Peter Leonard - All He Saw Was the Girl

McCabe watched Chip offer the long-haired guy a cigarette, the guy surprising him, taking the pack of Marlboros out of Chip's hand. Chip tried to get it back and the guy pushed him. He was six feet, maybe a little taller, with dark hair, shoulder length and reminded McCabe of Fabio, the romance-novel model. McCabe watched him tap a Marlboro out of the pack, put it in his mouth and light it with a plastic lighter, blowing smoke in Chip's face, and slipping the cigarettes in the front pocket of his shirt. Now a stocky guy with close-cropped red hair, like a Marine, came up next to him and Fabio said something in Italian and they both glanced at Chip and laughed.

Chip came toward McCabe and McCabe said, "You let him take your cigarettes?"

"I didn't let him, he just did it," Chip said.

McCabe looked down at his black $40 °Cole Haan boots with a zipper on the side. "He's going to take your shoes next and then he's going to take anything else he wants."

Chip looked over at the guy and back to McCabe. He looked nervous now, afraid. "No he isn't," Chip said, like he was trying to convince himself.

"You better hope not," McCabe said.

"What do you want me to do? There're two of them."

McCabe was pissed at him for getting them in this situation in the first place.

Chip said, "You think I'm going to get in a fight over a pack of cigarettes?"

"I wish you luck," McCabe said.

An hour earlier they were coming out of a bar in Santa Maria di Trastevere, fountain in the middle, church at one end. It was a little after midnight, Chip walking drunk toward a taxi that was across the piazza, a dark silhouette shape in the moonlight. Chip ahead of McCabe, stopping now, stumbling, arms outstretched, gaze fixed on something in the distance.

'"There, Spartacus, is Rome,'" he said in a theatrical British accent, voice echoing off the buildings that surrounded the square. '"The might, the majesty, the terror of Rome. There is the power that bestrides the known world like a colossus."' McCabe grinned, he'd heard it all before, but it was still funny the way Chip got into, the way he delivered the lines. Chip started moving again, walking to the taxi, a yellow Fiat, leaning against it, facing McCabe as he approached.

'"There is only one way to deal with Rome,'" Chip said. " 'You must serve her. You must abase yourself before her. You must grovel at her feet. You must love her.'"

"Dinner theater ever comes to town," McCabe said, "you're all set."

He got in the rear passenger seat of the cab, looked forward and noticed the driver wasn't there. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, feeling the buzz from eight Morettis, resting for a few seconds. He heard a door open and close. Heard the engine start up and rev. He opened his eyes, Chip glancing back at him, grinning. Chip putting it in gear, accelerating around the square, picking up speed, doing a donut, tires squealing.

McCabe said, "This how Connecticut rich kids get their kicks?" He figured Chip would lose his nerve or lose interest, but he didn't.

He looked at McCabe in the rearview mirror and said, '"Are you afraid to die, Spartacus? When one man says no, I won't, Rome begins to fear.'"

McCabe saw the taxi driver come out of a restaurant now, old dude running into the piazza after his car, yelling and shaking his fist. " Basta! Aspettaf

McCabe felt bad for the guy and said, "Come on. That's enough."

Chip ignored him and drove out of the square, made a wide right-hand turn, going into the oncoming lane, forcing a car to swerve out of the way.

McCabe reached between the seats, grabbed Chip's arm and said, "Pull over, you dumbass, you're going to kill somebody."

"We're going to Harry's for a nightcap," Chip said, slurring his words.

They were in Trastevere, a maze of narrow cobblestone streets and medieval buildings on the west bank of the Tiber. They blew through an intersection, took a right on Via Garibaldi, passed a cop car parked on the side of the road, the word Carabinieri in white type on the side of a blue sedan, two cops in the front seat, looking at them. The scene felt like it was happening in slow motion. McCabe glanced back through the rear window as the police car, lights flashing, took off after them. He saw Chip's face in the rearview mirror, the happy drunk grin gone, replaced by a worry, concern.

Chip said, "Jesus Christ."

McCabe said, "I can't wait to see what you're going to do next.

Chip braked hard and went left down an alley that didn't look wide enough for a car, laundry hanging overhead on ropes strung between the buildings. Chip turned the wheel, taking a left on Via dei Riari, the back end of the taxi sliding, then going all the way around, spinning out of control, crashing into a parked car. McCabe was on the floor when the police pulled him out and cuffed his hands behind his back.

Now they were in the center of a holding cell at police headquarters in Rome, wondering what was going to happen. Prisoners spread out across the room that looked to be sixty by forty, bars along one side, guys staring at them, two American students looking out of place among the Italian drunks, thieves and cons. The long-haired guy and his friend were still looking at them, grinning, mocking them.

McCabe said, "I'll be right back." He turned, heading for the two Italians.

Chip said, "What're you going to do?"

McCabe could feel all the eyes in the room watching him as he approached Fabio, walked up to him and said, "I see you looking over laughing at us like a little girl. Is that what you are? With that hair, I can't tell if you're a woman or a sissy." He didn't know if the guy understood what he was saying or not, but his arm muscles tightened like he was going to throw a punch. McCabe stepped in, grabbed the cigarette pack, ripping the pocket off his shirt. Fabio stood there, looking surprised. "You took this from my friend, forgot to give it back." McCabe turned and went back over where Chip was and handed the pack of Marlboros to him. "Somebody else takes them," he said, "you're on your own."

Chip gave him a big wide-eyed look. "Unbelievable. What did you say to him?"

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember? Come on."

They were taken to a room and interrogated by a no-nonsense cop, a detective in a black sport coat. He was built like a soccer player, stocky and still muscular in middle age, thinning salt-and-pepper hair combed back. He introduced himself as Captain Ferrara. McCabe told him their names and told him they were students at Loyola University.

Chip said, "We weren't actually stealing the taxi."

Ferrara said, "No? What were you doing?"

Chip said, "We were drunk. It was a joke. Scherzo."

Captain Ferrara said, " Scherzo? This is how a man makes his living and you dismiss it as something trivial, unimportant. You have too much to drink and use this as an excuse? The man's automobile is damaged. Now he has no way to earn a living, support his family."

Chip said, "I'll buy him a new one."

He held Chip in his laser gaze, eyes locked on him.

Chip said, "You know who Senator Charles Tallenger is, right?"

He sounded drunk.

Captain Ferrara stared at him, studying him.

Chip said, "Well I'm his son, Charles Tallenger III."

Captain Ferrara didn't say anything, didn't seem impressed, gave him a stern look.

Chip was a smartass, but McCabe had never seen him turn on this arrogant superiority. Based on the captain's expression it didn't seem to be going over very well.

Chip said, "I have to make a phone call.''

He said it like a spoiled Greenwich rich kid, which McCabe decided was redundant, maybe even tri-dundant if there was such a word.