It worked, except with the Zip.
The Zip said to him, after that time at the gas station, "You were going to set this guy on fire? Standing between the pumps and the car, crowded in there, gas fumes in the air, you're going to light your lighter?" Nicky didn't say anything. "Everybody around there and also the car and anybody in it," the Zip said, "would've gone up in a ball of fire." Nicky said, "Jimmy liked the idea." The Zip said, "Then you should've done it."
Nicky had always wanted to shoot somebody, see what it would be like. He still did, and he wanted to shoot that fucking cowboy. What he shouldn't have done was talk about it, give the Zip and the genuine Italians something to needle him with. So now the Zip would give him a hard time as usual, ask him a lot of questions. Where was he when Fabrizio was getting shot? And so on.
Nicky's story was the cowboy surprised them: said he wanted to talk and shot Fabrizio as he got out of the car; then made him bring Fabrizio's body here so everybody could see the two bullet holes in him. Like a warning, what can happen if they come after the cowboy. Nicky told it to Benno and then to the Zip standing on the sidewalk, after he came downstairs with his whore, a woman who looked to Nicky like she took in washing. The woman went off down the street in a ratty yellow fur jacket and white shoes. The Zip told them to get rid of Fabrizio and took Nicky to a trattoria around the corner.
"I don't give a shit what you think," Nicky told him. "It was how I said. He was waiting for us and came over to the car."
"Up in the hills."
"Yeah."
"Fabrizio, he let him walk up to the car?"
Nicky hesitated. "He didn't come real close, no. He yelled out he wanted to talk."
"Fabrizio got out of the car..."
"Yeah, and walked toward him."
"And you walked toward him?"
Nicky used the salt and pepper shakers on the table. "Fabrizio's here and I'm here. Fabrizio told me not to shoot till he did. I could've, but that's what he said so I didn't. It looked like we were gonna have a talk. He said to Fabrizio, 'Take one more step and I'll shoot.'"
"Yes?"
"Fabrizio took a step and he shot him."
"How many times?"
Nicky hesitated. "I guess twice."
"From how far away was he?"
Nicky paused again. "I don't know -- twenty yards?"
"What did he have? What kind of gun?"
"Revolver, with a stainless finish."
"Cowboy hat and a six-shooter," the Zip said. "Why didn't you shoot?"
Nicky hadn't said if he did or not. The Zip surprised him, speaking so quietly. They were the only ones in the place; waiters setting tables around them, rattling dishes and silverware.
"I told you, Fabrizio said don't shoot."
"I mean while he was shooting Fabrizio. It would be okay then, wouldn't it?"
"What would?"
"To shoot him."
"I didn't have time. I'm about to, he's already aiming at me. What'm I supposed to do?"
"But he didn't shoot."
Nicky shook his head.
"Why not?"
"He told me, drop the gun."
"So, it's in your hand? He sees that, why didn't he shoot?"
"He wanted me to put Fabrizio in the car and bring him down here, show him to you. That's what he said."
"What did you say to him?"
"Nothing."
"I mean when he was pointing his gun at you."
"I didn't say nothing."
"You didn't ask him not to shoot you?"
"No."
"Beg for your life?"
"I'm telling you I never said a fucking word to him. If I had seen any chance at all to shoot him, I fucking would've. Jesus -- okay?"
The Zip wouldn't let it go.
He said, "You both have a gun in your hand looking at each other?" Still speaking quietly and taking his time, maybe picturing the situation.
Nicky shook his head. "It wasn't like what you're thinking, like either one of us could've fired and let's see what happens. It wasn't like that."
"No? What was it like?"
"He had me. If I moved I was fucking dead."
Now the Zip began to nod, maybe still picturing it, Nicky wanting him to hurry up and get this over with. The Zip was different than at any time before, here or at home. Nicky wondered if his getting laid had anything to do with it, if it actually had relaxed him. The Zip was quiet for about a minute. He nodded again.
"You have your gun in your hand..."
Jesus Christ. He would not let it go.
"I explained it to you. Didn't I explain it?"
The Zip waved his hand in front of his face as he shook his head. "What I want to ask you, where's your gun now?"
"Where do you think it is?" Nicky said, wanting to reach over, take the Zip by his hair, and smash his face down on the table, bust his fucking nose. "It's up there on the fucking mountain. He said drop it, I dropped it. What would you have done?"
The Zip said, "You mean the guy has your gun. The same as he took it from you." He nodded a few times before saying, "I get you another gun, testa di cazzo, you think you can hang on to it, not give it away?"
Was he smiling a little, thinking he was funny? Nicky wasn't sure. He was different, though, since being with the whore.
Then surprised Nicky again, saying, "We'll have something to eat."
He had told Benno he wasn't going in a room where the girls were sitting around waiting for him to choose one of them. So Benno spoke to the woman who kept the girls and for twelve thousand lire had the five of them put on their coats and walk past Vesuvio's one at a time. The Zip picked the one who seemed most like a girl from the country -- though probably all of them were at one time -- the one he judged to be the least professional, not putting on too much of an act, and arranged for her to come to the apartment. Her name was Rossana. She was twenty-one and did not speak a word of English; her breath smelled faintly of garlic. The Zip didn't care. He rode her hard, sweating, and it was over in less than a minute. That was okay: he didn't have to impress her and he'd ride her again before too long. He told her he was from Palermo and now lived in Miami Beach. He asked Rossana if she knew about Miami Beach, where it was. She nodded, lying in bed with her arms at her sides, waiting for him. He rested higher, against the headboard.
He said in Italian, "Do you see that suit?" It hung over the back of a chair in the bedroom. She raised her head to look and said yes. "I have twenty suits, each one costing at least ... wait. One million two hundred thousand lire. Do you know why I came to Rapallo?" He waited for her to say no. "I came to kill someone. A man also from Miami Beach." He saw her eyes and how afraid she was, trying not to move. He said, "When I went to America they gave me a shotgun and five thousand dollars. That's... six million lire, to kill someone." He watched her eyes again as he told this girl who didn't know him that he had killed people and saw how it frightened her. He said, "I'm not going to hurt you. I was married to a woman like you, from the country, uh? Perhaps I'm still married to her, I don't know." He said, "I found out five thousand dollars wasn't enough for killing someone, so after that first one I got more. Once I got thirty million lire. Then, this is funny, I tried to give the same amount to a man so I won't have to kill him and he wouldn't take it. Can you understand that?" He waited, but could see she didn't know what he was talking about. He said, "I have all the money I want, but I work for a fool. So the time will come I'll pay someone to kill him. Maybe bring someone over from here and give him five thousand dollars. There is always someone who'll do it. Did you know that?" She stared at him with her frightened eyes, brown ones, without blinking. Now she blinked. It was hard to find someone who wasn't in his life to talk to. Almost always it was a woman. This time a whore, yes, but still not someone in his life. He told her again, "Don't be afraid of me. I'm not crazy. I won't even ask you to do something you don't like. All you have to do is listen to me. All right? Do you want some wine?" She shook her head no, barely movi
ng it. He said, "Do you believe there are people who want to kill me because I kill other people?" She didn't move or nod or shake her head. "There is always someone who wants to kill me. I get new ones all the time. The fool I work for I think would like to have me killed and a punk who works for me would like to do it, but he doesn't have the nerve that it takes. You know the word punk? A young guy who acts tough, but has had no experience. I used to ridicule him in front of others and then they would start on him. You know. But I see now it's a waste of time. If he's nothing to me, why should I bother? Do you agree?" She seemed to nod. He looked at her pale comfortable body, a pillow to lie on, red marks on her stomach from tight elastic bands. Her breasts lay flattened, sagging to opposite sides. He moved his head down and over her until their brown centers were staring at him, unmoving, the woman and her breasts waiting for this to be over. She would come to life later, telling the other girls about the man who killed people, rolling her eyes, saying how afraid she was and maybe exaggerating, making him vicious, the kind of guy who scared whores to death and enjoyed doing it. When he was on her again, moving, and she was moving, he said, "I was kidding you. I don't kill people." He said, "Really. I was joking." He watched her trying to smile.
While they were eating Nicky thought of asking the Zip about the whore -- How was it, any good? -- but decided to keep quiet and neither one of them said much. When they were finished and the Zip was having an espresso, Benno came in and they talked to each other in Italian for a few minutes. Nicky watched the Zip looking at him as he said something to Benno, still in Italian. Right after that Benno left. "This is the most I've spoken the language in ten years," the Zip said. "I think in it most of the time, but don't get a chance to use it. I told Benno to get you another gun."
Nicky gave him a nod and sat there wondering what the Zip was up to. If he was playing some kind of game with him. Setting him up. Otherwise it didn't make sense.
Like now, the Zip saying, "Maybe you'll have another chance at the cowboy."
Putting him on.
The Zip saying, "He left his hotel, checked out. We find out he's up in the hills again around Montallegro, or he was. He disappeared. Maybe he came back, sneaked down in the dark, but I don't think so. We wait till tomorrow, go up there and look around. One thing I know, we find the cowboy, we find Harry. And we find the other people, too, the colored guy and the woman, Harry's girlfriend. They must all be in the same place now, hiding. So we go from house to house up there from two directions. Where they going to go? I told Benno's guys, six hundred thousand lire to whoever finds the house."
Sitting there stirring his coffee and telling him all this shit like they were old buddies.
Nicky said, "When's he getting me my gun?"
Chapter Eighteen.
Wednesday morning, a few minutes before six, Harry moved along the upstairs hall, the heels of his leather slippers slapping the bare wood floor, boards creaking, from the master bedroom to Joyce's room. He pulled the covers back and crawled in with her and waited for her to open her eyes. After about a minute, when he couldn't wait anymore, Harry said, "You awake?"
Now they were looking into each other's eyes from the edge of one pillow to the next. She said, "What?" And then, "What is it?" with a note of alarm in her voice.
"Nothing."
She closed her eyes and after a few moments opened them again. They stared at each other.
"Everything's okay?"
"Fine, quiet."
"You're all right?"
"Reach down and see."
He felt her hand slip inside his pajama pants.
"Aw, you brought me a present."
"It's still there?"
"Sorta."
He waited.
She said, "It's coming back."
"Your magic touch."
She said, "I've been here three days, and this is the first time you've made any kind of move."
"We've had a lot on our minds."
"We don't anymore?"
"It's different now," Harry said. He'd awakened this morning with a hard-on, which hadn't happened yesterday or the day before. That was one difference.
She said, "Because Raylan's here?"
In the bedroom across the hall, or else downstairs. He and Robert Gee were taking care of security, dividing the watch between them, making up rules about going outside or turning lights on in certain rooms. Harry had to admit Raylan being here also made a difference, and said so.
"It's not that I like him personally; I can't see us becoming buddies. But I'll say this, you know he's one of the good guys."
"And the bad guys," Joyce said, "are still after you. So things aren't that different."
"No, but I feel like I've got more of a choice in the matter. I can go back if I want. Unless he's giving me a bunch of shit. If I had a phone I'd call Torres and find out for sure." Harry was quiet for several moments, feeling Joyce's magic hand on him. He said, "What do you think?" Meaning, did she think he was ready to perform.
She said, "I think Raylan's telling the truth. He's not here as a cop trying to extradite you. He has nothing to gain."
"Outside of some self-respect. He could be getting back at me. Twice, you know, I made him look pretty dumb."
"He was glad to see you," Joyce said. "I could tell."
"Of course he was."
"You know what I mean. He wasn't gloating. He likes you, he was glad he got here before those other guys."
Raylan had scared hell out of them last night and almost got shot sneaking up on the house and around through the garden. Robert Gee had aimed a shotgun through the French doors of the library and blown half the leaves off an orange tree. He was about to fire again when Raylan yelled out who he was and Joyce recognized his voice. Someone Harry knew, all right, the same U. S. marshal last seen at Joe's Stone Crab telling stories, now arrives like Santa with Joyce's purse, her passport, her clothes, and full of good cheer about a dispensation, the wheels turning to get his murder charge dropped. Though according to Raylan, he'd still have to show up in court.
"The guy brought you your stuff," Harry said, "that's why you like him."
She said, "Harry, just the idea -- you know what I mean? That he even thought of doing it. With those guys watching him. It's the most considerate thing anyone's ever done for me."
Oh? Was that right?
She didn't have to overdo it.
Harry said, "He's used to picking up suitcases, doing the heavy work. It's the kind of law enforcement he's in. Guarding, watching over people, taking them from here to there. He carried my bag that time in Atlanta. I bet I could talk him into working for me. Start in the garden, get it cleaned up. First, though, I'm going to talk to him about sneaking you out of here, put you on a plane."
"It wouldn't work, Harry. They've seen me."
"There might be a way."
She said, "You remember Cyd Charisse?"
"In the movies? Yeah, the dancer. But I don't recall what she looks like."
"Because she looks different every time you see her," Joyce said. "There was a story about her in People I read on the way over. Four pictures of her and she looked like a different person in each one."
"She was married to Tony Martin."
"She still is. The point is," Joyce said, "if I were Cyd Charisse I could walk past them in broad daylight, it wouldn't matter. I'd look different than I did before. But since I'm not Cyd Charisse, Harry, I think we'll all be going back together. You know you'll have to sooner or later."
"That's what he says, but I don't think the cops or the state attorney care one way or the other. Nobody's investigating Jimmy Cap anymore. Pretty soon no one'll even remember how this whole thing got started. Next year some reporter from The Miami Herald will come over here to interview me, do a story... 'Whatever Happened to Harry?' You wait and see. In the meantime, how we coming down there?"
"I think we're losing it."
"You sure?"
He waited.
"It's not goi
ng to work, Harry."
He made a face.
"Nuts."
Robert Gee told Raylan, "That hat's you," saying Raylan knew how to wear it, just a touch over one eye. Raylan told Robert Gee he'd almost shot it off his head last night. "I felt the breeze."
They were in the kitchen now, 6:30 a. M., cleaning weapons: the two pistols Raylan had taken off Nicky and the Italian guy, his own revolvers, Robert Gee's Browning auto, his pump-action Remington, and the Beretta he'd gotten for Harry who kept leaving it, Robert Gee said, anyplace he sat down. They talked about serving in the military as they adapted to one another, Raylan learning you could use a made-up name in the French Foreign Legion, but they sent your prints to Interpol and if you were wanted anywhere they threw you out. This was at Aubagne near Marseilles before they sent you to Corsica for sixteen weeks of basic training. "Running your ass all over the countryside." Raylan asked was it as tough as Marine boot camp, as seen in the movie Full Metal Jacket and he had experienced. Robert Gee said it was like that only worse, 'cause they said all that bullshit to you in French. The officers and most of the guys being French, the rest East Germans, Portuguese, Spanish, Yugoslav, hardly any brothers. He said they didn't wear those hats with the hankies to keep the sun off your neck or shoot Arabs anymore. "You see Beau Geste? You wonder now why they were shooting those Arabs, huh? From the fort waaay out in the middle of the desert, nobody even living around there?" He said if you used your real name and could prove it, they'd let you become a French citizen when you got out. Robert Gee told them no thanks. He had been in the U. S. Army and served a tour in Vietnam while Raylan spent his Marine hitch at Parris Island on the rifle range, instructing. Robert Gee did five years in the Foreign Legion in Corsica and Djibouti while Raylan was in South Georgia at the training academy. Robert Gee, Raylan decided, knew how to soldier. But could he shoot?
Robert Gee said, "I'm better than fair."
Raylan said, "Then why didn't you kill me last night?"
They talked about the house, how to defend it, walking through the ground-floor rooms studying views from the windows, fields of fire, and agreed it couldn't be done. Four marines or legionnaires with automatic weapons might hold out a few days if they never slept. The four here now would never make it, one to each side of the house, no communication between them. Knock one out, it was over. The Zip could bring a gang of people, put the place under siege. Feint coming in the back and drive a car through the front door. There were all kinds of ways in.