Chapter 5

 

Dinner was surprisingly pleasant. Janet looked gorgeous and the girl she had brought along was bubbly and nice. Herbie behaved himself. When we were offered a pre-dinner drink he looked at me first and said he fancied a Heineken so we both had one while the women had white wine. He also had a glass of wine with his meal and that was that. By ten o'clock we were through, with no blood on the tablecloth. But I knew he wasn't going to leave it like that. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It was still warm outside, close to eighty, one of those soft Toronto nights when you wouldn't choose to be anywhere else in the world. I didn't fancy heading back upstairs to put in three hours watching TV so I asked the girl, Lindie, if she could suggest somewhere to go.

"Oh yes," she almost squealed. "I'd love to go to Grungie's. They have a great band." She appealed to Herbie. "Electric Jam, d'you know them?"

I thought he flinched but he said, "Yeah, they're great."

Janet looked at me. "Bach it won't be."

I winked at her. "Let's try it, you're a long time dead."

We got a cab and found the place, which sported a strong smell of grass and was infested with more Mohawk haircuts than have been in one place since the battle of The Little Big Horn. I turned and shrugged at Janet: "I hope the U.S. Cavalry's within hailing distance, the natives look restless."

She laughed and pressed me forward. "Onward to the fountain of youth," she said. The band was the usual hairy bunch of louts, all trying to beat some sense into their guitars but there was draft beer on sale so all was not lost.

Lindie was ecstatic. Her blonde curls were bobbing as she nodded in time to the upfront rhythm. "Aren't they great?" she squealed. Herbie's head was twitching to the music as well so I looked at Janet and shrugged. She swallowed a giggle and we squeezed ourselves around the end of a table that wasn't quite full.

There was a napkin dispenser on it so I pulled one out and tore off a couple of small pieces for ear plugs. Janet gestured and I did the same for her. It made things tolerable. I ordered draft beers for everyone and we sipped while the kids grooved. Conversation was impossible but I was able to look at Janet, who was well worth the trouble.

I also looked around the club. Old habits die hard. The place was as squalid as any bar in Belfast and if I'd been there I would have chosen some spot with my back to the wall. That wasn't necessary in law-abiding Toronto but I wanted to know where the heat might come from if Herbie decided to pull any stunts.

The bouncer was obvious. He was around six-two, two-thirty, with the chest development that said he pumped iron three hours a day. He had a bouffant hairdo that made him six-six and he was wearing a summer suit with a tie knotted but not snugged up into the collar which was an eighteen by the look of it and not quite big enough. He looked like the kind of guy who would buy season tickets to Rambo.

After a few minutes, Herbie excused himself. I debated going with him but decided he needed a little space so I watched to see that he went to the washroom. It was downstairs so he couldn't squeeze through a window and leave me with egg on my face. I noticed him speaking to the bouncer as he went out and saw the guy follow him with his eyes, a puzzled look coming over his blank face.

Then Herbie came back and he was the life of the party, bending forward to tell Lindie something that made her giggle helplessly. And then the bouncer was at the table.

He stood on the far side, beyond Herbie and the girl but he was speaking to me. "Hey. You."

I looked up at him without answering and he repeated himself. "You. You in the suit."

"What's on your mind, friend?"

"I don' like your attitude," he said. Even above the roar of the music I could hear that he was imitating Stallone.

"What's wrong with it?" I glanced at Herbie who was suddenly concentrating on the band, drumming his fingers and beaming.

The bouncer came around the table to stand beside me. "The little guy says you figure I'm gay."

"Don't mind him. He'll say anything when he's drunk," I said, but I drew my feet up ready to act if he swung.

He did, but before he could complete it I had drop-kicked him in the testicles, but lightly. He sank to his knees, clutching his groin, making fish mouths.

"This man is drunk," I said loudly. "Come on, let's go, this place is disgusting."

Janet was on her feet in a second, then Lindie. Herbie was still sitting, staring at the bouncer. I reached down and grabbed him, apparently by the shirt, but actually giving him a finger and thumb horsebite under the armpit. He yowled and straightened up and we made for the door through the chorus of screams that sprang up behind us.

I whispered in Herbie's ear, "Any more tricks like that and I'm going to let the guy tear your ears off, okay?"

He didn't say anything but I could feel him trembling under my arm.

We took a taxi back to the hotel and walked the women down to Janet's car. I took her key and unlocked it and put them both in. Then I bent down and gave her a kiss, not as quick a kiss as I'd expected. Her mouth was soft and she put her hand on the back of my head and held me for a long moment. It was much more satisfying than the kisses I'd had the night before.

She let go at last and said, "Thank you for a very interesting evening, John. I'll see you when you get back."

"For sure. Take good care of yourself." I winked at her and she grinned and drove off.

Herbie and I headed towards the elevator. He went straight to bed and once I was sure he was asleep, I went into my room and undressed, leaving the door open so I'd hear him if he tried to sneak out. He didn't and I was soon asleep.

I woke up at five, as I generally do, and looked in on Herbie. He was out cold, sleeping like a baby. I left him and put on my running gear, took my keys, and went down to the car. I drove it home through the quiet streets as the sun came up, parking in my usual spot to the left of the garage, then ran back to the hotel, the long way, down Mount Pleasant to the waterfront across to the foot of University and back up to the hotel. It's only four miles so I made a couple of quick tours of Queen's Park to round it out to six and was back to the suite before Sleeping Beauty had come out of his coma. I showered and then woke him up around seven thirty and got our last day in Canada started with bacon and eggs in the room.

We shopped and had lunch and headed out to the airport at three thirty to give us lots of time for the six o'clock flight. Herbie was subdued all day, sullen rather than penitent but at least he didn't pull any stunts. We checked in at the Alitalia counter and the girl asked us to wait a moment, we were expected. Herbie looked at me. "What's this, we getting the V.I.P. treatment? I didn't think they knew my old man in Wopland."

"Hold your silver tongue," I told him. "They don't."

One of the pilots came for us, a movie-star in uniform. He clicked his heels and asked, "Signor Locke?"

"Yes, and this is Mr. Ridley."

The pilot beamed politely then ignored Herbie and led us through the crew entrance, flashing an ID for the security people. They let us through and we were in the lounge. The pilot left us and went back to his pre-flight checks and I pulled Herbie into the duty-free store.

"I'm going to pick up a bottle of Irish," I told him. "Have you got a camera to take with you?"

"A camera?" His scorn was an inch thick.

"You're going to be around some of the most beautiful paintings and buildings in the world. If you don't take a camera you'll be sorry later on, when you're trying to remember them."

He sighed. "Listen, this isn't my idea, eh. Like none of it. My grandmother wants me to look at a lot of dumb paintings but I'd rather be on Cape Cod or someplace. Okay?"

"Stick with me," I told him patiently. They have Bushmills Black Bush in duty-free shops, so I picked up a liter for myself then went to the camera counter and got a Pentax for the kid. He tagged along, more to question my purchases than to be agreeable. The camera made him curious. "Why don't you get an automatic?" he wanted to know.

Contact! It was the first sign of animation he'd shown, even if it was negative.

"They're fine for people who don't have any imagination. But if you want depth of field or backlighting or anything at all tricky, you have to make decisions an automatic doesn't allow for. Trust me." It wasn't time to lecture him but even though he sniffed and pulled away, I could see he was interested. Maybe his grandmother was right, an artist was lurking beneath the slob.

Next we went to the bookstore and I picked up a collection of cryptic crossword puzzles while he got the latest blood-and-thunder paperback. And then we waited and finally we were aboard the first class section and on our way.

The service was spectacular and so were the hostesses, two ripe Latin charmers with eyes carved out of anthracite. I'd made a point of sticking Herbie next to the window so he couldn't get cute with the girls who danced attendance on me because of the gun they knew I was wearing. I had moved it to my left hip. You can't fly nine hours with a pistol in the small of your back.

We had an excellent dinner with a couple of glasses of Asti Spumante and by midnight, Herbie was asleep and I was working through the second of the London Times crosswords. One of the girls was attentive enough that I was tempted to set something up in Florence but decided against it. You're working, Locke. You'll have to fit in your assignations around your assignment, not vice versa.

We had an Italian breakfast of rolls and caffelatte and touched down in Malpensa airport at nine thirty. We took our luggage and transferred by bus to Linate for the hop to Florence. Maybe because of jet lag Herbie had nothing to say on the trip. He looked around him at the bustling, excited Italians with typical WASP scorn but didn't bother making any snide remarks. At Linate we were once again ushered past security and within an hour we were in a taxi amidst the Sunday morning traffic of Florence.

Florence is a deceptive city. It doesn't have the grandeur and sweep of Rome, nor the menacing hyperactivity of Naples. Most of its grandeur is indoors and its people are laid back and friendly. You could almost be in some well-preserved English town, except for the sunshine and the occasional glimpses of magnificent churches. From the cab, traveling down unremarkable main streets between warm old buildings of brick or Tuscan limestone, before you've seen the inside of the museums, you could wonder what all the fuss is about. So the place has been in business for seven hundred years. So what?

This must have been Herbie's first impression. He recovered his confidence. "This place is a dump," he said. "Look at all these crummy old places."

"Yeah. They haven't changed a bit since Columbus was a cabin boy."

He looked at me. "I didn't know he was a Wop?" The cab driver spoke good English and I saw his eyes dart to the mirror at the word.

"Listen, Herb. If you want to go home again with a full set of teeth, I suggest you drop that kind of talk for the duration of your stay. Understood?"

He sucked his teeth like he was taking inventory and lay back in the seat, bored, bored, bored.

The Rega is a comfortable place, about three hundred meters up river from the Ponte Vecchio which we passed on the way. I noticed that the jewelry shops were all closed but the bridge was jammed with street vendors. Herbie looked at them and snorted. "What is this, schlock city?"

"Not during business hours. Some of the best jewelers in the world have stores on that bridge," I told him but he shrugged. Maybe an earthquake would have got his interest, but I doubted it that day.

The hotel was comfortable. There aren't any look-alike North American chain hotels in Florence and this place had probably been doing business for three hundred years but they'd spiffed it up with a bar on the ground floor and an elevator which we took to the top where we overlooked the river. Again we had a suite and I let Herb pick which room he wanted. Not that he wanted either one. He slumped face down on the bed like a drowning victim while I unpacked my gear.

"Hang your clothes up, it'll get the creases out," I told him but he ignored me. I took the opportunity to shower and change and when I came back out he was sitting up on the bed, legs and arms folded, the body English statement that nobody was home.

"This is bullshit," he said. "Did you see all those people out there, thousands of dumb tourists with nothing better to do than walk around some Wop town when they could be on a beach somewhere."

"Most of them have saved for years for the opportunity," I said easily. "Now are you going to shower or are you coming out like that?"

"Coming out where? I'm staying here," he said. It was another test. Was I going to drag him by the collar with his heels making grooves on the floor? I thought not.

"Suit yourself, I'm going for a drink."

I went to the door and he lashed out with another attack. "Is that all you do, drink? What're you, a wino?"

"Beer mostly," I said cheerfully and went out. I wasn't sure he wouldn't make a run for it, not with any purpose in mind but just to embarrass me if his grandmother should call and ask to speak to him, so I went only as far as the bar on the ground floor and had an espresso. Within fifteen minutes he was down. He hadn't showered but that didn't matter too much. At his age you can't really tell.

I called out to him, "Hi, in here," and he came. That was surprising, but not very. He'd spent so much of his time being superior that he felt vulnerable in a place where people didn't speak his language. He flopped into the chair next to mine and asked, "What's that, more booze?"

"Espresso. Want a cup? It'll keep you going a while."

He shrugged so I called the waiter and ordered. "What's the big deal about keeping going anyway?" he asked.

"It's the best way to handle jetlag. We'll try to adapt to the pattern here. We can have an early night, but you do better if you try to fall into their rhythm." I was tired myself but I've done enough traveling to know the ropes.

He shrugged again and ignored the waiter when the coffee came. I said, "Grazie, signor," and Herbie sneered. I was beginning to recognize why. He was breathtakingly ignorant and aware enough of the fact to act superior. "Why'd you say that? He was just doing his job."

"Manners cost nothing," I told him. "Drink it and we'll head out for a look around."

He sighed. "Look at what?"

"Finish your coffee," I told him. "I'll show you."

He sipped it and pulled a suffering face. I watched, without comment, listening to the crisp ripple of an Italian conversation in the lobby. I don't speak the language but I've been in the army long enough to recognize authority when I hear it. Then the manager of the hotel came into the bar, moving on tiptoe, the way people seem to around trouble. Behind him was a thirtyish man in a gray suit of some metallic-looking material that changed color as he moved. He had a bushy moustache and was holding a passport in his right hand, tapping it impatiently against his left thumb. The passport looked Canadian. The man was unmistakably a cop.

The manager smiled at me, nervously. "Signor Locke, this is Tenente Capelli." He dropped back and the tenente took over.

"You are John Locke?"

"That's right. Is that my passport?"

He ignored that one. "Signor Locke, can you come with me, please?"

"Where to?" I didn't get up.

The tenente shrugged. "It's not important. I understand you have a gun with you, a pistola?"

Herbie looked at me with new respect. I nodded politely. "That's right, tenente. I have a permit to carry it."

The tenente gave me a smile you could have cut up into ice cubes. "An Italian permit?"

"No, Canadian."

He expanded, opening like a flower in the warmth of his own righteousness. "You will have observed, Signor Locke, that you are in Firenze, not Montreal. Your permit is not good in Firenze."

"And you want me to turn the gun in?"

He sighed. Maybe Herbie was infectious. "Of course. Italy is not the Wild West, Signor Locke. Italian people do not need guns to walk around the streets."

I smiled, amiable as ever. "Do you have some identification, tenente?"

That made him stiffen angrily. I guessed he was a wheel in town, everyone was supposed to know him by sight. But I didn't. After a pause he pulled out a little leather folder, flipped it open and showed it to me. It was official enough, a good likeness, a thumbprint and his rank, Tenente Giacomo Capelli. I noted that he was with the Polizia, the city department, not the Carabinieri, which is federal.

I stood up. He was tall but I was taller and he didn't like that. He said nothing as I unbuckled my belt and pulled it free of the loops on my pants and the holster in the small of my back. I held the holster with my left hand and brought it around. He reached out his hand to take it but I didn't give it to him. You don't hand over guns that way, not in the army. I took it out of the holster and slipped the magazine out, then opened the action and handed over the gun.

He took it and closed the action then held out his hand for the magazine. I was flipping the rounds out, one by one, with my thumb. He clicked his fingers impatiently but I kept on until all seven were out, then handed over the magazine.

"The bullets," he said. He was enjoying himself. There's a lot of sexuality about guns and disarming people is good for the macho character.

"You'll get them when I have a receipt with the serial number of my weapon on it," I told him.

He snorted but produced a notebook and took a property receipt from the back of it. He made it out and handed it to me. I nodded thanks and checked the number. It was correct and he had his name and rank on it and it was signed properly, the same way his ID had been. I handed over the shells and he slipped them into his pocket. "When you leave our city I will let you have the gun back, but not the bullets," he said. There was no arrogance now. He'd done his job, he was going. A professional, I reckoned, grudgingly.

"I'll look forward to it."

He turned on his heel and went out without speaking. Herbie was sniggering. "You sure told him," he said.

"Don't worry," I promised. "If anyone tries to shoot you, I'll show him this receipt. That'll cool him out." My mind wasn't on the conversation, I was wondering how the grapevine had heard so soon that I was tooled up. Either the tenente had a direct line to airline security at the top level, or else someone in Canada had given him the word. It changed everything.