennifer Flynn.”
He made no approach to his frankfurter and tomato. They sat, there, burned and thumbprinted, like a victim and a perpetrator.
Andy, using her knife and fork on the frankfurter was looking at him.
He said, “I would think you’d both want to be in Rome now.”
“No!” said Sylvia. “I stay here. Where my paintings are.”
Looking at Sylvia, Fletch counted the number of hours of sleep he had had. Then, he counted the number of hours of sleep he hadn’t had.
“Sylvia,” he said. “The paintings are in Texas?”
“Texas?”
“Andy and I are planning to fly to Dallas the end of this week.”
“Good! Then I go, too.”
“Good!” said Fletch. “We’ll all go. Just like a family.”
Andy’s look could have burned through telephone books.
To Andy he said, “I doubt you’ve ever had Texan chili. Good American cooking.”
“Chili sauce,” said Sylvia. “You want chili sauce?”
Fletch placed his unused napkin next to his untouched plate.
“Sorry I can’t stay to help out with the dishes. I’m going to sleep now.”
“Sleep?” Sylvia was prepared to be hurt. “You no want dessert?”
“Don’t even tell me what it is,” Fletch said. “I’ll dream on it.”
He went into a guest room, locked the door, stripped, and crawled between the sheets.
The rhythms of exclamations in Italian, French, Portuguese, and English through the thick walls lulled him to hungry sleep.
Thirty-three
“Hi, babe.”
In the single bed, he had rolled onto his side.
Light was pouring through the open drapes.
Eyes open, staring at him, her head faced him on the pillow.
The white sheet over her upper arm perfected her smooth, tanned shoulder, neck, throat
His right hand went along her left breast, under her arm, down her side. She pulled her right leg up, to touch his.
“Nice to feel you again,” he said.
She must have entered through the bathroom from the other guest room.
He flicked her lips with his tongue.
Then his left arm went under her and found the small of her back and brought her closer to him.
“Where were you last night?” she asked.
“When?”
“Two o’clock. Three o’clock. You weren’t in bed.”
“I went out for a walk,” he said “After that heavy dinner.”
In fact, between two and three in the morning, he had switched the license plates of the rented car and the black truck.
“‘After that heavy dinner,’” she said.
She giggled.
“Did you use my bed in Cagna?” he asked.
“Of course. Our bed.”
He said, “I’m hungry.”
She put on a slightly perplexed face.
She said, “This is your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“How come Sylvia’s in the master bedroom and you and I are in a single bed in a guest room?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I guess it’s like the Latin-American expression, ‘I lost the battle of the street.’”
“Was there a revolution?”
“There must have been. I guess I was an absentee government.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wasn’t here a couple of nights.”
“Where were you?”
“I was working.”
“Working?”
“At a newspaper. An old boy I worked with in Chicago works for a paper here now. He was short-handed and asked me to come in. Charlestown was burning down again.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Why not?”
“Why should you?”
“I liked it. Anyhow, Jack had let me spend some time at the newspaper looking up Horan.”
“Jack?”
“Jack Saunders.”
“I doubt it would take two nights for Charlestown to burn down.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I would expect your friend to solve his staff problems by the second night.”
