Dying on the Vine

support, as well as the financial and economic support that would have eventually ensued had she not been so tragically murdered.”

“Please, signora,” Severo said more severely, “do not play these semantic games with me. You know perfectly well that that your client has no standing from which to bring suit. The codes involved are entirely clear on this. If you are unfamiliar with them, I would be happy to provide you with the relevant citations.”

Signora Batelli, now openly irritated by Quadrelli’s manner, stood abruptly and shoveled papers into her attache case. “As I’ve said, gentlemen, we’re not here to argue. We came to tell you what to expect, and we have told you. Signor Quadrelli, you’ll hear more formally from my office very shortly.” A crisp nod. “Arrivederla, signori. Come, Cesare.”

Cesare, tottering and blinking, already unsure of what had just transpired, followed her.

“You did well, Severo,” Franco said once their visitors had left, although he didn’t look so sure about it.

Severo accepted the praise with a sober nod.

“What you said is true, isn’t it, Severo?” Luca asked. “He can’t really do that, can he? Sue us? The little turd?”

Severo responded with a grave, sympathetic smile, kind and kingly. “I’m afraid he most certainly can, my boy.”

THIRTEEN

IT had been overcast in Florence, but a fine, crisp day all the same, so John and Gideon, having been cooped up at the conference for most of the past week, had simply wandered the city for a few hours after their meeting with Rocco, not going into any museums or churches or palazzos but basking in the fresh air, the architecture, and the chic bustle.

Lunch had been at one of a string of funkily quaint old sidewalk eateries on Borgo San Lorenzo, the narrow, cobblestoned alley, now a pedestrian walkway, that served primarily to lead tourists to the Medici Chapel and the Laurentian Library. This particular place featured an outdoor menu held up by a four-foot-high plywood figure that looked like one of the Mario Brothers in a chef’s hat. Mario’s stubby, white-gloved, four-fingered hand pointed directly to a boldly lettered message at the top: The Biggest, Most Delicious, Most Authentic Bistecca alla Fiorentina (Beefsteak Florence Style) in the City. One full kilo (2.5 pounds), only €21.

“Now that’s what I’ve been looking for,” John said, stopping in front of it. “The real thing. What do you say?”

“Well, I tell you, John, I’m not sure that the restaurant that serves the most authentic Italian food in Florence would have a sign out front that was in English, not Italian. Or serve lunch at a quarter-to-twelve, for that matter.”

“Yeah, but two-and-half pounds.”

There was no arguing with that, Gideon knew, so they took a table at the railing and John ordered his bistecca rare. “Raro,” he said. “Peenk.”

“Al sangue,” the waiter said, nodding approvingly. Like Bruno the previous evening, he kissed his fingertips. “Ah, a very wonderful choice, signore. You will enjoy.”

Gideon was less hungry and ordered a simple ravioli burro e salvia, ravioli with butter and sage. About this choice the waiter was less enthusiastic, merely shrugging and writing on his pad. But then, the bistecca was the most expensive item on the menu; the ravioli, meant to serve as a starter, not as a main dish, was only €7. John ordered a glass of cabernet, Gideon one of pinot grigio. On these, the waiter was noncommittal.

The steak, when it came, was as advertised: truly enormous, a two-inch-thick slab of porterhouse so big that it hung over the sides of the plate, and bloody enough to please the most dedicated of flesh-eaters. By the time Gideon, who was not a particularly fast eater, had finished his pasta, John was only halfway into his steak, but there was little doubt that he meant to see the job through. Gideon settled back comfortably to watch, ordering a plate of assorted cheeses to go with his remaining wine.

“Say, John, are you sure you don’t want a couple of pounds of fries to go with that?”

John just grinned and chewed away, jaws grinding and neck tendons popping. “Let me finish this first. Then we’ll see.”

It took him another forty minutes to reach his limit, at which point he regretfully but contentedly set down his knife and fork.

When their waiter brought coffee and cleared their plates, he looked at the tiny amount of meat that John had left and shook his head wonderingly. “Only Americans can eat so much. And Germans.”

“Was that a compliment or an insult?” John asked Gideon afterward.

“John, I honestly don’t know.”

• • •

AS one would expect, John took a long time over his coffee, so it was two thirty by the time they got back to Figline and the villa. There was a tour bus at the front of the building— Degustazioni di Vino, Visite Guidate it said on the side—and the occupants, two dozen or so rather beat-looking older people, were slowly descending the steps and moving toward the entrance, so John and Gideon went around to the back and entered through the opening in the section of the old city wall that served as the back wall of the garden.

At the other end of the garden were two people seated at a table on the terrace: a placid, sturdy-looking older woman in Birkenstocks and a young man who was anything but placid. The woman sat there stolidly. The young man was agitatedly gesturing and talking angrily away despite a near-continuous, shuddering cough. The closer Gideon and John came, the more obvious his agitation was.

“Guy’s on something,” John said.

“Sure is. He’s practically vibrating.”

As they neared, a particularly violent bout of coughing shut down the young man’s ranting, and he reached for a purple, hourglass-shaped bottle on the table. Gideon recognized it as Giorniquilla, an evil-tasting Italian cough medicine that he’d tried when he’d had a cold during an earlier visit to Italy and had found to be about as effective as American cough medicines were, which is to say not very.

The young man tipped the bottle to his mouth and took an alarmingly long swig.

“What do you want to bet that isn’t cough medicine?” John whispered—they were getting close to hearing range. “I don’t think it’s booze either. This guy isn’t drunk, he’s totally stoned. Wired. Baked. Probably got it mixed with something—coke, that’d be my guess.”

“I don’t know. Seems to have stopped his cough.”

They had to pass within a few feet of the table to get into the villa, and they nodded at the couple. The woman responded with an abstracted nod, the young man, no longer coughing but seemingly trying to head off another spell of it, stared blankly at them, hand pressed flat to his chest, not registering anything.

“Did you see the guy’s eyes?” John asked as they entered the villa.

Gideon nodded. “Pupils twice their normal size, whites of his eyes—what there was of them—more red than white.”

“Stoned,” John said again.

In the hallway they ran into Luca heading from the winery building to the north wing, where Vino e Cucina was being held in the great kitchen. Head down, he was shaking his head and mumbling to himself.

“Luca?” Gideon said. “What’s wrong?”

Luca stopped, startled, so buried in his thoughts that he hadn’t been aware of them. “Ah, it’s that miserable, sneaky, two-faced . . . it’s Cesare, goddamn him.”

“What’d he do?” John asked.

“He’s suing us, can you believe it? Suing Franco, anyway, which means we could lose the damn winery.” He jerked his head and grumbled a little more to himself. “He walks in out of nowhere with his lawyer, and calmly informs us he’s going to sue us. Well, not so calmly, I guess.”

“What’s he suing you about?” Gideon asked.