It was the first time a well-stacked bathing suit ever made me uneasy. Not even a bikini, but an old-fashioned, long job … although every curve of the sultry babe filling the suit was strictly up-to-date.
Viareggio is part of one of the world’s longest beaches, 26 sandy miles fronting the blue Mediterranean. It was the middle of a sunny afternoon, the sand crowded with vacationists up from Rome, plus a few English tourists.
The girl looked about 23. She and her kid brother seemed to be working for a stocky blind man who ran a stand selling fried cakes. The little boy, in ragged shorts, walked beside the girl, carrying a tray of food as they went from bather to bather. The gal’s skin, naturally swarthy, was a deep golden brown from the sun, the eyes dark and flashing, lovely jet black hair hanging to compact hips.
I don’t know why she reminded me of Valerie — who is blonde, her pale baby-face more cute than beautiful. Could be they had the same strong legs and trim hips in common, a sexy aura, a … I was afraid to think of Valerie.
It was stupid: about now Valerie would be in Paris on her see-a-100-European-cities-in-30-days tour. Instead of resting my dusty on this ‘Riviera della Versilia,’ as the Italian tourist ads call it, I could put my plane down in Paris within two hours, take over with Valerie where we’d left off — in an Athens hotel room.
Valerie was the best between the sheets, we had something great going … but she frightened me. Valerie stood for the marriage routine.
My boss’ wife is Italian and her folks have a small farm inland from the Lido di Camoicre, so every time we were in Northern Italy I’d land at Pisa and he’d spend the day with his in-laws. I had been in Viareggio a dozen times before, even knew a few telephone numbers. But somehow — and I sure never believed it could happen to me — Valerie had ruined love-for-pay gals for me. At least for now.
Taking a long swim, I returned to the beach restless as before. I walked around, drying off, my knee in good shape, wondering why the Romans traveled hundreds of miles north to swim when they had a fine beach outside Rome. Or was this a status bit? And why the hell did I care?
My being restless didn’t make sense. I had the ideal job air-chauffeuring the European manager of Pan-Texas Oil. We could be eating supper in Rotterdam, have breakfast in Oran, Cairo, Oslo, or Tel Aviv, the following morning. Willard Moore wasn’t a demanding executive, the pay was fine, and until I’d met Valerie in Nice it had seemed a dandy job — or as perfect as any ‘job’ can be.
When the gal in the dark old bathing suit started hustling her cakes my way, I picked up my towel and headed toward the Hotel Marchony. It was early — Moore was to phone by 6 P.M. to let me know when he’d be at the Pisa airport.
My room was cool and after smacking a few mosquitos, I stretched out for a cat-nap. When I awoke it was 7:30 P.M. and growing dark. Dressing quickly I went down to bawl out the desk clerk. But Moore hadn’t phoned. I couldn’t understand that — he’s the prompt type. I had supper in the hotel and at 9 P.M. told the desk clerk I’d return in an hour. I went for a walk along the Via Giosue Carducci, the main drag and promenade facing the sea.
Tourists are Viareggio’s business and the street was one outdoor cafe after another, most of them sporting small bands trying their best to beat out rock and roll and making a hell of a racket, with singers sure they were Sinatra or Peggy Lee, and even one clown making with a lousy imitation of Belafonte. I had a few beers and when I returned to the Marchony there still wasn’t any phone call. Hanging around for another half hour, I figured Moore was spending the night with his in-laws: all the in-law jokes to the contrary, he got along fine with his. But it was odd he hadn’t phoned, or driven by in his rented Fiat.
I went for another restless walk, stopping to see what the movie was in the Principe de Piemonte, then staring out at the bobbing lights of the few fishing boats, wishing Valerie was beside me. I began walking toward the Lido di Camoicre: not because I expected to see Mr. Moore, but in that direction the promenade was quiet, free of cafes and shops.
As I was strolling along the dimly lit boardwalk, still thinking of Valerie, I saw a dozen or so Italian men, mostly teenagers, walking toward me. They weren’t talking, which was strange for any group of Italians. As we passed, they turned and jumped me.
I weigh 205 pounds and have taken care of myself in plenty of ring and street brawls. I belted somebody’s jaw, landed a flurry of belly punches, got my knees working — before I went down. A fist banged my nose, another brought blood to my lips, while a sharp shoe headed for my groin: hit my thigh. Curling up to protect my belt buckle, I kept twisting and kicking, trying to get punching room. Although there were so many guys on top of me I couldn’t see the sky or stars, I did have a fast glimpse of a stocky guy leaping off a bike, rushing toward us. I was too busy to wonder if he was joining the pile-up. A foot caught the side of my head and I had a fight against blacking out. Then I saw this stocky guy pick up a man with his right hand, hurl him to the ground, neatly flattening another with his left.
There were Italian curses and cries of pain. I was able to roll away, jump to my feet. The old ache was in my left knee but I was too busy to worry about it. Stocky was a balding man with a crown of yellow hair, his shirt ripped and bloody, swinging like a sock machine. I was throwing wallops fast as I could, picking my spots — a stomach belt takes the fight out of most jokers.
A punch closed my right eye as I worked my way so I’d be back-to-back with my new buddy. A bus passed, the few passengers crowding the windows to stare with big eyes. The two of us were battling the wrong odds, at least 20 guys were still standing, and as I kicked a punk on his ankle, hooked another in his gut, I heard the sound of running feet and knew we’d had it — a new gang of men were rushing at us!
Gasping from a solid poke under the ribs, I was startled to see the same gal I’d been watching on the beach — now wearing a white blouse and tight pants — at the head of this new gang!
The bastards slugging us also saw the newcomers and to my amazement — and relief — they took off — darting across the street and into the darkness of the side streets. The second bunch, with the gal in the lead — something dark and short in her hand, like a blackjack, raced after them … and soon my blonde buddy and I were alone. I fell against a railing, panting, trying to see out of my puffed eye, rubbing my bad knee.
He staggered over to lean beside me. He was in rough shape, blood gushing from his nose and big mouth, shirt in shreds, blood on his slacks. In Italian he puffed, “What happened?” I think that’s what he asked — my Italian is only fair.
In English I gasped, “Thanks a million, mister. You came in the …”
He gave me a big grin — he had this long, lantern jaw — the light from the nearest lamp post showing puffed lips as he yelled, “Man, you from the States?”
I nodded. The belly wallop still had me sucking for air.
He stuck out his bruised right hand. “Hell of a way for two Yanks to meet! Or maybe the best way. Jimmy Johnson from Philadelphia!”
“Kent Kelly, San Diego.” Shaking his hand, I saw my own knuckles were bleeding. “And again — much thanks for helping me.”
“I don’t stand for anybody being ganged-up. Man, this was more exciting than watching Maris and Mantle pole a couple of homers back to back! What’s this all about?”
Johnson had this kind of accent, or twang, making him sound more mid-West than Philly. “Wish I knew. Guess they were trying to mug me,” I said slowly, fighting for air. I felt of my pockets: had my wallet, keys, and papers. “Juvenile delinquency seems to be a world problem.”
“Man, you for real? Kelly, those weren’t kids, they were men! One of the punks walloped like Liston!” Jimmy Johnson said, tearing off a hunk of his shirt to wipe his sweaty face. He looked about 45, the thick, sloping shoulders made him seem short, but his blue eyes were level with mine, making him 6 feet, at least. “Who was the second gang, the Marines?” he asked, feeling his teeth with stubby fingers, finding his choppers were all there.
“Beats me. But I’m for them — whoever they are.”
“I was returning my bike to a shop near the port, a rent-a-bike …” Johnson suddenly slapped his pockets, began looking around the boardwalk.
“They get your wallet?”
He shook his blonde-bald head. “Worse — my passport. Had it in my hip pocket…. It’s gone!”
We both started searching in the dim light and over near the grass I finally saw the thin little green booklet. When I handed it to Johnson, he sighed with relief, opened it, showing me the usual evil-looking passport photo, of himself. “Yeah, it’s mine — there’s my kisser. Man, that would be rugged, losing Uncle Sam’s passport. I’d best go back to my hotel, get another shirt. Too late to return the bike now, but….”
“Let me buy you a shirt.”
“Forget it, Kelly, I enjoyed the exercise,” he said, starting for his bike. “It was a real swinger.”
“Wait a minute, Johnson. I insist upon buying you a shirt and slacks. You saved me from a pasting.”
“Don’t worry about it, man. I’ve another thing cooking — a hot signorina waiting. You understand, have to clean up fast before I frighten the chick. See you Kelly — it’s been fun!” He ran across the grass, jumped on his bike.
I started after him but my trick knee gave and I had to grab the rail. As he peddled off into the darkness I called, “Jimmy, I’m staying at the Hotel Marchony.”
“Okay, Kelly.”
“I’ll probably check out in the morning. Call me — I insist upon buying you a shirt,” I yelled, but he was gone. I saw a bench several hundred feet away; leaning against the rail I started for it. Whenever my knee gives there’s nothing to do but rest the leg for a few hours. I reached the bench, wondering how the devil I’d make it back to the hotel.
This little problem was answered seconds later when a jeep braked to a roaring stop and three Italian cops — clubs in hand — jumped out. They didn’t speak much English and my Italian wasn’t up to explaining whatever they were after. I switched to French, which I know a little better, gathered they’d had a phone call about a riot, had come to investigate. I tried to explain I really didn’t know much more than they did about the brawl, but would appreciate a lift to my hotel. After much hand gesturing and sputtering by all of us, one of the cops motioned for me to take a seat in the jeep. I never did learn if they were going to ride me to my hotel or to the local jail — my knee folded again and they carried me to the jeep.
Driving as if I was an emergency case, they rushed to the Viareggio hospital. A doctor and two nurses examined me. There was more hand-waving and talk in bad Italian, French and English as I insisted there wasn’t a thing wrong with me a piece of raw steak wouldn’t cure. They kept touching my knee, filling it with pain. I gave up attempting to explain it was just an old football injury. I had this horrible hunch they were getting ready to operate, was wondering if I’d have to punch my way out of the curiously barren hospital … when a young doctor sporting a snappy red beard entered the room, asked in crisp English, “What seems to be the trouble, signore?”
“No trouble, Doc — I merely have a black eye. Look, can you call a cab for me, let me return to my hotel?”
He studied my face with sad eyes. “Ah yes, you indeed have a discolored eye. And your leg, they say you can not walk.”
“A bad tackle did that years ago. All my leg needs is a good night’s rest.”
One of the policemen rattled off some fast Italian and red beard nodded, asked me, “Exactly what happened to you, signore?”
“Doc, I was out for a walk when I was suddenly jumped by a gang of young men — about 25 of them. Happily another American came by, saved me from a bad beating. I mean, well, a second bunch of men — and a girl — they came along and chased the first gang. It’s all confusing.”
“Yes, it is,” he said slowly, stroking his trim red beard, “Were you robbed?”
“They didn’t have a chance to take me.”
“Are you carrying anything of value, signore?”
“Well — no. Credit cards and travelers’ checks, but only about $30 in francs and lira.”
“Not much of a prize for — 25 men, I believe you said, to fight over. This other … eh … gang, with a girl….?”
“A beautiful babe,” I cut in.
“Ah yes, a beautiful girl,” the doctor said, blinking. “Did the second gang identify themselves, say anything?”
“Not that I could understand.”
“You seem sober, so it turns out to be quite a ruddy puzzle. First, considering you were attacked by 25 men, even though you and this other American chap were able to fight off such odds, it is amazing you have but a few minor bruises. Also, we rarely have crimes of a gang nature — in Italy.”
I knew he was digging me, had seen too many of Hollywood’s gangster movies, but I was too bushed for an argument — merely wanted to get back to my hotel and my bed.
The cop asked something in Italian and red beard asked me in his ‘English’ English, “Sir, are you involved in politics?”
“Me? Hell no!”
“Are you in Italy as a tourist?”
“My name is Kent Kelly and I’m a pilot for Pan-Texas Oil. I’m staying at the Hotel Marchony. I flew in around noon at Pisa …”
Red beard’s sad face suddenly lit up. “Ah, this is a blooming piece of fine luck, Mr. Kelly. I have been trying to phone you for the past hour. Your employer is here.”
“Mr. Moore … Willard Moore … here?”
“He was in an auto accident this afternoon, suffered fractured ribs and minor facial injuries. Although for a time I thought he had a concussion and….”
“Can I see him?”
“Of course, Signore Moore has been asking for you. Come with me.”
I followed the little doctor into a small, private room, to see my boss in bed, bandaged like a mummy. Only his eyes, the lower part of his face, and one shoulder, were free of bandages and/or tape. His thin nose was so swollen he looked comical.
Smiling up at me, Moore waved a bandaged hand and asked, “What hit you, Kent? Seems to have been a rough day for Pan-Texas employees.”
“I was on the wrong end of a mob scene. But what about this accident you were in, Mr. Moore?” I always have a hard time trying to decide whether to call him ‘Mister’ or not. I don’t like saying ‘mister’ or ‘sir,’ but at the same time if you get too friendly with an employer you leave yourself wide open, don’t know where you stand.
“I was side-swiped by a truck, hit a soft shoulder on the road, and the Fiat turned over.”
“I was waiting for your call and …” I turned to red beard. “If this happened in the afternoon, why didn’t the hospital phone me sooner?”
“Signore Moore was in a state of shock, placed under sedation. He only awoke a short time ago.”
Moore told me, “Kent, call the London office and explain that I’ll be laid up here for at least a week.”
“Yes sir.”
“Also see about the damage to the car — an insurance policy was part of the rental fee. Let London know the cost, and the rest of the details, after you talk to the rental office in Pisa. I think we have lawyers in Rome, or Milan, if it comes to that.”
“I’ll attend to it, be back tomorrow afternoon. Do you need cigarettes, books?”
“I’m quite comfortable and it won’t be necessary for you to return here, Kent. No point in you hanging around Viareggio — take the week off, fly to see that nurse you met in Athens.” Moore gave me a hammy wink. “Do what you wish but be at the Pisa airport next Tuesday morning.”
“I’ll probably stay around Viareggio, I have some things to do.”
“Suit yourself, but keep out of brawls — this is a small hospital. By the way, this mob you said attacked you, did any one of them have a scar on his right cheek? Sharp-nosed man with an old scar in the shape of a ragged half-moon?”
“There wasn’t much light and the action came down too fast to make out faces. What’s with the scar bit, Mr. Moore?”
“I had a flash-look at the driver of the truck. He wore an floppy old hat, but I did see the scar on his cheek, his nose.”
Red beard said, “Signore Moore believes his accident was deliberate. I have told this to the police — they disagree. Neither the accident nor a damaged truck have been reported, so far. As for a scar …” The doctor rubbed his red beard. “Italy has been ravaged by two great wars, there are thousands of men with scars and other bloody marks of violence.”
My boss waved a bandaged hand. “I can’t prove it was deliberate, certainly no reason for anybody to want me dead or crippled. But the fact remains the road was empty — I always take this back road out of Viareggio, brings me right to the farm — there was ample room for this old truck to pass me. You know what a cautious driver I am, Kent.”
“You crawl along, Mr. Moore. This scar-face, was he old or young? What about his size, the color of his hair?”
“Look, I only had a split-second glimpse of a sharp face dominated by this old scar.”
“The truck, what did that look like?”
Moore tried to shrug and his eyes clouded with pain. “Very old and heavy. I don’t know…. Perhaps it was an accident. In any event I’ll be here for the next three or four days, then I’ll spend a day or two with my in-laws. I’ve already cabled my wife to stay in Sweden, no point of her rushing down here. You do what you wish, but be in Pisa by Tuesday. I have an important appointment in Morocco Tuesday afternoon … at 4 P.M.” Moore’s voice sounded tired and he closed his eyes.
Red beard motioned for me to follow him into the hallway, where he asked, “I meant to ask, did you recognize any of the men you claim attacked you? Or the girl?”
“What do you mean I ‘claim’ attacked me!” I pointed to my puffed eye. “You think I clouted myself?”
“Merely a figure of speech, perhaps my English is not right,” he said, sarcastically. “Did you know any of the … eh … gang?”
“No.” I wasn’t going to let the police grab the gal peddling fried cakes on the beach — I had other things in mind for her. “Forget about my trouble; isn’t it funny the truck driver didn’t report Moore’s accident?”
“Funny?” A puzzled frown swept the doctor’s delicate face. “Ah yes, I understand — you do not mean the ha-ha funny, but the strange, the odd, funny.”
“Look, ha-ha or ho-hum, don’t all traffic accident have to be reported here?”
“Let us say they bloody well should be reported, and generally are. Signore Kelly, my county has some of the world’s best educated people, and plenty of illiterates. Unhappily it has always been thus. A farmer may have been too blasted frightened to report the accident. The more serious the accident, the greater his fright — and silence. Happily Signore Moore’s injuries are minor. Come, I will put some salve on your eye — by morning the swelling and coloring should be back to normal.”
When the police jeep finally dropped me off at the Marchony, I was certain some of the plump Roman tourists gassing in the lobby made snide cracks about “drunken Americans.” But I was too beat to think of anything except a fast shower and lots of shut-eye. Even a tight formation of mosquitos buzzing my face didn’t stop me from falling off into a deep sleep.