A House in Naples. Peter Rabe
argued a little longer, but it wasn’t any good. Alivar went down to his canopied bed and for 20,000 lire Charley stayed in the attic and slept past daylight. Then the heat drove him out.
Charley started to make the rounds. With Del Brocco and Alivar he had run out of the high-class artisans. What came next were the defunct engravers, and when he ran out of those he saw the thieves who stole papers. In ten years’ time he had heard of most of them, and spending this day was almost like another ten years. By noon he was limping with the pain in his side, but when he ran out of aspirin by three in the afternoon he still kept going. He was running for the last time, he had to have his name—one that stuck—even if it meant it would go only on his tombstone.
None of them were any good; cheap forgeries dolled up to be good enough for one quick look or stolen papers with a tracer on them since the minute they were lifted. It seemed to get worse by evening—everything, the heat, the rain, and the slipshod ware he was looking at. For once in his life he needed the real thing and while he kept running he kept telling himself it was going to be over soon and then he’d never run again. If he made it in time.
Chapter Five
TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO Rome had a harbor, Ostia. Today Ostia is like Coney Island, with the same kind of fry odors, tinsel excitement, and brass sounds of all Coney Islands. It shuts down after a while, late at night, and only some places stay open. There is a ring of permanent buildings at the edges of Ostia, old and ratty, and that part of Rome doesn’t have the excuse of real age, of being antique. It just stinks. There are rooming houses, some dives, and the usual osterias.
Charley sat in the crowded place and ate his Piatto del Giorno. It smelled more like fish than fish ought to. He looked at the packed bar, the tables that made an untidy clutter all over the room. There was a door to the corridor in the back and every so often somebody went there. It wasn’t the toilet. The toilet was outside, in the rear.
Charley pushed his plate away and moved carefully in his chair, because of his side. It was nighttime, after a bad day. He still had no name. He sat and was still running. Maybe the way things were going he wouldn’t need a new name. They’d dig up the old ones and then maybe they’d give him a number.
He ate an aspirin and ordered some coffee. The long bar was only a few feet away, but he had to yell for it because of the racket. He watched the girl wind herself his way with the cup and the pot but it took her a while. There were a lot of customers who weren’t thinking of buying coffee when she came by and then a French sailor walked up and had a discussion with her. He put his duffle bag on Charley’s table so there wasn’t much room for anything else and then his buddy came up. While they were trying to convince the girl the buddy kept sipping from the coffee she was holding. She must have said the right thing after a while because they let her pass, the sailor picked up his duffle bag, gave Charley a friendly nod, and helped put the cup and pot on the table. They took the girl by one arm each and Charley didn’t have to pay for his coffee.
The strong stuff burned his mouth, but that’s what he wanted. Another hour before making his call, and then what? The way the pressure was building up it didn’t matter much what the phone call would say. The phone call couldn’t give him a month till Del Brocco got out of jail or till Alivar got around to fixing him up. It never occurred to him to hide for a month, to wait a month or more till he looked legal again. One way or another it had to be soon, and for good.
“Hey, buddy boy.”
At first Charley didn’t hear. He was breathing carefully because of his side and he wasn’t going to make any fast movements because he felt it might end up a swing in somebody’s face.
“Dear liddle buddy boy,” said the voice again, and this time Charley couldn’t ignore it. The smell was strong and the drunk dropped in the chair opposite.
“Don’t feel so bad,” said the drunk. His confidential manner was ugly. “She’ll be back in maybe ten minutes, buddy boy, couldn’t take longer, and you can order more coffee.”
“Who asked you?”
“Who cares,” said the drunk, “as long as you’re listening.” His worn-out face made a squint and leaned closer. “And when she’s back we’re next. Them French may look hot, buddy boy, but they don’t last but a minute. Like rabbits, get it?” He laughed with his teeth showing. He didn’t have too many.
Charley sipped coffee and looked quiet. He even had the small smile around his mouth. Let the drunk talk and maybe the time will pass faster.
“And when she comes back we’ll show her what’s what, huh, buddy boy?”
“All you ever got stiff on is a bottle,” said Charley and looked friendly.
It made a pause. The drunk worked his tongue around one tooth and looked at Charley like murder.
“You trying to beat my play?” he said. “I saw her first. I been sitting here all afternoon before you ever showed up, buddy boy, and I been watching her all that time.”
“That figures.”
“You American, ain’tcha?”
Charley didn’t answer.
“So am I. That’s why I figured I give you a break, buddy. That’s the only reason I figured—”
“Don’t put yourself out.”
The drunk reached a bottle out of his coat and sucked. It wasn’t just any old hooch, but rye with an American label. That drunk had connections.
“Notice that bottle?” he said. “I ain’t been in the States for twenty years, buddy boy, but I know my way around.” He watched for Charley to look impressed but Charley only smiled.
“Twenty years on one bottle. You’re doing real good.”
The drunk answered something but Charley wasn’t listening. He looked at his watch, checking time, and thought the drunk hadn’t turned out to be the funny kind.
“—high-hat a countryman, you sonofabitch,” the drunk was saying. He sounded vicious. “Maybe you’re one of them slumming tourists coming around here, having fun with the local color? I’ll give you color, you damn sonofa—” and the drunk hauled out with his bottle.
It didn’t take much to grab the bottle away from him and push him back in his chair. But Charley was getting irritated. The time was grating him, his side hurt like hell, and he had to sit without getting anything done. He was dying for aspirin. The drunk reached for his bottle but Charley knocked his hand out of the way.
“Behave, bum. Or I’ll have you deported.”
It made the drunk laugh till his pale scalp turned red.
“Deported, he says! Deported where, Officer? To hell, maybe? I been there. To the U.S.? I can’t get a visa. Or maybe back where I come from just a few days ago? Oh, wouldn’t they love that back there. A guy pays my way all the way back like I never been gone and oboyoboy—” he ended up gurgling and reached for the bottle again.
Charley let him. He watched the wrinkled neck with the Adam’s apple jerking around and then he wiped his hands. Fifteen minutes till the call, and then run again. Back to Alivar, maybe, but first a few other stops. He had to swing it one way or another—
“You can’t deport me,” the drunk was saying. He sounded off-hand, made an important gesture. “On account of the people I know. Besides, I’m an Italian. Been that ever since Thirty-five. Boy, those were the days. Ever hear of Benny?”
“Sure. Big wheel at the Last Chance Mission.”
“Listen, you sonofabitch. Benito. I mean Benito.”
“Oh, sure. You’re the one arranged for the Abyssinian War.”
“Those were the days,” said the drunk. His eyes were up and he thought about those days. “Whaddaya mean, war?” He came back