"Who are they?" Brianna said.
"We were in a holding cell at police headquarters," Chip said. "I asked the long-haired guy, Mazara, for a light. He asked me for a cigarette. I took out my pack and he grabbed it."
Brianna said, "What'd you do?"
"Nothing. It wasn't worth it." He picked up his glass and sipped his wine. "McCabe went over and got it back. I couldn't believe it. You should've seen these guys. They looked like extras in The Sopranos." Chip glanced down at the paper.
"It says they're allegedly involved in extortion, kidnapping, weapons trafficking and racketeering."
Brianna said, "What's racketeering?"
"Being involved in illegal activities," Chip said. "They're armed and dangerous." He was reading the article. "You see them, call the ROS.' He looked up. "Like we're going to see them again."
Brianna said, "What's the ROS?"
Chip said, "Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale," reading the article, "an elite unit of the carabinieri formed to fight organized crime."
McCabe saw Pietro, the owner, wave him over, Pietro sitting at the bar, having a glass of grappa before it got crowded. McCabe stood up and said, "I'll be right back." He walked over and sat next him.
Pietro was in his mid-forties, short and heavy with a thin tapered mustache and dark hair combed back.
"McCabe, what is this I hear about you in Rebibbia?"
For whatever reason, Pietro had taken a liking to him, introduced him to his family, invited him to his house for dinner, offered him the use of his summer home in Lazio. McCabe told him what happened.
Pietro shook his head and glanced at Chip. "Him I can see, but not you, McCabe. You should have phone me. I know a few judges. They come here for cannelloni." He patted McCabe on the cheek. "Stay out of trouble, uh?"
McCabe went back to the table.
Brianna said, "You guys were lucky. Anything else happen? Anybody try to…"
McCabe said, "You mean did we end up being somebody's girlfriend? I don't know about Chip, but I walked out with my virginity intact."
Chip said, "I was in a cell with a South American pickpocket and an old dude who'd been there since the early seventies."
Brianna said, "What'd he do?"
"I don't know, but he slept with his clothes on, thinking he was going to be released any time and wanted to be ready."
Brianna said, "How'd you get out?"
Chip said, "The Senator bought the taxi driver a new Fiat and gave him money for his trouble."
"You call your dad the Senator?"
"No, I call him Chuck."
"Come on?" Brianna said.
"That's my name for him because it's so out of character. He's Charles. Not Charley or Chuck or Chucky. He's too straight to have a nickname."
Brianna said, "You don't call him Chuck to his face, do you?"
"Not if I want to collect the trust fund. Chuck also hired attorneys who knew one of the judges. A deal was made, although I don't know the particulars."
Brianna said, "You mean a bribe?"
Chip said, "We don't use words like that, it's politically incorrect."
Brianna said, "Judges? How many were there?"
"Three,' McCabe said, "and a prosecutor who wanted to make an example of us. Teach American students what happens when they steal a taxi in Rome. He wanted to give us eighteen months."
Chip said, "Then one of the judges said something, and it was over and we were shaking hands with our attorneys."
McCabe flashed back to the courtroom, he and Chip in coats and ties, sitting next to their lawyers, facing three serious men wearing white powdered wigs and black robes, listening to the prosecutor yelling at them in Italian.
"On the way back to school," McCabe said, "Chip told his dad I stole the taxi and he tried to stop me. What a friend, huh?"
"Dude," Chip said. "We're out, who cares? If the senator knew I drove the cab, I'd be home right now. You don't know him. He's perfect, never made a mistake in his life. Ask him."
McCabe remembered the ride home from the courthouse. They were in a Mercedes-Benz Maybach driven by the senator's aide, a yes-man in a seersucker suit and bow tie, named Todd, who kept looking at them in the rearview mirror.
Charles Tallenger was impressive. He looked Hollywood's idea of a US senator, tall, good-looking, well-dressed, with dark hair, graying at the temples, sixty years old, the build of a tennis player, six two, 180, a two-term Democrat from Connecticut. Played lacrosse at Princeton. Was a Rhodes Scholar. Went to Harvard Law. Started a software company he took public ten years later and cashed out for $500 million.
Chip was right, he was perfect. Yeah, McCabe thought, he'd be a tough act to follow. Tougher if your name was Chip. They were driving along the Tiber past Castel Saint Angelo, the dome of St Peter's in the distance. The senator was turned sideways in the front seat, looking back at them.
"Do you guys know how lucky you are?"
Chip wouldn't look at him, eyes on the floor.
The senator said, "Whose bright idea was it to steal the cab?" Chip looked up and glanced at McCabe.
The senator said, "What were you thinking?"
McCabe didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything.
The senator fixed his attention on Chip now and said, "And you went along for the ride, huh? That's just as bad. Why didn't you do something, try to stop him?"
Chip squirmed in his seat. "I did."
McCabe couldn't believe it, Chip throwing him under the bus like that. He could see Chip was afraid of the guy.
"You didn't try very hard, did you? You guys are what, twenty-one years old? Still acting like kids. It's time to grow up." He looked over at the driver. "Todd, you're only a few years out of college, you understand any of this?"
Todd glanced at the senator and said, "No, sir, I honestly do not. I couldn't fathom doing something like that."
McCabe wanted to pull the little weasel with the bow tie out of the car and pop him.
The senator said, "You know what I was doing when I was twenty-one?"
Todd said, "If I may, Sir? I believe you were Princeton's Rhodes Scholar attennding Oxford University, the world's most prestigious international fellowship."
Todd flashed a weasel grin.
Charles Tallenger glanced over his shoulder at McCabe.
"You hear that? I was trying to learn and grow as an individual — what you should he doing in this spectacular city."
He had a disc jockey's voice and liked to hear himself talk. McCabe felt sorry for Chip, having to live up to this overachiever's expectations.
"McCabe, do you have any idea what it cost to make this go away?" the senator said, eyes on him.
"Senator, I appreciate your help," McCabe said. "Tell me what I owe you and I'll pay you back. I just can't do it right now."
"I like your attitude. You sound like a stand-up guy." He'd made his point, turned away from them, square in his seat now, looking out the windshield.
They drove along Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Looking past Chip, McCabe could see the dome of the Pantheon to his right and then got a quick glimpse of Fontana del Moro in Piazza Navona. They crossed the river, drove through Vatican City to Piazza Risorgimento, and started the climb up Monte Mario, no one talking, the Maybach solid and quiet like a bank vault.
They turned on Via Trionfale, in the neighborhood now, moving past Pietro's, a cafe, and Max's Bar, another student hangout, pulling in the entrance to the school that looked like a country club with its stucco pillars and ornate iron gate. Cruised up the winding drive past sculpted shrubs and rows of cypress trees evenly spaced, to the three-story villa painted a pastel color called umber.
The senator glanced back at them and said, "Tell me you learned something from all this."