Dr Mencuccini said, "Impressive, isn't it?"
She gazed out across the lower level of the Colosseum, students packed in a tight group in front of her.
"Fifty thousand Romans could enter and be in their seats in ten minutes. Can you imagine that happening in a modern stadium?"
McCabe wondered if he paid more attention to Dr Mencuccini than his other teachers because she was good- looking. She reminded him of an aging starlet, early forties, with a small knockout body and dark hair. She had her own style, wore scarves and coats over her shoulders, and designer sunglasses.
Chip standing behind him said, "'All gladiators up to the training area at once,'" in a theatrical Brit voice.
The students around him could hear but not the teacher.
Dr Mencuccini said, "The concrete core — with its miles of corridors and stairways — was a masterpiece of engineering."
Chip said, '"What sort of man is this leader of the slaves?' 'I don't know. I think they call him Spartacus.'"
McCabe could see students next to him smiling.
Dr Mencuccini fixed her gaze on him and said, "Signor McCabe, do you have something to add?"
McCabe said, "I didn't say anything."
"With your cuts and bruises, you look like a gladiator who fought here," Dr Mencuccini said.
Behind him, Chip said, "'Get back. I tell you, he's an expert with a Thracian sword.'"
Students around Chip were laughing now.
Dr Mencuccini said, "Signor Tallenger, do you want to come up here and entertain us?"
"Mi dispiace, Dottore," Chip said.
"Prego," Dr Mencuccini said. "Do you mind if I continue?"
"Per favore," Chip said.
She said, "To celebrate the thousandth birthday of Rome, gladiators slaughtered thirty-two elephants, ten tigers, sixty lions, ten giraffes, forty wild horses, ten hippopotamuses and twenty Etruscans. It all happened right here." She paused and continued. "Condemned criminals — and occasionally Christians — were stripped naked and thrown to the lions. The violence of ancient Rome has troubled scholars for centuries. Were the Romans exceptionally bloodthirsty?" She scanned the students in front of her. "Signor Tallenger?"
Chip said, "I defer to my learned colleague, Signor McCabe."
"Signor McCabe?"
"It was violence at a distance," McCabe said. "Safe and controlled. Like a boxing match, or a violent movie." He was aware of students around him, watching him.
"Molto bene" Dr Mencuccini said.
'"Spartacus, you know things that can't be taught,"' Chip said. '"Why a star falls and a bird doesn't. Where the sun goes at night. Why the moon changes shape… where the wind comes from."'
Dr Mencuccini, amused herself now, said, "I don't recognize the lines. What is that from?"
" Spartacus" Chip said. "Appropriate, don't you think?"
"Yes. And I think that's enough for today. I will see you all Thursday at Campidoglio. Ciao."
They walked out of the Colosseum, Chip and McCabe, and stood there surrounded by tour groups and students. It was four o'clock, classes over for the day.
Chip said, "Let's get a beer."
McCabe said, "I can't. I've got to go back to the police station, meet Captain Ferrara. More photos he wants me to see."
"Call me when you're finished," Chip said.
McCabe walked along Via dei Fori Imperiali, the Roman Forum to his left below street level. He passed the Basilica of Constantine and Maxentius and the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina and the Forum of Caesar.
At Piazza Venezia he thought about taking a cab, but decided against it and walked down Via del Corso to the Condotti area, trying to find the enoteca Angela had taken him to.
He thought it was on the corner where Delia Croce met Via Bocca di Leone. He went there looking at the back-alley intersection, remembered the bar, remembered sitting at a sidewalk table across from Angela, thinking how lucky he was and trying to make the most of it. He went inside, scanned the people sitting at the bar, didn't see a good-looking girl with streaks in her hair, and went back out. He tried to remember which way they'd gone when they left the enoteca, but he hadn't been paying much attention, his main focus was on Angela that afternoon.
He walked to Via Mario de' Fiore, took a left and then a right on Via delle Carrozze. He thought it was on the corner.
Remembered the red awnings and the rows of round tables set up outside, and the waiters in white sport coats with gold trim.
He sat at a table and ordered a beer and watched people go by. He saw Angela's friend, Enzo, come out of the restaurant with a tray of drinks and serve four well-dressed, middle-aged women. He came toward McCabe's table, carrying the tray under his arm.
McCabe said, "Enzo, how're you doing? I'm a friend of Angela's. We were supposed to meet here." He said it one guy to another. The waiter stopped and looked at him. It was obvious he didn't recognize McCabe or have a clue who he was.
"Have you phone her?" Enzo said.
"I've tried for over an hour," McCabe said. "I think she's talking to someone."
"Women," Enzo said. He turned his hand sideways, opening and closing his thumb and fingers, making a mouth.
McCabe nodded. Now they had a common bond, men waiting for women to stop talking, get off the phone. Like it was a problem all men had to deal with. "You know where she lives?"
"Near the Colosseum," Enzo said.
McCabe said, "What direction?"
"Via Cavour?" Enzo said.
McCabe knew where Via Cavour was. It ran northwest from Via dei Fori Imperiali. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start.
McCabe had seen a Budget car rental office on Via del Corso. He walked there from the restaurant, ten blocks, and rented a blue Fiat Stilo with a credit card, a Visa, his dad told him to use only in an emergency, as a last resort. He thought what he was about to do qualified. The car cost?43 a day. Not knowing how long he’d need it, he rented it for a week.
He took a left on Via del Corso and drove straight down toward the Colosseum. He’d never driven in Rome, and it took him a few minutes to get used to it, cars and motorbikes flying by him like he was in slow motion. By the time he got to Piazza Venezia he was keeping up with traffic, feeling confident behind the wheel, his Detroit rush-hour instincts coming back.
It was 6:07 when he took a left on Via Cavour, cruising the streets to the south, Via Frangipane, Via delle Carine and Via degli Annibaldi, catching glimpses of the Colosseum in the distance. Traffic was heavy and it was difficult to take his eyes off the road for more than a couple seconds at a time. It was a residential neighborhood, beautiful old apartment buildings, restaurants and shops lining the streets on both sides. He was looking for a red Lancia and a dark-haired girl with blonde streaks in her hair, which described half the women he saw. He didn't even know if the car was hers, but that's all he had to go on — not knowing her last name or anything else about her except she had an uncle who lived in Detroit.
Now he tried the neighborhood north of Cavour, taking Via della Madonna dei Monti past the Hotel Forum and Birra Moretti. There were more bars and cafes. This area looked familiar. He'd been to Birra Moretti, an Italian beer hall, one night with Chip and a group of students, drinking beer out of glass boots. There was a cafe he passed next to Hotel Duca di Alba that also looked familiar.
He'd been driving around for an hour and twenty minutes. He was thinking about giving up, thinking that what he was doing was insane. He wasn't going to find this girl and if he did, what was he going to do with her? He pulled over and parked on the street, considered taking the car back, cut his losses.
There was a map of Rome in the console between the seats, courtesy of Budget. He took it out and unfolded it. He found his approximate location, traced a line where he’d been down Via Cavour and the neighborhoods north and south. To the west was Via del Corso and Piazza Venezia. There was another neighborhood to the east he hadn't been to yet. He glanced in the rearview mirror and when the traffic was clear in both directions he made a U-turn. He drove a couple blocks and it turned into Via Leonina. Nothing.
He drove back the way he had come. If she had a view of the Colosseum, her apartment had to be closer to it. He passed the tunnel that led to San Pietro in Vincoli, a little piazza tucked back behind the buildings lining the east side of Via Cavour. He parked and ran across the street and went up the steps and through the tunnel.
The square was surrounded by buildings, and had a parking lot in the center that was filled with motorcycles, hundreds of them, and cars. He walked past the university building, students standing in groups on the steps in front, talking, and a vendor truck that said BIBITE, GELATI, COLD DRINKS on a brown awning that ran along the side.
He walked down the street to Bar del Mose and went in and had a quick espresso. He came out, and went left and saw the Colosseum. He walked down Via della Polveriera and saw a red Lancia parked across the street from an umber-colored apartment building. He looked in the driver's side window. It had tan leather seats, and the front left fender was dented. He pictured it on the road that day when they caught him trying to get away. It was 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.