"They put you in Rebibbia for a misunderstanding, huh?"
"It can happen," Mazara said.
The American bounced the ball to him and got up.
Fabio, as McCabe thought of him, took it out. He started with the ball straight up over his head. Moved it down to his chest and waist, then his knees and back up. He faked left with his eyes and McCabe went for it. Fabio dribbled to his right and went up for a shot, arms bent, snapping his wrist as he released the ball, the ball arcing up and swishing through the cylinder. He raised his fist, looked at McCabe, nodded his head a couple times. There were hoots and cheers from the inmates that had formed a circle around the half court.
Now McCabe brought it in. He went right, crossed over, drove for the hoop, Fabio all over him, bumping him with his body. McCabe hesitated, faked left, went left, threw up a half hook that kissed the glass and went in.
The prisoners went crazy.
Fabio brought the ball in, faking left with his eyes, going to his right with his right hand, knees bent, made his move, juked McCabe with a shoulder fake, crossed over, right to left, and back, had him off balance as he went up for a fifteen-footer, but McCabe regained his balance and stripped the ball.
McCabe brought the ball in, went full tilt for the basket, stopped, pulled up and launched a twenty-five-footer. Fabio tried to block the shot, but he was too late. The ball bounced around the rim and in.
Fabio was pissed off now, McCabe could see the strain on his face, McCabe making him look bad in front of his boys. Fabio brought the ball in, did a shoulder fake, froze McCabe and launched a high thirty-footer that landed on the rim and bounced off.
The prisoners were really getting into it, shouting, taunting.
McCabe worked his way toward the basket, keeping his dribble low, protecting the ball. He went in for a short jumper, left his feet and Fabio hit him, fouled him in mid-air. The ball hit the glass and went in. McCabe went flying, landing hard on the concrete. He got up slowly, gaze locked on Fabio, "This the way you want to play? Okay."
Fabio held the ball close to his chest under his chin. He drove left, went behind his back with his right hand, left McCabe standing there. Drove hard for the hoop and went in for a lay-up, a sure thing, but McCabe caught him, stuffed him from behind, and knocked him down; the inmates were yelling, going crazy.
Fabio got to his feet, squaring off with McCabe, fists raised, ready to go at it as a guard appeared, pushing his way through the crowd.
Chapter Two
"I didn't see McCabe again till we were taken over for trial," Chip said. "There were thirty of us packed in a holding cell, waiting to be transported to the courthouse. I look over, see McCabe handcuffed to this little dude, I thought he was a midget."
"He was Sardinian," McCabe said. "Scared to death. Kept throwing salt over his shoulder and picking his nose."
"Why salt?" Brianna said.
She was Chip's girlfriend. Brianna Labitzke, a nice-looking brunette with perfect teeth, from Santa Clara, whose father owned a vineyard named after her. They made a premium Chardonnay and an award-winning Pinot.
"For good luck," McCabe said.
"Why'd he pick his nose?" Brianna said.
"I don't know," McCabe said. "Maybe it's a Sardinian custom." He flashed back to the transport van, the size of an airport shuttle, narrow two-sided bench that ran down the center, six prisoners sitting back to back with six others, McCabe handcuffed to the nervous little dude with tiny feet in scuffed brown shoes dangling over the floor, the bodies of twelve men jerking back and forth to the sway of the van. He remembered the view approaching the city, Rome spread out in the distance, seeing six of the seven hills.
Now they were sitting at a table at Pietro's, a neighborhood cafe two blocks from school, eating bread and cheese and olives, drinking wine, the house Chianti, McCabe across from Chip, Brianna on his left. The room was big and open and only a third full at 7:00 in the evening. There was an Italian newspaper, Corriere della sera, open on the table, McCabe reading a headline that said:
US senator's son acquitted in taxi theft
There were photographs of McCabe and Chip, shot when they were standing on the steps of the courthouse after the trial, their names transposed. A line under McCabe's photo said, Charles Tallenger III, son of US senator Charles Tallenger II. The line under Chip's picture said, William McCabe, a student at Loyola University.
Chip said, "There must not be much happening in Rome if this qualifies as news."
McCabe said, "Are you kidding? Any time a famous rich kid screws up, people want to know about it. Makes them feel good. Makes them think they're better than you."
"Well, I've got news for you, they're not," Chip said.
"Remember when Paris Hilton went to jail? The media interrupted coverage of the G8 summit to tell us what was happening in her life."
Brianna glanced at McCabe and said, "It looks so strange to see your name under Chip's picture." She took a sip of wine, eyes staying on him. "You don't look like a Charles Tallenger III."
Chip said, "McCabe couldn't be me if he had to. "
McCabe said, "I'm not dumb enough." He picked up an olive and popped it in his mouth, chewed it and spit the pit into his napkin.
"You're not refined enough," Chip said. "It comes down to refinement and breeding."
McCabe said, "You sound like a French poodle."
Brianna said, "Or what's that dog that looks like a Chinese person?"
Chip said, "A shih-tzu."
"No," McCabe said, "a shih-tzu looks like a miniature lion. You're thinking of a Lhasa apso."
Chip said, "How's a guy from Detroit know what a Lhasa apso looks like? A Rottweiler or a pit bull, I can understand."
He picked up his wine glass now, drank too much and splashed down his chin onto his shirt. Chip dipped his napkin in his water glass and rubbed the wine stain on his shirt, blotting it, making it worse.
"Look at him," McCabe said. "It comes down to refinement and breeding."
Chip grinned showing a mouthful of olive paste.
"He's a class act," McCabe said, "isn't he?"
Brianna said, "McCabe, look at the positive side. If you were Chip, you'd get the trust fund, and I'd be going out with you."
McCabe said, "So you're in it for the money, huh?"
Brianna winked at him and smiled flashing her perfect teeth.
"'Course I am."
"Be nice, wouldn't it?" McCabe said. "Somebody hands you a million dollars for doing nothing."
"Add two more zeros," Chip said, "you'll be in the ballpark."
Brianna said, "I want to hear about jail. Were you afraid?" She put her sexy gaze on Chip.
"I wasn't," Chip said. "Prisoners I met were a bunch of pussies."
McCabe glanced down at the newspaper, the next page, and saw two black-and-white photographs of faces that looked familiar. "It's your buddies from jail."
Chip said, "What're you talking about?"
"Guy who took your cigarettes and his friend."
Chip said, "Yeah, right?"
McCabe picked up the newspaper and turned it around so Chip could see the pictures. Chip picked it up and read the article, and when he finished, looked up at McCabe.
"The prison transport they were riding in was ambushed as it came into the city. It was stopped at a traffic light. Men dressed as construction workers got out of a truck that was parked on the side of the road. Shot out the van's tires, gained entrance and overpowered the guards. The two prisoners and their accomplices escaped." He held up the paper. "Look at this."
There was a photograph of the van, tires resting on their rims, bullet holes in the windshield.
"The two prisoners, Sisto Bardi and Roberto Mazara, had been arrested for extortion and were going to trial when the van was intercepted."