McCabe opened his eyes, looking up at the beamed ceiling and stone walls of Casale Vecchia, and for a split second forgot where he was. He got up and went outside and took a leak in the bushes next to the house. It was a bright clear day, a cool breeze blowing up the hill. He looked out across the lush green countryside and saw the dark shapes and angles of Viterbo about five kilometers away.
He went back inside, splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth at the kitchen sink. He was tired, groggy. There was a clock on the wall. It was 9:30. He'd slept maybe three hours. He rubbed his eyes, yawned and stretched, trying to wake up.
He'd brought eggs, pancetta and bread from Angela's apartment. He found coffee in the freezer, and put it in the coffee maker on the counter and made a pot. He fried the pancetta in a skillet on the stovetop. Cracked six eggs in a bowl and found a whisk in a drawer and beat them. The ciabatta was hard so he put it in the oven to soften it. He scrambled the eggs and sprinkled in grated cheese. Drained the pancetta on a paper towel to get rid of the grease. Took the bread out of the oven and buttered it. He put the eggs, pancetta and bread on heavy white plates and poured coffee in two mugs, put everything on a tray and took it to the dining table in the main room.
He knocked on the bathroom door and said, "Want something to eat?"
She didn't answer. He put the key in the lock and opened the door. She was stretched out on the floor, blanket under her, looking up at him, yawning.
"Come out if you're hungry." He closed the door and went to the table and waited for a couple minutes, and when she still wasn't out he scooped up a forkful of eggs and put it in his mouth. He ate the scrambled eggs and pancetta, and when he was finished, wiped the plate clean with a piece of stale bread.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and she appeared, hair pulled back in a ponytail, crossed the room and sat at the table across from McCabe but didn't look at him. She stared at the plate of food, picked up her fork and took a bite of eggs and made a face.
"It's cold," she said.
"That's what happens when hot food sits too long," McCabe said. "You don't come right away."
She picked up the coffee mug and took a sip, eyes looking over the rim at him. She took a bite of her cold eggs and ate them and went back for more. She ate like she was hungry, and drank the coffee and ignored him. He watched her thinking how good she looked first thing in the morning. He said, "How do you like it?"
She didn't say anything, just kept eating.
He waited till she laid her fork on the empty plate and said, "How do I get in touch with Roberto Mazara?"
She glanced at him and said, "I don't know."
"You like it in there," he said indicating the bathroom.
"Because that's where you're going to be spending most of your time."
"Believe me," she said. "He's not going to give you the money."
McCabe said, "Want to bet? I got something of his and he's going to want it back."
"I don't belong to Roberto," she said, "If that's what you are saying."
"As long as he thinks you do," McCabe said.
"He is going to come after you," Angela said. "And he is not going to stop."
"That's okay," McCabe said. "But he better bring the money. All of it."
"I don't think he has all of it," she said. "I'm sure the money has been divided among his men."
McCabe said. "Where's your share? We can start there."
Angela said, "He has not given it to me."
"You're either lying or you're being scammed."
"Who are you, you think you can take on this armed gang?"
"I'm not Chip Tallenger from Greenwich, Connecticut. I'll tell you that. My dad's a retired ironworker living on a pension."
"The story in the newspaper said you were rich."
"I'm not," McCabe said.
"The amount of the ransom seemed insignificant," she said, "to someone so wealthy."
"Did you hear what I said?"
Angela said, "Why do you think I am going to help you?"
"You like sleeping next to the toilet?" McCabe said. He slid a pen and piece of paper across the table to her. "Write down his number."
She crumpled the paper in a ball, threw it at him and missed. He got up and went around the table at her, but she was already on her feet, holding the fork in her fist, arm raised, ready to fight him.
"Put it down." He moved toward her and she tried to stab him. He stepped back, and she came at him, swung again and he blocked her arm and took the fork out of her hand, and dropped it on the floor.
She made a run for the kitchen and he caught her before she got to the doorway, standing behind her, holding her arms. She tried to free herself, tried to kick him. He bent her back and dragged her to the bathroom, pushed her in, and locked the door. She was pounding on the hardwood, yelling in Italian.
There wasn't much he could do with her at the moment, and wasn't much he could do without her. He'd wait till she cooled down and try again.
McCabe went back to the table and picked up the fork. He took the dishes into the kitchen and washed them. He went back into the main room. The pounding had stopped. He stretched out on the couch and fell asleep.