then stuck both hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat. The cop in the uniform led the perpetrator away, and Romo protected from the rear. Down three flights, onto the sidewalk. It was almost 9:00 a.m., a bright spring day.
Another cop was waiting by a well-dressed Fiat sedan, complete with an array of lights and the word “Polizia” painted in orange on every fender. The second cop was working on a cigarette and studying the rear ends of two ladies who had just passed him. He gave Rick a look of utter disregard, then took another puff.
“Let’s walk,” Romo said. “Is not far. You need air, I think.”
Indeed I do, Rick thought. He decided to cooperate, score some points with these guys, and help them discover the truth, whatever that was. Romo nodded down the street and walked beside Rick as they followed the first cop.
“Can I make a phone call?” Rick asked.
“Of course. A lawyer?”
“No.”
Sam’s phone went straight to voice mail. Rick thought about Arnie, but little good that would do. Arnie had grown increasingly hard to catch by phone.
And so they walked, along the Strada Farini, past the small shops with their doors and windows open, past the sidewalk cafés where people sat almost motionless with their newspapers and little espressos.Rick’s head was clearing, his stomach had settled. One of those small strong coffees might be welcome.
Romo lit another cigarette, blew out a small cloud of smoke, then said, “You like Parma?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“No. This is my first full day here, and I’m under arrest for something I did not do. Kinda hard to like the place.”
“There’s no arrest,” Romo said as he lumbered heavily from side to side, as if both knees were about to fold. Every third or fourth step his shoulder nudged Rick’s right arm as he lurched again.
“Then what do you call it?” Rick asked.
“Our system is different here. No arrest.”
Oh well, that certainly explains things. Rick bit his tongue and let it pass. Arguing would get him nowhere. He had done nothing wrong, and the truth would soon settle matters. This was not, after all, some Third World dictatorship where they randomly rounded up people for a few months of torture. This was Italy, part of Europe, the heart of Western civilization. Opera, the Vatican, the Renaissance, da Vinci, Armani, Lamborghini. It was all right there in his guidebook.
Rick had seen worse. His only prior arrest had been in college, during the spring of his freshman year when he found himself a willing member of a drunken gang determined to crash an off-campus fraternity party. Fights and broken bones ensued; the police showed up in force. Several of the hooligans weresubdued, handcuffed, knocked around by the cops, and finally thrown in the rear of a police wagon, where they were poked a few times by nightsticks, for good measure. At the jail, they slept on cold concrete floors in the drunk tank. Four of those arrested were members of the Hawkeye football team, and their adventures through the legal system were sensationally reported by several newspapers.
In addition to the humiliation, Rick got thirty days suspended, a fine of four hundred dollars, a scathing tongue-lashing from his father, and the promise from his coach that another infraction, however minor, would cost him his scholarship and send him to either jail or junior college.
Rick managed the next five years without so much as a speeding ticket.
They changed streets and turned abruptly into a quiet cobblestoned alley. An officer in a different uniform stood benignly by an unmarked opening. Nods and quick words were exchanged, and Rick was led through the door, up a flight of faded marble steps to the second floor, and into a hallway that obviously housed government offices. The decor was drab; the walls needed paint; portraits of long-forgotten civil servants hung in a sad row. Romo selected a harsh wooden bench and said, “Please have a
Another cop was waiting by a well-dressed Fiat sedan, complete with an array of lights and the word “Polizia” painted in orange on every fender. The second cop was working on a cigarette and studying the rear ends of two ladies who had just passed him. He gave Rick a look of utter disregard, then took another puff.
“Let’s walk,” Romo said. “Is not far. You need air, I think.”
Indeed I do, Rick thought. He decided to cooperate, score some points with these guys, and help them discover the truth, whatever that was. Romo nodded down the street and walked beside Rick as they followed the first cop.
“Can I make a phone call?” Rick asked.
“Of course. A lawyer?”
“No.”
Sam’s phone went straight to voice mail. Rick thought about Arnie, but little good that would do. Arnie had grown increasingly hard to catch by phone.
And so they walked, along the Strada Farini, past the small shops with their doors and windows open, past the sidewalk cafés where people sat almost motionless with their newspapers and little espressos.Rick’s head was clearing, his stomach had settled. One of those small strong coffees might be welcome.
Romo lit another cigarette, blew out a small cloud of smoke, then said, “You like Parma?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“No. This is my first full day here, and I’m under arrest for something I did not do. Kinda hard to like the place.”
“There’s no arrest,” Romo said as he lumbered heavily from side to side, as if both knees were about to fold. Every third or fourth step his shoulder nudged Rick’s right arm as he lurched again.
“Then what do you call it?” Rick asked.
“Our system is different here. No arrest.”
Oh well, that certainly explains things. Rick bit his tongue and let it pass. Arguing would get him nowhere. He had done nothing wrong, and the truth would soon settle matters. This was not, after all, some Third World dictatorship where they randomly rounded up people for a few months of torture. This was Italy, part of Europe, the heart of Western civilization. Opera, the Vatican, the Renaissance, da Vinci, Armani, Lamborghini. It was all right there in his guidebook.
Rick had seen worse. His only prior arrest had been in college, during the spring of his freshman year when he found himself a willing member of a drunken gang determined to crash an off-campus fraternity party. Fights and broken bones ensued; the police showed up in force. Several of the hooligans weresubdued, handcuffed, knocked around by the cops, and finally thrown in the rear of a police wagon, where they were poked a few times by nightsticks, for good measure. At the jail, they slept on cold concrete floors in the drunk tank. Four of those arrested were members of the Hawkeye football team, and their adventures through the legal system were sensationally reported by several newspapers.
In addition to the humiliation, Rick got thirty days suspended, a fine of four hundred dollars, a scathing tongue-lashing from his father, and the promise from his coach that another infraction, however minor, would cost him his scholarship and send him to either jail or junior college.
Rick managed the next five years without so much as a speeding ticket.
They changed streets and turned abruptly into a quiet cobblestoned alley. An officer in a different uniform stood benignly by an unmarked opening. Nods and quick words were exchanged, and Rick was led through the door, up a flight of faded marble steps to the second floor, and into a hallway that obviously housed government offices. The decor was drab; the walls needed paint; portraits of long-forgotten civil servants hung in a sad row. Romo selected a harsh wooden bench and said, “Please have a
Similar Books
