Michael Dibdin - End games

Tom Newman stretched his legs luxuriously, crossed them at the ankle and settled back to watch the show. It was, in his opinion, pretty spectacular. Beyond the clustered tables, chairs and folded parasols of the cafe’s enclave, the young beauties of the town were parading up and down the pavement in pairs, trios or larger groups, weaving their way past and through similar sets of young men. With a few rare exceptions, neither sex openly acknowledged the existence of its counterpart, but each was intensely aware of the other, as they were of everyone else on the street that night, including the young American sitting over a beer and a cigarette outside a cafe on the pedestrianised stretch of Corso Mazzini.

And for the most part, these beauties were beauties. Tom had already thrown everything he had ever heard about southern Italian women into the recycling bin. Two generations of proper nutrition and good medical care had worked wonders. Like their peers back home, they were showing a lot of midriff, but significantly more — from barely above the pubis to just below the undercurve of the breasts in some cases — and, at least in the mild ambient glow of the street lighting, significantly better. Best of all, Tom wasn’t just an onlooker but an object of considerable interest. The squads of girls continually passing and repassing regarded him with lengthy, intense and startlingly candid stares. To an almost unnerving extent, they seemed to have an instinctive sense and acceptance of what they were here for and how long they had to make it happen, and weren’t about to waste any opportunity of getting down to business. Tom didn’t get looked at in the same way back in the States, that was for sure, like he was merchandise that was being checked out. The public street was as sweaty and dizzy with sex as any club.

All in all he was disgustingly happy, he thought, signalling the barman to bring another beer. He had spent most of the afternoon selecting and acquiring a mobile phone, and had then used it to call Martin Nguyen and change the arrangements for their meeting that evening. On reflection, he had realised that he didn’t want to be stuck over dinner with some boring CEO type, so he had claimed a subsequent engagement related to his father’s kidnapping and fixed up a ten o’clock rendezvous at this bar. Tom’s Italian was still in recovery, but his efforts to speak it seemed to be both understood and appreciated. In short, if it hadn’t been for the reason why he was there, this would have been the dream vacation. But although he could feel as happy as he liked, he couldn’t show it, any more than he could approach one of the passing women — that one there, for instance, with stunning legs, a deep cleavage and the gaze of a lioness — and ask for her phone number. In a society as traditional as this, with the family at the centre of everything and the father its undisputed head, for someone in his position to go out trawling for dates would be the equivalent of pissing on the high altar.

Worse, this might go on for weeks, even months. Both Nicola Mantega and the local police chief had made that clear. Not that he was in any hurry to leave, he thought, scoping out a cutie who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, with tits out to here under a T-shirt that read, in English, WILL FUCK FOR LOVE. All Tom wanted to do was to stay indefinitely and have a ball, but that was out of the question. ‘How could you?’ people would ask in shocked tones, and he didn’t know what to answer, even to himself. For at least a decade, he and his father had led separate lives in separate cities on separate coasts. Visits were rare, limited to a couple of hours at some restaurant or show when his father came to New York on business, and phone calls were infrequent, brief and impersonal. When mamma was still alive, Tom had felt obliged to go back to San Francisco for the holidays, but after her death his father had moved into a condominium and pointedly converted the spare bedroom into an office.

That’s how it had been for years, and although the matter was never discussed, Tom had every reason to suppose that his father found the arrangement as satisfactory as he did. He had certainly never seen any reason why it shouldn’t go on in exactly the same way for the foreseeable future. But the kidnapping had changed everything. It wasn’t enough to go on as he had always done. He was going to have to learn to play the part of a loving and devoted son traumatised by the ghastly fate that had overtaken his father, just when every nerve in his being was telling him that there was something vital for him in this city, a chance not to be missed.

Martin Nguyen arrived dead on time and cut straight to the chase.

‘How long are you planning on staying?’ he asked Tom.

‘As long as it takes. Maybe longer. I kind of like it here.’

‘What about your job?’

‘I quit before coming out. I was going to anyway.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘Sous-chef in an upscale Manhattan restaurant. There was a change of ownership and the new manager really sucked. Plus my girlfriend had just dumped me, so when this business came up I took advantage to tell my boss where he could shove it.’

He bit his lip. ‘When this business came up’ was cold. He was going to have to be more careful.

‘Glad to hear that there’s a silver lining to this dark cloud,’ Nguyen murmured silkily. ‘But how are you managing for money? Europe’s a total rip these days.’

‘I’ve got some savings. When they run out, I’ll head back and start over. There’s always vacancies in the restaurant business. Too bad I can’t work here, but you need an EU passport.’

A passer-by of about Tom’s height, with one of those seasoned Italian faces that were as much about character as flesh, strode over to their table.

‘I see that you’re still enjoying life in Cosenza,’ he said.

By now, Tom had recognised the intruder as the local police chief.

‘Very much!’ he returned. ‘How about you?’

A moment later, he realised that the beer had been talking, but the other man appeared unfazed by the impertinence.

‘I never feel at home in a city where you can’t smell the sea,’ he replied. ‘I shall need to see you at the Questura tomorrow morning. How early can you be there?’

After a brief discussion as to times, Tom introduced Martin Nguyen, who had been listening to this exchange with some interest.

‘Tell the signore that I wish to speak to him too,’ said the man, before leaving them with a curt nod.

‘Who was that guy?’ demanded Martin Nguyen.

‘The chief of police. He wants us both to meet with him tomorrow morning.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. To discuss the latest developments in my dad’s kidnapping, maybe.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then why didn’t you ask him?’

Tom bent forward with a slightly condescending look.

‘Mr Nguyen, this is not the States. The police here are more like Homeland Security than your friendly local sheriff who’s going to be running for re-election come the fall and needs your vote. If they want to tell you something, they will. If they don’t, there’s no point in asking.’

Nguyen was unappeased.

‘But what have I got to do with it?’

‘I told him you were a business associate of my dad’s. I guess he thinks you have information about what he was doing here that might be significant.’

Martin Nguyen nodded vaguely.

‘So you speak pretty good Italian, huh?’

Tom shrugged.

‘My mom used to talk to me in Italian and it seems to be coming back. It’s not that hard of a language once you know the basic rules. All I really need is more vocabulary, and I’m picking that up pretty fast.’