A Glancing Light (A Chris Norgren Mystery) Read online

  He grinned warmly at me, his brown teeth as square and sturdy as the painted ones on a German nutcracker. "Ah, Cristoforo, I'm glad to see you." He spoke Italian with a broad Sicilian accent that I had seen lesser men sneer at behind their hands. "My train doesn't leave until after midnight. Let's go and drink a brandy somewhere."

  I was ready for bed, not brandy, but what could I do? Ugo had made a four-hour round-trip just to see me. Besides, after an evening of Di Vecchio's acerbic opinions and the disembodied locutions of Doctor Luca, his robust, down-to-earth conversation would be a relief.

  "Fine," I said. I gestured toward the upstairs bar, where some of the others were already heading. "Why don't—"

  "No, no." He squeezed my arm and drew me aside. "Somewhere away from all the gran signori."

  Max overheard. "I hope that doesn't exclude me," he said in Italian.

  Ugo clapped him on the back. "No, no, certainly not. Would I accuse you of being a gentleman?" He bellowed with laughter and I realized he too had tossed down a few glasses. "Come on," he said, "I know a place on Via d'Azeglio. Just the three of us. Old friends."

  We spent almost an hour in the Bar Nepentha, where the woman at the piano serenaded us with "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," a Scott Joplin medley, and similar old Italian favorites. Most of what we talked about I don't recall (I'd had quite a bit myself by then), but I remember how happy Ugo was, telling us about the modern house he'd bought in Sicily on the slopes of Aci Castello, overlooking the Ionian Sea, a few miles from Catania. He was immensely relieved to have left Milan's genteel, cosmopolitan atmosphere, where he'd lived restlessly for seven years, a fish out of water.

  "Ah, it's so beautiful there," he told us rapturously. Bellissimo, meraviglioso. "The air is clean, the people are real, a word means what it means. A man knows where he stands." He patted the back of my hand. "You have to come down and see. My pictures are in a wonderful room, all natural light from the north. You too, Massimiliano. Hey, why don't you open up a shop in Catania? Wide streets down there, not these little alleys. And no Communists around to look at you funny because you make a few lire."

  Max laughed. "I know; just the Mafia. No, I'm glad for you, Ugo, but I like it right here."

  He more than liked it. He had fallen in love with northern Italy on his first visit, and for fifteen years had dreamed and planned until he could move there. Now, as far as I knew, he never planned to leave, an Italianophile to the core. He had married a petite, black-haired woman from Faenza, but she had died of cancer about two years before. Max had been stunned with grief. I realized suddenly that this was the first time since then that he'd seemed anything like the old, jolly Max. "Come for a visit, then," Ugo persisted. "Next weekend! The two of you. You'll stay with me."

  "Well, I can," I said. "I was going to come and see you anyway. We have to work out the final arrangements on the pictures you're lending. And I want to take another good look at that Boursse. You're still willing to let it go for sixty thousand dollars?"

  Max almost choked on his grappa. "Ugo, you don't mean you're selling your Boursse for sixty thousand? I'll give you—"

  Ugo chortled. "Always the businessman. No, Massimiliano, this is a special favor to Cristoforo. For you . ." He rolled up his eyes, pretending to calculate. "Maybe three hundred thousand?" He leaned back in his chair, shaking with laughter.

  "Thanks a bunch," Max said in English, but he was smiling, too. Max had a big gap between his upper front teeth. When he grinned, which was often, he looked like a mustached, middle-aged Alfred E. Neuman, the What, me worry? kid on the cover of Mad magazine.

  "You'll really come?" Ugo said to me. He looked delighted.

  "Of course. I've already checked the schedule to Catania. There's an Alisarda flight that leaves at noon on Saturday and arrives about two. How would that be? Could you have someone meet me at the airport?"

  Ugo beamed. "Sure, sure. Wait till you see my—my—" He was jiggling with excitement. "I have a surprise for you. Don't I, Massimiliano?"

  "Surprise?" Max said, frowning. "Oh, Jesus, you don't mean—"

  "Sh, sh!" Ugo's thick forefinger wagged in front of his lips. "Don't tell him."

  "Ugo," Max said, with a sort of pained kindness, "I'm telling you. That picture isn't good enough—"

  "Don't tell him!" Ugo was bouncing up and down. "It's a surprise!"

  "But I already told you," Max said patiently. "Amedeo already told you—"

  "I believe you, all right? But if Cristoforo's coming to Sicily, then I say what does it hurt if he looks at it? Let him make his own decision."

  Max shrugged and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  Ugo looked at me suspiciously. "Hey, do you know what we're talking about?"

  "Not a clue," I said honestly.

  "Good!" He thumped his thick fist on the table. "Massimiliano, you come, too! Come with Cristoforo Saturday. I'll show you Sicily. We'll eat, we'll drink! We'll have a wonderful time, just like in the old days."

  I wasn't sure of just which old days he was talking about, but at that point it sounded like a great idea to me. Ugo was like a breath of fresh, honest air after the rarefied conversation of art connoisseurs, and Max was good company, too.

  "Come on. Max," I said. "Why not?"

  He grinned. "Why not?" he echoed to my surprise. "All right, I'll come, I can use a little time off."

  "Wonderful, wonderful!" boomed Ugo, and hammered his fist on the table some more.

  The waiter thought he was calling for another round and hurried over with three more grappas, which we accepted. Then we proceeded to sink happily into a sentimental swill of good fellowship.

  I'm afraid we were a little on the riotous side by the time we started for the train station. I blush to admit it, but I think we were bawling "Santa Lucia" as we crossed the deserted Piazza Maggiore, and I seem to remember a chorus of "0 Sole Mio" in there, too, but I wouldn't swear to it.

  "Guess what. I'm changing my name," Max announced somewhere on Via dell'Indipendenza. "I am soon to be signor Massimiliano Caboto."

  Ugo frowned tipsily at him. "You were always signor Massimiliano Caboto."

  "I mean legally. Max Cabot no longer exists. But you," he said, turning that gap-toothed grin on me, "may still call me Max. A special dispensation."

  "A papal dispensation," Ugo said, choking with mirth and convulsing the rest of us, which gives you a pretty good idea of the state we were in.

  "It's my way of righting an old wrong," Max said. "Did I never tell you that I am a direct descendant of John Cabot, the English explorer who discovered North America?"

  "No, you never did," I said.

  "Who's John Cabot?" Ugo asked.

  "And did you know," Max went on, "that John Cabot, the English explorer who discovered the North American continent, wasn't born in England?"

  "No," I said.

  "Who's John Cabot?" Ugo asked.

  "Well, it's true," Max said. "John Cabot was Italian, not English. Born in Genoa in about 1450, and his real name was Giovanni Caboto. You can look it up."

  "Really?' I said.

  "Oh," Ugo said. "Giovanni Caboto. Why didn't you say so?"

  I don't remember too much more until we had seen a still- chortling Ugo off on the 1:04 and started back toward the center of town. Of the great old cities of Europe, Bologna is probably the most walkable. The pavement on the ancient downtown streets isn't cobblestones, or rough-hewn granite blocks, or even concrete, but a glassy terrazzo tile, easy on the feet and as smooth and level as an ice-skating rink. More than that, most of the sidewalks are arcaded, protected from the elements by the colonnaded porticos that were a standard feature of Bolognese architecture for five hundred years.

  A misty rain had been drifting down for an hour and the city was almost deserted. The big Piazza Medaglia d'Oro fronting the railroad station, usually swarming with cars, was so empty we strolled across it without bothering to wait for the green AVANTI sign. Once back on Via dell'Indipendenza, the only sounds
we heard were our own heels clicking on the tile and the occasional restrained hum of a small car in no particular hurry.

  We walked slowly, shielded from the rain by the porticos, stopping now and then to look absently into a darkened shop window. I had passed from fatigue through hilarity, and was now in a state of mellow calm, content to let the still- exuberant Max carry the conversation. He was giving one of his glories-of-Italy lectures.

  "Chris, just think for a moment where a city like Bologna fits in the great scheme of things! Guido Reni, Galvani, Marconi, the Gregorian calendar ... Look at this, look at this!" He gestured vaguely about him. "Some of these buildings date from the 1300s."

  "True."

  More vague arm movements. "This colonnade we're walking in, this building I can reach out and touch—" He demonstrated. "It was standing here when Columbus discovered America. Think about that!"

  Well, not quite. The "imprisoned" columns of this particular building's facade, the finicky, corrugated texture of its walls, marked it as late Mannerist, somewhere around 1590. But why argue? It obviously made Max happy to think otherwise. Besides, what was a hundred years in the great scheme of things?

  "Chris, I'd never go back to the Land of Round Doorknobs, never. Not to live. I've never regretted moving here, not for a minute."

  "Mm." When he got like this, I was never sure which of us he was trying to convince.

  "Do you realize it's practically midnight, and we're walking the streets in complete safety? Can you do that in America?"

  "You can in Winslow," I couldn't help saying. I wasn't so sure about Seattle or New York. Or Bologna, when it came down to it, considering the stories at dinner. I glanced nervously around. Across the street a man and a woman, arms wrapped around each other, were quietly mooning along, walking the other way. Half a block behind us, in the darkness, a car coughed softly and started up. It couldn't have been more peaceful.

  "Ah, Chris," Max raved on, "just think about it. How do you compare two and a half thousand years of history to— to Michael Jackson and—and McDonald's?"

  In some deeply buried vault, patriotism stirred. "Now wait a minute, Max, you're comparing unlike things. Besides, I think the Italians would be happy to trade in some of that history if they could."

  "Oh, you mean Mussolini? The Borgias?" He dismissed them with a wave. "Every culture has—What are we stopping for?"

  I pointed to the street sign on the corner of a building. "Via Montegrappa. My hotel's down here."

  "Oh." He was crestfallen. "You wouldn't want to have one more drink?"

  "No, thanks." Overeating, overdrinking, and jet lag had finally, irrevocably, caught up with me. All I wanted to do was fall into bed. "You want to come in and call a cab?"

  He shook his head contemptuously. "To go six blocks?"

  Max lived on the other side of Via Marconi, in a section where big, block-like, modern apartment houses had replaced buildings destroyed in World War II. "You going to have time to get together again for dinner in the next couple of days?"

  "Sure, anytime."

  "Day after tomorrow? Come by the gallery about six, and we'll go from there."

  "You're on. See you then."

  I turned onto the unlit Via Montegrappa, which was more medieval alley than Renaissance boulevard, while Max continued down Indipendenza. After a quarter of a block I stopped abruptly, listening hard. I wasn't sure what had alerted me. Something. I stood stock-still. What had I heard? No, nothing. Behind me, on Indipendenza, an automobile had driven slowly by, that was all. I'd heard the engine purring, the tires crackling on the pavement.

  I started walking again, puzzled, replaying the sounds. Something wasn't right. The car had been going too slowly, cruising at a walker's pace. In the direction Max was going. The same car I'd heard before, the same quiet engine? Is that what had caught my attention? The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I turned and made quickly for Indipendenza, thinking about all those bullets falling out of Paolo Salvatorelli. Via dell'Indipendenza was empty and silent. It was still raining, but the clouds had thinned, and moonlight glistened on the wet street. I stood still again for a moment, straining to hear. There was a scraping noise, sounds of scuffling, a muffled grunt. With my mouth suddenly dry I ran to the corner where Max would have turned to head home.

  He was there, a few yards down Via Ugo Bassi, struggling awkwardly with two men, a tall, lean one in a leather jacket, and a fat, bald monster with a neck that was thicker than his head, and arms and shoulders like Conan the Barbarian. The tall one was roughly shoving Max backward a step at a time, his palms flat against Max's chest, the way a kid does when he's daring another kid to do something about it. Max was stumbling back, trying to hold his ground, making small, outraged noises.

  Just as I came in sight of them the fat, muscular one drew back his fist and punched Max in the face. If you have never heard the sound made when a powerful adult male hits someone in the face with all his might—and I guess I hadn't—it comes as a surprise. It isn't the crisp krak of old movies or the explosive crump of new ones. It's nothing at all like the clean slap of a boxing glove. It's a mushy, hollow sound, bare knuckles grinding against bone, and it makes your knees weak to hear it.

  At least it made my knees weak. The man drew back his fist again.

  "Hey," I said.

  I know you will be amazed to learn that they were not paralyzed with fright. They didn't even jump. They just turned very slowly and looked coldly at me for a long time, which didn't do anything for my knees. Meanwhile, Max slid down the wall of the building, moaning softly. The two men glanced at each other. I think they nodded. The bull-necked one calmly turned back to Max. The tall, thin one walked toward me, not hurrying. Sauntering, in fact, with his hands held out a little from his hips, gunfighter-style.

  Part of me wanted to run, of course. All right, all of me wanted to run. I'm fit enough, and I don't think I'm any more cowardly than the average man, but I'm an art curator, for God's sake, and these were professional thugs, as even I could tell. This was out of my line; I didn't go around getting into fights in bars. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been out-and-out angry with anyone. Well, not unless you count the divorce proceedings, which hardly seems fair.

  My legs were aching to turn and run. Believe me, all the ready-made rationalizations leaped to my mind: What was the point of getting Max and me killed or maimed? What did I think I could do against two bruisers? Wasn't running and shouting for the police, for any kind of help, the best thing I could do for Max?

  But I didn't run. I can't claim I was being terrifically brave, because I couldn't stop trembling, but I simply couldn't turn tail and leave him there, and I couldn't make myself start bawling for help, either. I stood my ground, my fists knotted. My stomach, too, if it comes to that.

  He came up to me and stopped, examining me with his head tilted to one side. I saw that he wasn't really thin; he was hard, with flesh like weathered teak. He was bigger than I'd thought, two or three inches taller than me, and he'd taken a few punches in the face himself. His brow was spongy with scar tissue and his nose had been pounded into a flat, formless lump that sat like a codfish fillet on the middle of his face. The top half of his left ear was gone. He looked very, very tough, very seasoned.

  "Back off, fuckface," I snarled. Not my usual m.o., I admit, but I'd heard somewhere that the best thing to do in situations like this was to establish your authority at the outset.

  He didn't back off. Far from it. His right hand—I never saw it coming, but it must have been his right hand; the stiffly extended fingers of his right hand—dug upward into the left side of my abdomen, just beneath the rib cage. The pain was extraordinary. For a horrible instant I thought that I'd been stabbed, that he'd slipped a stiletto under my ribs and up into my lung. I gagged, momentarily unable to breathe, or even to gasp. He drew his hand swiftly back, diagonally over his shoulder, the fingers once again rigidly extended. This, I realized, was going to be a blow to the throa
t with the edge of his palm. Clutching my left side, incapable of doing much more than warding him off, somehow I had the presence of mind to tuck my chin into my shoulder and step into the blow, toward him rather than away.

  As a result, it was his leather-clad upper arm, not his hand, that caught me in the temple, not the neck. Not an enjoyable experience, but a lot better than it might have been. I could draw breath again, and I realized thankfully that I hadn't been stabbed. While his left arm was caught in the crook of my neck and shoulder I punched him just under the armpit— a little gingerly, because 1 wasn't used to hitting people, and then again, harder. His torso jerked and a whoosh of warm air blew onto my cheek. I smelled something sweet on his breath; tarragon. I remember a moment of bemused surprise. Garlic, I might have expected, but tarragon?

  We were locked together in a tangle of arms. One of his elbows was in my face, and I think one of mine was in his. He twisted suddenly, too quickly and complexly for me to follow, and broke away. He bobbed and spun, so that his back was to me, and then, seemingly from nowhere, his foot crashed into my face, heel first, just under the eye. I was knocked back, slamming noisily into the wooden side of a boarded-up flower stand at the curb's edge.

  From off to the side, near Max, the bull-necked one called to him: "Presto, Ettore, presto."

  Come on, Ettore, hurry it up. It was not said urgently, but with a grousing kind of irritation, as if I were no more than an annoying bug to be squashed.

  Until then, I had been by turns concerned, startled, scared, and combative. But such is the nature of the male ego that for the first time I was wholeheartedly hostile. Bug, indeed.

  The kick had stung my cheek and knocked me off balance, but hadn't done any real harm. But for Ettore's benefit I sagged against the flower stand, my head nodding. I figured that I was entitled to some subterfuge to make the odds a little more even; Ettore was frighteningly fast, with a repertory of moves I had seen only in martial arts movies. And I hadn't seen many of those. He closed warily in, arms held up and out in front of him, crossed at the wrists.