When Motta was done ordering he threw his cigar into the fireplace behind him and folded his hands on his belly. He smiled at Quinn and stroked the belly twice.
“I know you got ways,” he said, as if nothing had interrupted the conversation, “but on the other hand, Quinn, couldn’t any of this interfere with our operation on this side?”
Quinn thought for a moment and then he explained that he did not think so. He thought, first of all, that no one from the States would come looking for him, second, that he could take care of any eventualities, and third, that none of this would interfere with the business, Motta’s business, Quinn’s business, any business. Quinn sighed when he was through, feeling like a schoolboy who had gone through a recitation. And when a schoolboy recites, the teacher always knows everything ahead of time, so this whole talk was sham and useless. Quinn lit another cigarette and felt he smoked too much.
Motta, he was sure, had something entirely different on his mind. I’ll just have to wait, even if I bust.
“I was thinking this,” said Motta, and poured more wine. “I was thinking this because I know the whole operation, of course, and maybe once you do, you’d see it the same way I do, but I’ll explain the details some other time. Antipasto,” he said, and watched the waiter come with the big plate.
Quinn did not wait for the waiter to get done.
“I didn’t understand a word you said,” he told Motta. “Maybe because I don’t know the whole operation?”
Motta laughed and put a pickled cauliflower in his mouth. He kept it there and sucked.
“Ever taste it the way it tastes when you suck?” he mumbled.
No, said Quinn, he had never tasted it the way it tastes when you suck, and what exactly was Motta talking about before. Quinn rubbed his nose because it had started to itch nervously.
Motta swallowed-Quinn had not seen him chew-and talked again. “I was thinking this,” he said to the ceiling. Then he looked at Quinn. “I think I can use you on this side better than on the other. Maybe Cipolla told you, but I can drop that Remal character any time, and ship out of other ports.”
“Work with you here?” said Quinn. “It’s a proposition. Tell me more.”
Quinn reached over to the antipasto plate and picked something up which looked green and wrinkled. He chewed it and did not like the sourness. He himself felt prickly.
“And I tell you,” said Motta. “If I were you, Quinn, you know I’d just keep worrying and worrying about that captain floating around some place, and who knows what he’ll do about this queer business with the undeclared box.”
Motta talked more, always between mouthfuls, and by the time the pasta and meat sauce came, Quinn was worried. Santa Claus has a strange effect, he thought. Like a snake charmer.
During the veal the talk shifted to Remal, and who knows what a foreigner like that is up to, and what would the reception be, if Quinn were to go back. Ever think of that yet?
And maybe, thought Quinn, no longer tasting his food, maybe there’s an entirely different reason behind all of Motta’s pink-cheeked advice. Maybe all of this has to do with his wish to keep Quinn nearby, to keep Quinn under close check. He doesn’t act like Ryder, and he doesn’t act like Remal, but who knows Motta, except that he likes moist cigars?
The greens were served separately from everything else and Quinn now had to eat a plate full of greens. They were not very hot, they were warmish, and very slippery with oil.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Motta. He burped behind his napkin and explained that this green stuff always made him burp, but how healthy the green stuff really was.
“I’ll give Whitfield a call,” said Motta, “with the shortwave, and find out from him where that tramper has his ports of call.”
“I know that already. Tel Aviv, Alexandria, and then down to Madagascar. From there, home. I don’t know if he goes around the Cape or how, but I remember those ports.”
“Well,” said Motta, “I think Whitfield will remember better. It’s business.” He sucked his teeth and spat something out, all done discreetly behind the napkin. “That is, if you want me to, Quinn.”
“I don’t know what good it would do.”
“If that captain is still in the Mediterranean basin, I can maybe get in touch with him. I got friends here and there, and with a bottle of something or other, maybe we can get it out of him if he’s reported about you in that box, if he intends to do so, and we could even explain to him he should better not report anything, just like you were figuring.”
Quinn nudged his plate away and wondered why Motta was so interested in all this.
“The reason I’m worrying, besides from being a worrier,” Motta said, “is because I’d like to be sure the guy I work with is gonna be as safe as me, seeing he and I, what I mean is, you and I, will be sort of hitched up with each other. Which is true if you work on the African end or here. Right?”
Yes, answered Quinn, he could see that point of view, and he agreed with Motta so he would drop the matter. It was not business.
“Cipolla,” said Motta, “you’ve eaten enough.”
“Huh?”
“You get on this right away, Cipolla, and see if you can raise Whitfield this time of evening and we get this thing rolling. Okay, Quinn?”
It was now okay with Quinn. Cipolla seemed to be used to this kind of treatment, as who wouldn’t be, with Motta pink-cheeked and smiling-a retired hood who likes to be friends.
Cipolla left. Motta ate the next thing, which seemed to be something from the sea, and Quinn sat in the dim room, angry at having to wait through a revolting meal.
“How long will all this take?” Quinn asked.
“If he’s still in the Mediterranean, Quinn, maybe just a few days, you know?” Motta looked up and smiled, to give reassurance. “My guess is we can still catch him. Those tramps are slow. And besides,” he said, with the next piece of gray-looking stuff on his fork, “the next run out of here isn’t for five days anyway, so you’ll be stuck here till then whether you decide to take Okar on or whether you decide to team up on this side.” Motta nodded and said, “I still wanna talk business with you, you know. A few days, you and me, and we might do each other some good.”
Then he ate.
The next morning Quinn was surprised to find that the sun was shining, as if sunshine did not belong here and it was a mistake. There was finally business talk with Motta, and that went very well. When Motta talked business he talked only business, he did not insist, the way Cipolla did, that he, the speaker, was the big thing in the talk. The smuggling setup, Quinn found out, was extremely well organized, and the reason Motta had allowed Remal his own slipshod methods was because there was no point, at the Africa end, to be any more careful. However, should Quinn take over there, they could make much more money. Quinn worked on plans as if studying for an examination.
The captain had not been located.
On the second day Quinn slept until late in the morning. There was no point in getting up early, but there was a point in staying asleep. The subject of the captain and what his reporting might do to Quinn had become a bothersome worry.
On that day the sun turned watery by noon and Quinn sat in the cafe and missed Bea. This surprised him, and by late afternoon Quinn was drunk.
At ten that evening, at the end of Motta’s meal, Cipolla came into the restaurant and reported that the captain was tied up in Alexandria.
On the third day Quinn woke up very early because the captain was now an insistent preoccupation.
Motta was reassuring. They discussed where Quinn should work. Quinn wanted Okar. Motta thought Sicily better. He said he liked Quinn and his hustling ways.