"The next day we visited the famous places of Detroit: Greenfield Village and Motown, where the music was recorded. We saw the factory where the Model T was built and the General Motors Building. There is not so much to see. We went to a baseball game. I had my first hotdog."
"What did you think?"
"I loved it."
McCabe said, "How do you think Detroit compares with Rome? I mean architecturally, culturally."
"You are funny," Angela said. "We drove with my aunt and uncle to Harbor Springs on Lake Michigan."
McCabe said, "Where the rich people go."
"They have a big house on the water with a sand beach and a motor boat. Joey came to see us and was there for a couple of days, staying because of Carmella. Thinking back, he was insecure, you know, because she was so beautiful. He reminded me of a schoolboy. He liked her but didn't know what to say to her or how to act. He would make fun of the way she spoke English, and the way she dressed. Joey is not a good person."
"That's the impression I get," McCabe said. "How old was Carmella?"
"Twenty-two. And Joey, at the time, was twenty-five. The last night we were there he went to her room in the middle of the night and he forced himself on her."
McCabe said, "Why didn't you go to your uncle?"
"You would have to understand how they thought of him. Joey was their little prince."
"What did Carmella do?"
"What could she do? She was embarrassed. She was ashamed. Who was she going to talk to? What was she going to say?'
McCabe said, "Tell them what happened."
"Do you think my aunt and uncle would have believed her? Would have taken her word over Joey?" She paused. "I tell you this because Joey is not going to make it easy. I hope you know that."
"Don't worry" McCabe said. "I'll be ready."
Chapter Twenty-eight
Mazara said he'd go to the hotels in Viterbo, show the photograph of Angela, ask if anyone had seen her. Joey said, you kidnap someone you don't take them to a hotel. Was this guy playing with a full deck? McCabe had her someplace outside the city. Someplace quiet and secluded — a house in the country. That was the only thing that made sense, the only way he could've pulled it off.
Joey was sure McCabe had someone helping him too, another student maybe. How could he have done it by himself? How could he have gotten her out of the apartment without anyone seeing them? Joey and Mazara had knocked on every door in her building, and asked if anyone had seen Angela leave the night before, Mazara doing the talking, telling the neighbors Joey was her cousin from America, and he had come a long way to see her. One guy said he saw her walking down the stairs about 8:40 p.m., but didn't see her again. Nobody else could remember seeing her at all.
Joey had told Mazara if he did exactly what Joey said he'd help square things with the don. What could he say? Joey liked being in Italy now, liked the action, catching a buzz on what was happening.
Mazara had picked him up at the Excelsior, and now they were on the autostrada heading for Viterbo, Mazara driving, Joey relaxing in the front passenger seat, checking out the countryside, feeling good about himself.
He said, "Got my Unk's money?"
"There," Mazara said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the bag on the back seat. It was a white soccer bag that said Adidas on the side. Joey turned, got on his knees, reached over the seat, picked up the bag and put it in his lap. He unzipped it and saw banded packs of bright-colored bills that looked like play money.
"How much?" Joey said.
"Four hundred and thirty-seven thousand euro," Mazara said.
That's all that was left after paying the don?60,000, and he still owed him?90,000 more, thirty per cent. His crew had already spent three thousand from their shares, and Roberto said they were angry and didn't want to give any of it back. Joey wanted to count it, see if he was telling it straight, but it was too difficult to do in the car.
Mazara had gotten him a Beretta Nine and a fancy five- shot twelve-gauge with a walnut stock you'd shoot skeet with. He wanted something simple and sawed off, a sixteen-inch barrel he could carry under a coat.
The Beretta was in his belt under the Tommy Bahama, the gay shotgun was in the trunk. They were cruising past fields of crops on both sides of the highway that reminded Joey of the farms he'd see driving to northern Michigan. He saw stone farmhouses, and occasionally a little walled village in the distance. They were listening to Italian rock music that sounded like shit. "You call this music, what the hell is it?"
"Negramaro," Mazara said, "they are very popular in Italy. The singer, he was a plumber before he start the group."
"With a voice like that he should go back to unplugging drains. What else you got?"
Mazara handed him a CD, and flashed a smile. He said, "Eminem from Detroit."
Joey said, "I know where he's from. It doesn't make him sound any better. I can't listen to rap." He hated it. Joey imagined hell as a never-ending hip-hop concert. "You got anything good? Frank Sinatra, maybe." In his head he could hear Frank singing:
I get no kick from champagne Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all…
"Or how 'bout Tony Bennett?"
Mazara looked confused. "No."
"Why am I not surprised?" Joey looked out the window and saw a farmer on an old-fashioned tractor, dust trailing in his wake, looked over at Mazara and said, "How long you been seeing Angela?"
He ignored the question, kept his eyes straight ahead, two hands on the steering wheel, holding the Fiat steady. He zoomed in close to a semi, put his signal on and sped around the truck that was carrying pigs, a foul smell coming through the interior of the car. "Jesus," Joey said.
"Miale," Mazara said. "Porco," and pinched his nose with thumb and index finger.
"No shit," Joey said. The inside of the car smelled like a sewer.
Mazara looked over at him and cracked a smile.
Joey said, "You're banging Angela, aren't you, Bob? Scopatta.
"
Mazara's grin faded fast. He looked away from Joey, turned his head, staring straight at the highway again, the muscles in his face tightening.
"I don't blame you, she's a nice piece of ass even if she is my cousin." Joey saw an aqueduct in the distance. "You have any idea what the don would do, he found out you were knifing his little girl?"
Mazara kept his head straight, but Joey saw his eyes dart over at him. He looked nervous now.
"Listen, partner, I'm not going to say anything, okay? That's between you and Angela. But if the don finds out…" He didn't finish. It was more fun this way, let him imagine what would happen.
Mazara could not believe this situation he was in, the strange sequence of events that had him driving Joey, the loudmouth American, to Viterbo. First it was the don challenging him about the money. He remembered the man's harsh words and his angry expression, remembered being nervous, sweat rolling down his face.
Then Angela was kidnapped, taken from her apartment by the American student, McCabe. What kind of student was he? What kind of student did that? Mazara was concerned about him taking advantage of her. And although they were not married he wore the corno, the horn on a chain around his neck to prevent her from being unfaithful. He also gestured, making the horn sign, the mano cornuta, extending his index and little finger while holding down his two middle fingers and his thumb to repel adversity.
And then Joey coming to Angela's apartment while he was there. It was too strange. Getting the money back was another problem, telling his crew the don wanted a larger percentage of the ransom.
Sisto had said, "This is your problem. We did not negotiate with the man. You make the mistake, the money should be taken out of your share."
"I will go to the don's villa," Noto had said, "and cut his throat like a pig."