Joey looked at him and said, "You're in the wrong business. You really think I was going to give you the money?"
"No, I thought you might do something stupid like this, and you did."
Joey looked at Mazara, and pointed to the second-story window. "She's up there, go get her."
It was quiet in the Palazzo, the only sounds coming from Piazza del Plebiscito. Mazara gripped the Tanfoglio in his left hand as he moved up the stairway to the second floor. Checked four offices. No one in any of them. Looked in the fifth and saw Angela standing at the window. He watched her for a few seconds, wondering what she was doing. She turned and saw him, put her finger in front of her mouth, telling him not to say anything.
He went in, aiming the gun, checking the room. She seemed calm and relaxed, not what he was expecting of a hostage kidnapped for days. What was she doing in this office in a municipal building by herself? It was strange. Something was not right. He approached her and whispered, "Where are they?"
She looked at him and shook her head.
"Don't move," Mazara said in a quiet voice. "You are safe now." He walked out of the room, thinking Angela did not look as if anything was wrong, nor did she seem happy to see him. He moved along the hall checking the remaining offices on the floor. He saw no one. What kidnapper leaves their hostage before the ransom is collected?
When he went back to the room she was gone.
McCabe saw Mazara appear, coming out of Palazzo dei Priori, moving toward them. Joey turned and saw him and said, "Where the hell's she at?"
"She was in an office, right there," Mazara said. "And then she was gone."
Joey said, "What're you talking about?"
"Angela, she vanish like a ghost," Mazara said.
"A ghost, huh?" Joey grinned and glanced at McCabe. "Where is she, Slick? Still in the building?"
"Now you're starting to get it," McCabe said. "You want Angela, you've got to give me the money."
Joey handed the soccer bag to Mazara. "Hang on to this and keep an eye on him. I'm going in to have a look," he said, walking toward Palazzo dei Priori.
McCabe's mistake, he figured they'd do something, but didn't think they'd jump him in a public place, local police thirty yards away. But it wasn't over. The bag of money was right there and he was going to get it. Now a tour group, about thirty people, walked by them and stopped, crowding together in front of the arch that led to the courtyard behind Palazzo dei Priori, the mass of people separating them from Joey. McCabe lifted his heel and brought it down in the center of Noto's left foot. The big man grunted and let go of him, hobbling, trying to stay on his feet.
Sisto rushed him, and McCabe hit him with a straight right and he went down. Mazara came from behind, surprising him, almost knocking him off his feet. McCabe swung an elbow into his face and Mazara went to his knees. The strap slipped off his shoulder and the bag fell on the ground. McCabe went for it, picked it up, and took off running across the square, dodging people, trying to get through the crowd. He banged into a guy taking a photo and sent him flying.
He ran out of the piazza and down Via San Lorenzo to his car parked on the street, opened the door, threw the bag on the passenger seat and got in. He started the Fiat, put it in gear and saw Sisto and Mazara, coming toward him. He waited for an opening in traffic, pulled out and there was the little guy they called Psuz standing in front of the car, aiming a shotgun.
McCabe gunned it, engine winding, driving right at him. Psuz stepped out of the way, disappeared, and McCabe saw him in the rearview mirror. Saw him level the shotgun: firing and blowing out the rear window, firing and blowing off the passenger side mirror, firing and blowing out the passenger side windows, glass flying, glass all over him, all over the dash and front seats.
McCabe jerked the steering wheel left, then right, and floored it, speeding on a narrow one-way street toward Porta San Pietro, a straight shot out of the city. He drove through the arched exit, went left on Via Cassia, passed Porta Romana, cars lined up, bumper to bumper, waiting to enter Viterbo, the once holy residence of popes.
Joey was about to go in the building, looked back and saw McCabe take off with the soccer bag. He was gone five seconds and they'd lost the money. Now he was about thirty yards behind Mazara and Sisto, running, sucking air, trying to catch them. He heard a shotgun blast and then two more. Saw Mazara get in the front passenger seat of the Opel, and got there as they were pulling out. Joey was on the driver's side, aiming the Beretta at Sisto behind the wheel. Sisto stopped and Joey opened the rear door, jumped in and slid across the seat behind Mazara, pressing the barrel of the Beretta against the back of his head. "The fuck you think you're going?"
"He take the money," Mazara said.
"I know he take the money you fucking bozo." Joey hit him on top of the head with the barrel.
"He was lucky," Mazara said, turning in the seat, putting his hands up to protect himself.
"He was lucky? There were three of you, you can't handle a college kid. Jesus." Joey drove his fist into the seatback. In Joey's mind it was a no-brainer, a slam-dunk. What were they doing? Standing there holding their dicks while McCabe got away with?437,000.
Sisto stopped and picked Psuz up down the street that was as wide as an alley, Psuz getting in next to him saying, "He go this way, we catch him."
"You better catch him," Joey said.
Sisto gunned it, speeding along the narrow street, going through Porta San Pietro, stopping at the main road. Joey looked to the right and saw a gas station and beyond it a mirrored-glass building that looked out of place next to the old city.
"There," Mazara said, pointing left.
Joey saw the blue Fiat in heavy traffic up ahead. "What do you think Don Gennaro's going to say when I tell him what happened?" That got their attention. Mazara, still rubbing his head, glanced back at Joey.
"Why do you tell him?"
"Why do I tell him?" Joey shook his head. "Dude, his little girl, my cousin's been kidnapped in case you forgot, and she could be in serious fucking trouble. Oh, and you lost his share of the money. That's why I tell him." He leaned back in the seat, trying to get comfortable. There wasn't much legroom.
Psuz was next to him with the shotgun, barrel pointed at the floor, the stench of gunpowder filling the car. Psuz had bleached blond hair, a dark beard and dark eyebrows, and gave Joey the creeps. He grinned at him and Joey said, "What's your problem?"
Mazara looked back and pointed straight through the windshield. "You see? There, the blue Fiat?"
Joey saw it turn right up ahead, and they did too on Viale Fiume, a two-lane country road. They passed irrigation canals and flat dirt fields that had been harvested. They passed farmhouses in the distance and sheep grazing.
Mazara said something to Sisto in Italian and Sisto grinned, and looked at Joey in the rearview mirror.
"What'd you say?" Joey said.
"No more telling us what to do," Mazara said it like he was trying out the line, waiting for a reaction.
"Is that right?" Joey said. "Let me remind you, if it wasn't for you clowns we wouldn't be in this situation. We'd be on our way back to Rome with Angela and the money." Joey decided to keep the Beretta handy, even the odds if they were thinking about a mutiny.
Psuz was grinning at him again. Joey brought the Beretta up and aimed it at him. "You don't quit looking at me like that I'm going to put this in your mouth, let you suck on it like a big dick. You'll probably like it."
Mazara looked over his shoulder and said, "Be careful what you say. Psuz was in the Bersaglieri, a sniper in Italian army, can kill you from three hundred meters."