The dead man began to cough. His eyes opened. Then he vomited seawater.
“Looks like this conversation is moot,” Jason observed, nodding toward the spectators who had gathered on the causeway, including police.
Someone had used their cell phone to summon the authorities. Another reason to hate the things. Now there was no way Jason could finish.
8
Corporal Guideo Finallia, the ranking member of the main island’s three-man force, accompanied Jason and Maria to the door of the small police station. He had been assigned to this island to finish his time until retirement and was unhappy to be confronted with something more complex than a tourist whose pocket had been picked.
He ran a handkerchief across his sweaty face as he saw Jason and Maria into the street. He was clearly glad to say good-bye to Pangloss. The dog had behaved well but his sheer size could be intimidating to a stranger.
In the piazza across the street, the local open-air market was in full swing. Under canvas flaps, fish and other seafood were displayed on melting ice, to the delight of flies. Next to the fishmongers, butchers readily cut chunks from whole sides of beef, lamb, or pig or sold skinned rabbits hanging from horizontal bars, their long ears assuring the customer he was not buying a rat. Still-feathered ducks and chickens hung alongside. Farther along, fruit-and-vegetable sellers haggled with scarf-clad grandmothers and summer residents’ wives in designer pantsuits.
“The mens from Naples come,” the policeman said in broken English, “take this man away. He no have … er, proofs.”
“Identification?” Maria prodded.
“Sì, no ident-ti-fi-cation,” he confirmed gratefully. “Peoples on the road see what he do.” He looked at Jason. “He take truck, steal. You no know why he try to run you over?”
It was the fourth time the officer had asked the question.
Jason shook his head. “Maybe he has something against Jap cars.”
The officer put a chubby arm on Jason’s shoulder. “We find out.”
“I hope so. I can think of a lot better ways to spend my time than dodging cement trucks.”
Finallia looked puzzled, his thick eyebrows arching into a V over his nose. “Dodging?”
“Er, looking out for, getting out of the way of.”
The policeman smiled. “Ah, you make the joke! Americans always make the joke!” Then he became serious. “No worry. Company lock up rest of cement trucks.”
“That’s comforting to know.”
Finallia gave Jason’s hand a perfunctory pump, started to pat Pangloss on the head, and then thought better of it. “Go, have a little pasta, maybe pizza. No worry.”
They had taken no more than a dozen steps when Jason stopped.
“What?” Maria wanted to know.
It was the first word she had spoken to him since they had left the causeway.
Jason nodded. “That man in front of the pottery stall. He’s watching us. No, don’t look up….”
Too late. The man Jason had spotted turned, shoving his way through a crowd whose white sneakers, souvenir T-shirts, and sunburned faces and arms marked them as cruise-boat passengers on a day trip as surely as any brand signified ownership of a cow. Jason took two steps in pursuit before realizing the futility of giving chase.
Maria maintained the same frigid silence she had begun before they left the causeway as she walked beside him up to the top of the hill toward Angelina, the Little Fisher-Girl, a trattoria specializing in local seafood. Its limited outdoor tables were already full of diners and a line had formed beside the entrance to the outdoor dining area, a small square delineated by potted bay trees.
Aside from decent fish and crustaceans, Angelina had made a concession to the largely American clientele it enjoyed in the summer: two large-screen TVs, tuned to CNN Europe. By September, Formula One races, soccer matches, and other events appealing to locals would draw customers to sip beer, wine, coffee, and grappa. The idea might make commercial sense, but Jason hated dining to the background of the talking heads, even if their voices were inaudible above the murmur of diners’ conversations.
The owner and maître d’, Giuseppe, met them at the entrance, his perpetual smile firmly in place. “Signore Peters, Signorina.” He bowed his head in that form of unctuousness particular to restaurant personnel greeting a big tipper. “Your table is ready.”
Their table was always ready even though Angelina took no reservations. The GTAEPS principle was as effective here as it was in New York, Los Angeles or, for that matter, Singapore: “Generous Tips Always Ensure Prompt Seating”—particularly in many European establishments where the gratuity is included in the bill. It also ensured Pangloss was as welcome as any other customer.
An English couple at the head of the line muttered angrily as Giuseppe whisked Jason and Maria to a table just now being cleared by one of the waiters Jason recognized as the proprietor’s youngest son. Pangloss settled by Maria’s chair expectantly. A few scraps always found their way to his place at Angelina.
Seated, Jason pretended to be enjoying the view. Over a sea of red-tile roofs, the harbor was visible and, beyond, the blue of the Bay of Naples faded into a gray haze. Fishing boats, no more than open rowboats at anchor in neat rows, bobbed gently in the swell. Their nets were spread to dry on the khaki-colored rocks of the breakwater like bright orange moss.
By the time he looked back at the table, a glass of white wine was frosting its glass in front of him. Another perk of tipping. Most Italians claimed that cold killed the taste, preferring their vino blanco only slightly chilled below room temperature, if at all. Jason was more than willing to concede the point: dulling the acidic bite of most Italian whites was to be desired. For the euros Jason left on the table after eating here, Giuseppe would have cheerfully served the wine as ice cubes.
Maria was studying her menu, although she had been here enough to have it memorized. They always ordered one of the catches of the day, anyway. “You nearly killed that man, you know,” she finally said reproachfully.
Jason felt eyes on him from neighboring tables. He leaned forward, speaking softly so he could be heard only by Maria. “You may wish I had. He has some pals already on the island and I doubt they’re here to buy my paintings.”
Her blue eyes peered over the top of the menu. “The man in the market? He could have been anyone.”
“Possible,” Jason conceded. “But he sure took off when he realized I’d spotted him. I’d bet he was surprised we weren’t so much shark chum out on the causeway.”
“You mean he was with the guy who tried to run us over? Why would they want to kill you?”
Jason shrugged. “I guess my popularity rating has slipped.”
Maria put her menu flat on the table and leaned forward on arms crossed. The pose pushed up her breasts, giving a tempting view of cleavage. “Let me see, now: for three years we live on this island where the greatest threat is boredom. I leave for a few weeks and you do a ‘friend’”—she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers—“a favor. A few days later, some unknown person appears on the island, steals a cement truck, and tries to run us down. You don’t suppose there’s a connection?”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
“Killing people doesn’t exactly enhance your appeal either.”
Jason was acutely aware of the silence at neighboring tables. “Any chance we can continue this discussion in private?”
She flushed as she noticed the curious faces around them. The menu went up again. “Sorry, I should have …”