The Vatican Rip

'Kid, no. Stupid and drunk, yes.' I yanked him into the corridor. 'Anna. You be here at four.'

The van was in the smallest garage in the world half a mile from St John Lateran. We got the Metro, Carlo paying—obviously in blood—and leering at women. That journey was a record: he only combed his hair a couple of dozen times. Pests don't come more pestilential than Carlo. He was doing his spy theatrical all the way out of the Metro and crossing the road. We got more attention than Garibaldi's entry. I still don't believe it—

he gave eight significant raps on the garage door, looking cloak-and-dagger as he hissed a secret code word through the gaping slats, even though the door was half off.

Bloody fool. Wearily I pushed it open and stepped through while Carlo was still at it. He swaggered after me undismayed, narrowly failing to light a cigarette. That was because I took his matches and fags off him and dropped them underfoot. He was standing next to a petrol pump and a drum of waste oil.

'Patrizio.' Carlo leaned against the garage wall, flicking a coin. The nerk was unbelievable.

A tubby cheerful bloke in trousers and singlet emerged from the engine of a derelict one-tonner. He was glad to see me and smeared me with oil in an effusive greeting.

'Patrizio, this is the boss,' Carlo rasped, his eyes hooded. He missed his coin which plopped into an oil puddle.

'Ah, signori! You like her, eh?'

'Like who?' I looked about.

'You want the van tomorrow, no?' Patrizio slammed a hand on the ancient relic—it nearly fell apart—and grinned enthusiastically. 'Big rip, eh?'

I swallowed carefully. There wasn't another vehicle in the place. 'That?'

'Sure!' Carlo thrust out his lower lip. 'Me and Patrizio done a deal. She'll do a hundred, boss.' Carlo screwed the words out the corner of his mouth in a crude American accent.

Stricken, I walked around the van. Patrizio came, exclaiming and extolling with enthusiam. It had obviously done service in the Western Desert, World War II graffiti and all. Now, the old banger was having a hard time standing upright. 'Fine, eh?'

'No, Patrizio. Carlo must have misunderstood.'

Patrizio's thought winged instantly to money. 'Cheap, Lovejoy.'

I sighed. He knew my name. Carlo had probably given him my address as well.

'Carlo,' I said. 'Keep watch outside.'

'Sure, boss.' The duckegg hunched his jacket collar up and sidled out, tripping over an immense air hose as he did so. He slammed the door so a plank fell out, and stood outside pretending to chew gum.

'Now,' I said carefully, giving Patrizio one of my special looks. 'I need a professional driver, and a pro van.'

Patrizio was no fool. He glanced at the garage door and shrugged. 'Apologies, signor. I thought—'

'— I'd be a fool, too?' I smiled, quite liking him. 'Be frank and there's no harm done.'

'Tomorrow, no?'

'Tomorrow, yes.'

He nodded, gauging me. 'You need my boy Valerio.'

'What's he like?'

Another mile-high shrug. 'I'm his father, signor.'

'You'll need uniforms, Patrizio. Possible?'

'Certain. But if it's tomorrow the van'll have to be… obtained, not fabricated.'

'Do it. One thing.' I shrugged, at least an inch. The best I've ever been able to manage.

'It'll have to be a flat fee.'

Patrizio looked at me as if into the teeth of a gale. 'Never heard of a straight-price rip, Lovejoy.'

'You have now.'

'And Carlo? Anna will be furious if he's left out.'

'I'll deal with Anna.'

He grinned and slapped my hand. 'Good luck, Lovejoy. You get your van. Where and when?'

I'd met a pro at last. Smiling with relief, I told him.

Back home Anna was incredulous. 'Carlo dropped? He can't be!'

'You want him so badly?'

She nodded. She was wearing a young print dress and was all ready for me when I returned a few minutes after four. I'd sent Carlo to count the traffic at the traffic lights on the Leone IV, telling him it was our getaway route, the burke.

'Please, Lovejoy. I know what he is, a child still. But he is all I have.' She was ashamed.

I recognized the symptoms from my own career, and relented. 'I've got him a part, love.'

Her face lit, like sunrise. 'You have?' She flung her arms round me wildly. 'Oh, thank you, Lovejoy! Thank you!'

'A vital one,' I said into her hair. 'I'll see he's useful.'

I was thinking, by the time she realized exactly how vital, I'd be a thousand miles away from Rome and in the clear. Like I say, sometimes I'm just too thick for words, but you can't be right all the time.

* * *

On the way to the Emporium for my late stint I popped into the church on the Borgo San Spirito. It's one of the churches still burning honest-to-God candles instead of those gruesome candle-shaped electric sticks they have in Rome nowadays which for a hundred lire give you a few minutes of electron-powered devotional flicker.

Feeling vaguely embarrassed by the novelty I lit five candles, stuck them in the holders and knelt down. I won't tell you everything I said, but I promised God I'd take Arcellano alive. Then, mumbo-jumbo done with, I emerged blinking at the sun—and saw Anna across the road and waved. To my relief, she was smiling and nodding, so I knew the clever girl had got it, that dark old-fashioned brownish bottle from the chemist's shop by the Via del Mascherino. All systems go.

That evening Adriana and I stayed at the Emporium. It was the oddest sensation, climbing the forbidden stairs and seeing Adriana move about the bedroom as if we'd been together there all our lives. Adriana tried to act casual but I saw her hand tremble as she hung up her stole and I realized that bringing me here was a big thing for her.

Another worry.

She insisted on making us both coffee and bringing it over to me. She'd taken my jacket and sat me on the couch, promising to show me around once I'd become accustomed to the idea of being alone with a rapacious woman. I smiled to show I too was solemnly concentrating on lightness of heart.

'New locks,' I observed.

'The stair door? Yes. There are so many thefts nowadays, darling.' She swept her hair from her face. 'I thought it was wiser.'

Which meant that Piero's key was now obsolete.

'Adriana. Will you get in trouble?'

She concentrated on not spilling the cream. 'With Emilio? Hardly. You saw, Lovejoy.

Him and that creature Fabio. It's beyond a woman's control.'

'Piero, then? He's the sort to play hell.'

She only had one lamp lit, that lovely minareted Garian case which dappled gold about the room. Her face was silhouetted in a deep bronze fire. She was sitting beside my chair, looking away. I'd never seen anything so wondrous in all my life as that miracle of line and form. Sorrow enveloped me. What a mess it all was, the whole fucking rip.

She said rather sadly, 'He can be got rid of.' The words were so matter-of-fact I hardly took them in at the time, especially as she continued talking with her head on my knee and her breast against me. 'Are you married, Lovejoy?'

That took me by surprise. 'Rescued.'

Her eyes deflected, all casual. 'A dragon?'

I thought a bit. 'A pretty laser.'

'So sometimes you too plan badly.' She continued, 'How could I have known about you, Lovejoy? You weren't here.' I suppressed exasperation at the bitterness in her voice. I hadn't known about her, either. Nor that Marcello would be murdered. 'A woman needs a man.' She turned quickly to loan me a half-smile, an on-account sort of expression.

'Not as badly as a man needs a woman. You've taught me that, Lovejoy. With you it's one hundred per cent yourself. The rest is incidental.' She indicated the apartment vaguely. 'This. The money, the firm. With Piero it was a percentage. And the others were the same.'

I returned her defiant look trying to smile. It was a hell of an effort. She was so lovely.