TWENTY-ONE

Dusting off My Italian   

We were met at the airport by a half-dozen men in slightly oversized business attire with bulges evident just below their shoulders. They apparently had the same Italian tailor because they wore identical black suits, wingtips, flesh-toned earpieces, and watches on their wrists that were either made by Rolex or the Chinese outfit that knocks them off.

They were serious, big-boned, well-muscled individuals, the lot of them – all essentially humorless – who communicated in subtle whispers with vague accents. To Caeli and me, they said nothing, though I got the feeling that Elmore and Leonard were comfortable in their presence.

They’d divided themselves into three groups of two, with each group in possession of identical black GM Denali SUVs that were enormous, even by American standards.

Or so it seemed at the time.

Caeli and I were waved inside one of the rigs. We sat in the middle seat while our two escorts climbed wordlessly into the front.

Elmore and Leonard, along with Leonard’s attending physician (we’d learned coming off the plane that his name was Bartol O’Dwyer), were waved inside another Denali by a second pair of bodyguards.

The third SUV brought up the rear of our little convoy, the proverbial shotgun rider, I suppose, and we started off in the blackness of night, with the rain hammering the windshield and visibility difficult at best.

“This thing is as big as a stagecoach,” I whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Caeli asked in a normal tone of voice.

“Good question.”

“You’ve been inside a lot of stagecoaches?” she asked a moment later.

“Just one, on the lot at Warner Bros. Studios, when I was visiting my cousin Jerry, the famous dentist to the stars,” I said. “It was on one of the streets where they filmed Westerns, just sitting there, unattached to a horse, nobody around, and somebody said John Wayne and Gabby Hayes both used it at one time or another. I couldn’t help myself and climbed on board.”

Caeli gave me the look again.

I knew from experience that I should provide her with some reassurance in return. But I was still dead tired, and the Whopper Jr. felt like a lead weight in my gut, and I’ll grant that I wasn’t at my best.

I tried this instead:

“Don’t you find it odd that the steering wheel is on the wrong side of a rig this large – that the driver is sitting where the passenger should be, and that we’re going only god knows where with people we don’t know who haven’t so much as told us their names?”

“Which part of that should I answer?” she asked.

I gave her one of my looks – yeah, I can do that, too – but she didn’t notice and certainly didn’t acknowledge it, which defeats the purpose of giving someone the look anyway.

Because we had no idea where we were off to, other than a brief assurance from Elmore that the boss (and he didn’t specify whether it was the don himself or Fredo) made the arrangements ahead of our arrival, I decided to pose a question or two of my own.

Understand, I would have asked Elmore – would have preferred to ask him, in fact. But he wasn’t available, and I had no choice but to engage the tight-lipped hired help in casual conversation.

“Gentlemen,” I said, opening with a bit of flattery that I thought might soften them up. “Would you be so kind as to tell us where we’re going?”

The query was met with stony silence, which was puzzling. I’ve always found the don’s people to be polite, if not affable – Leonard being the exception.

Then it occurred to me that perhaps they couldn’t hear me over the clatter of the windshield wipers and road noise and lord only knows what was coming through those tinny earpieces, so I tried it again, speaking more loudly this time.

“Guys,” I said. “Where are we off to?”

Again, nothing – not even so much as an annoyed glance, which Leonard surely would have delivered were he riding with us.

Caeli poked my arm.

“Maybe they don’t speak English,” she said.

“Good thinking. But my Irish is a bit limited,” I said, having some fun. “Would you like to try?”

Caeli was tired as well. I know because of the look she gave me, which was only slightly different from the one I’d earned moments earlier.

“Work some magic, Max,” she said.

“OK, I’ll try some Italian – see if that’s their lingua franca.”

I gave it some thought and then said, “Mi scusi, signori. Dove stiamo andando?”

Silence again.

Caeli and I exchanged glances.

I tried for annoyed. Hell, I certainly felt annoyed – as well as ignored and even abandoned, in an off-centered sort of way.

Caeli simply looked amused.

“Try something else,” she said. “Maybe your phrasing isn’t quite right.”

“My phrasing is fine,” I muttered softly. Apparently I was back to whispering again.

I rubbed at my eyes with the palms of my hand, taking a moment, and served this up:

“Scusi. Puo indicarmi qualche vigna o ristorante in Toscana?”

More silence, until Caeli prompted me to tell her what I’d said – “I only caught the Tuscan restaurant part.”

“Sure,” I said. “It was, ‘Pardon me. Could you recommend any vineyards or restaurants in Tuscany?’ ”

“Maybe they aren’t from Tuscany,” she said. “Maybe they don’t know any good vineyards or restaurants there.”

She was having fun with me now, forcing me to try something else, ensuring that our one-dimensional bodyguards knew that I wasn’t a man who took being ignored lightly.

“Rallenti, per favore.”

Translation: “Please slow down.”

Nothing.

“Dove possiamo comprare dei biglietti del treno?”

Translation: “Where can I buy train tickets?”

Still nothing.

I tried once more, aiming this line at the guy behind the Denali’s luxurious steering wheel: “Guida come una novantenne.”

In English: “You drive like a 90-year-old woman.”

It didn’t produce so much as a head-turn.

“I’m striking out,” I said to Caeli. “Apparently they don’t speak Italian, or at least not with me. I’ll suggest this again: Why not serve them up a dish of Irish, with boiled praties and some rashers on the side, and see if that doesn’t spark a little conversation?”

I actually thought that Caeli was considering it, perhaps organizing her thoughts to get the correct phrasings in order, seeing as how she doesn’t often get a chance to exercise her linguistic chops with her mother’s native tongue. But the moment passed, and I tossed out a final Italian afterthought because I’d given up on our silent companions and just wanted to crawl into a nice warm bed.

“Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.”

Caeli recognized the line from Dante’s Inferno – “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” – and added a solemn coda:

“Amen.”

The boys in the front seats were unamused, or at least unaffected.

Then I thought of the damn phone, which was secured in my pocket. I mumbled a few chidings and punched in Elmore’s direct number, thankful that the Denalis, just like the Range Rover, were equipped with satellite antennas that enhanced reception.

“Professor B,” he said when he picked up. “Everything OK?”

“Everything’s fine. How’s Leonard?” I asked, warming up.

“Better,” Elmore said. “Doc O’Dwyer says he’ll be good as new in a few days.”

“Good,” I said, and I even meant it. Despite our differences, Leonard has come through for us on more than one occasion during our various adventures, and I’d hate to think that he was forced into early retirement on our account.

If Leonard was listening in, he gave no indication, and that, too, was fine.

“Listen, Elmore, not to be nosy and all, but where are we going, exactly? And just who are these guys who are taking us there?”

“Yeah, sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat ahead of the pick-up,” he said. “We’re heading to a safe house outside of town. The guys are part of Mister F’s crew from the old country. Fredo made the arrangements for us, after he told the boss about Leonard.”

Freddy again – not the don, I thought.

I didn’t like the sound of it – or at least not what it implied – but I didn’t want to muddy the waters with Elmore’s take on Don Vincenzo’s condition. This wasn’t the time.

“Our friends aren’t too chatty,” I said.

“They operate a bit differently over here,” Elmore said. “We’ve worked with them before. They’re good guys, once you get to know them. I’d tell you their names, but then they’d have to kill you.”

I waited for him to acknowledge the old gag line with a chuckle or a “Just kidding” or some other form of humorous brush-off. But when the line went silent and stayed that way, I thought that he just might be serious and changed the subject.

“This safe house,” I said. “It’s safe – as in … safe?”

“Yeah,” Elmore said. “You’re in good hands. The six guys with us now aren’t the only ones around. We’re covered front and back and sideways. Relax. Enjoy the ride. We’ll be there soon. Then we can sack out. The world will look better in no time.”

“Anything?” Caeli asked me when I cut the connection.

“Yeah. Next time, when I’m speaking Italian, I’ll be choosier about the lines I use and the audience I deliver it to.”

I got the look again and whispered a shortened version of Elmore’s rundown.

It turned out that our safe house, so-called, was a 15th century castle that had been converted into a modern estate, with every imaginable luxury included: hot water, indoor lavatories, honest-to-god showers, glorious beds … the works.

“How in the hell did we end up here?” I asked Elmore as we climbed out of the SUVs and waited in place as four of the Italians cleared the grounds while the two who’d been with us remained close by.

There was no sign of the additional backup that Elmore mentioned – but that, too, was expected.

Even so, I was awake enough to keep a wary eye out for things that didn’t look as if they’d belong in the vicinity of an Irish castle – and yeah, I wondered for a fleeting instant how I’d recognize what that might look like.

“This place is owned by a friend of Mister F’s,” Elmore said. “We were here once before, a few years ago, for a couple of days. Wait ’til you see the inside. It’s got an indoor pool, a dungeon, a real shooting range, for god’s sake, and … ghosts.”

He lowered his voice at this last part, and I thought that he’d been kidding until I looked into his eyes.

“What kind of ghosts?”

“The knock-about kind,” he said. “I heard ’em, close by – very unsettling. Didn’t like it then. Won’t like it now. I’ll be asking for a room on the opposite side of the castle. You should, too – at least if you want a good night’s sleep.”

The Italians returned moments later with an all-clear hand-signal and steered us toward an open door that led into a spacious room that was as large as our entire home in Troutdale. A man in his mid-50s with gracious manners and a neatly trimmed beard approached us as we glanced about, gaping at the size of the place.

“Welcome to Castle Ballygarvan,” he said in an Irish accent that reminded me of Arthur Shields, the movie and stage actor. “Me name’s Liam Gallacher, and I’ll be after serving as yer host during yer time at the castle. Feel free to seek me out. I’m only too happy to see after yer needs, answer yer questions, ensure yer safety. Yer in good hands here, an’ for as long as ye like. If we don’t have it at Ballygarvan, we’ll do our best to find it for ye.”

He smiled solicitously, added “Call me Liam,” spreading his hands wide in a gesture that was seemingly designed to put us at ease, and moved on.

He spoke briefly with Elmore and Leonard, who was being helped by Doc O’Dwyer. Elmore then talked with the two bodyguards who’d ferried us to the castle and moments later approached us with a beaming smile.

“Gallacher’s new since we were here last, but he’s OK. No ghosts for us,” he said. “We’re all on the opposite wing.”

“In separate bedrooms, I hope,” Caeli said.

When I glanced her way with a Where-did-that-come-from? look, she said simply, “You told me Leonard snores, and I’m too tired to listen to that.”

Elmore grinned, and I again wondered what manner of woman I was going to marry. Caeli shrugged it off and asked about her bags.

“The staff will bring the luggage,” Elmore said.

Then he looked at me, his face screwing up in mock seriousness.

“The guys who drove you here told me to tell you your phrasing is passable, Professor B, but they think you need to work on, I don’t know, your diction or something. You want me to ask them again?”

“Everybody’s a critic,” I said. “No need, Elmore.”

As Gallacher led us up the grand staircase on steps cut from imported marble with elaborate bannisters featuring carved animal sculptures, I tugged at Caeli’s arm and pointed toward the ceiling, which was gilded in gold and painted in a fresco that rivaled, to my tired old eyes, the Sistine Chapel.

“Beautiful,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look, if only we weren’t here for other things.”

“Right,” I said. “But it’s damned impressive.”

We topped the stairs with Gallacher providing a running commentary to Elmore, Leonard, Doc O’Dwyer, and three of the Italians.

“I think I’ll grow a beard,” I said to Caeli.

“No you won’t,” she said. “It’ll make you look even older.”

“Did you just say even older?”

“You heard me, mister. Try to keep up.”

When you get to be my age, which is older than I ever thought I’d see, even if I don’t feel any older than I did when I was, say, 25 and was more or less in my proverbial prime, you tend not to sleep for long. That’s especially true in strange places with strange beds, strange mattresses, strange environs.

But I slept all right at Ballygarvan Castle – as well as I have in years. If Elmore’s ghosts were knocking about, they kept to the opposite side of the castle.

By the time I pulled myself out of the king-sized, four-poster bed in a room filled with tapestries and Celtic artwork that was as original as my teeth, and my teeth are damned sound, the sun was up and Caeli was gone and I had to take a moment to recall exactly where I was at that precise moment, and even how I’d gotten there.

By the time I’d showered and generally freshened up and found a clean outfit already laid out on an authentic dressing table, an exercise that took no more than 20 minutes, I considered myself to be refreshingly fit and damned hungry.

I found Caeli downstairs with Elmore, four of the Italians from the previous night, and Liam Gallacher.

“Ah, Professor Blake,” Gallacher said, and he mustered a smile that looked mostly genuine. “Grand of you to join us, sir – and right on time, I dare say.”

“Right,” I said, making my way toward Caeli, who looked radiant. I gave her a kiss – well, actually it was little more than a brush on the cheek, though it seemed appropriate and also appreciated – and sniffed the air, not for the first time since I’d been up and about.

“That smell,” I said. “May I ask …”

“An Irish breakfast, freshly prepared,” Gallacher said. “As indicated, you’re …”

“Yes. Right on time.”

“Right you are – nothin’ better than a bit o’ breakfast in the moment. Shall we?”

I could spend an entire chapter describing the meal in glorious detail and still not do it justice.

Maybe it was simply because we all were famished.

Then again, maybe it was because it was as good as it smelled and, looking back, tasted even better. In brief, we were offered four different types of eggs, bangers and mash with onion gravy, patty as well as additional links sausage, rashers, German kielbasa, smoked and fresh salmon, fresh trout, fresh fruit flown in from god only knows where with homemade whipped cream that was absolutely killer-diller in and of itself, sliced tomatoes, baked beans in a tomato sauce, toast and biscuits and scones and croissants and rolls and five or six selections of jam, plus honey, and tea and coffee – what am I missing?

In looking at my notes, all I put down was this:

“Find a second job, or even a first, and buy this place and hire the people who cook here. The breakfast was Mad Dog-like, times twentyfold.”

Mad Dog is our friend Jim Maddaux, who owns the Busic Court Restaurant back home and serves up a superb breakfast of his own. If my feeling at the time was that it matched Dog’s efforts, I can only add here that it was damn good.

“I’d gain 20 pounds a week if I ate here regularly,” I said to Caeli.

“You’ll gain 20 pounds today if you aren’t careful,” she replied.

Leave it to Caeli to bring me crashing back to earth, although her assessment was at least feasible.

Leonard joined us as we were on our second helping, and he looked better. His color had returned, and he was moving without assistance. But he still wore the same scowl that we’d grown accustomed to during our time together in Ireland, and his arm was now pinned in a sling that hampered his movements.

He won’t be the same in a fistfight – or in a gunfight, I thought.

His disposition, at least, hadn’t changed.

“Leave anything for me, Blake?” he said as he strolled into the room. “You got enough on your plate to feed the Russian army.”

“Good morning, Leonard,” I said. “What do you know about the Russian army?”

“That’s something else I hate about Ireland,” he said. He started to elaborate, then glanced in Caeli’s direction and let it go.

Caeli didn’t.

“Good morning, Leonard,” she said. “It’s nice to see you up and around. Are you feeling better?”

He mumbled something and took a seat next to Elmore. They whispered back and forth for a bit, and Elmore eventually pushed his plate away and stood slowly, his gaze locked on a far corner of the spacious dining hall.

He didn’t tell us until well after breakfast that Fredo had called to report that Don Vincenzo had taken a turn during the night and wasn’t doing well.