"And your name?"
"Roy Grady. I play for the Indians." This pleased the guard greatly, and he slid the clipboard over for a signature. Roy Grady, according to the Indians' Web site, was the newest member of the team's pitching staff, a youngster just called up from AAA who so far had pitched in three innings with very mixed results. Cray would probably recognize the name, but maybe not the face.
"Second floor," the guard said with a big smile. Rick took the stairs because he planned to leave by them. The second-floor newsroom was what he expected--a vast open area crammed with cubicles and workstations and papers stacked everywhere. Around the edges were small offices, and Rick began to walk while looking for names by the doors. His heart was pounding and he found it hard to appear nonchalant. "Roy," someone called from the side, and Rick stepped in his direction. He was about forty-five, balding, with a few long strands of oily gray hair sprouting from just over his ears, unshaven, cheap reading glasses halfway down his nose, overweight, and with the body type that never earned a letter in high school, never got a uniform, never got the cheerleader. A disheveled sports geek who couldn't play the games and now made a living criticizing those who did. He was standing in the door of his small, cluttered office, frowning at Roy Grady, suspicious of something. "Mr. Cray?" Rick said, five feet away and closing fast. "Yes," he answered with a sneer, then a look of shock. Rick shoved him quickly back into the office and slammed the door. He yanked off his cap with his left hand as he took Cray's throat with his right. "It's me, asshole, Rick Dockery, your favorite goat." Cray's eyes were wide, his glasses fell to the floor. There would be only one punch, Rick had decided after much thought. A hard right to the head, one that Cray could clearly see coming. No cheap shots, kicks in the crotch, nothing like that. Face-to-face, man-to-man, flesh to flesh, without the aid of any weapon. And, hopefully, no broken bones and no blood. It wasn't a jab and it wasn't a hook, just a hard right cross that began months ago and was now being delivered from across the ocean. With no resistance because Cray was too soft and too scared and spent too much time hiding behind his keyboard, the punch landed perfectly on the left chinbone, with a nice crunch that Rick would pleasantly remember many times in the weeks afterward. He dropped like a bag of old potatoes, and for a second Rick was tempted to kick him in the ribs.
He had thought about what he might say, but nothing seemed to work. Threats wouldn't be taken seriously--Rick was stupid enough to show up in Cleveland, surely he wouldn't do it again. Cursing Cray would only make him happier, and whatever Rick said would soon be in print. So he left him there, crumpled on the floor, gasping in horror, semiconscious from the blow, and never, not for the slightest moment, did Rick feel sorry for the creep. He eased out of the office, nodded to a couple of reporters who looked remarkably similar to Mr. Cray, then found the stairs. He raced down to the basement, and after a few minutes of drifting found a door to a loading dock. Five minutes after the knockout, he was back in the cab. The return flight to Toronto was also on Air Canada, and when Rick landed on Canadian soil, he began to relax. Some three hours later he was bound for Rome.
Chapter 22
A heavy rainstorm settled over Parma late Sunday morning. The rain fell straight and hard, and the clouds looked as though they might be around for a week. Thunder finally woke Rick, and the first sight caught by his swollen eyes was red toenails. Not the red toenails of that last gal in Milan, nor the pink or orange or brown ones of countless, nameless others. No sir. These were the meticulously manicured (not by the owner) and painted (Chanel Midnight Red) toenails of the elegant and sensual and quite naked Miss Livvy Galloway of Savannah, Georgia, by way of the Alpha Chi Omega sorority house in Athens and, of late, a crowded apartment in Florence. Now she was in a slightly less crowded apartment in Parma, on the third floor of an old building on a quiet street, far from her suffocating roommates and very far away from her warring family. Rick closed his eyes and pulled her close, under the sheets. She arrived late Thursday night on a train from Florence, and after a lovely dinner they retired to his room for a long session in bed, their first. And though Rick had certainly been ready for it, Livvy was just as eager. Originally, his plans for Friday had been to spend the day in bed or somewhere close to it. She, however, had radically different ideas. On the train she had read a book on Parma. It was time to study the city's history. With a camera and her notes, they launched a tour of the city center, studiously inspecting the interiors of buildings Rick had hardly noticed in passing. The first was the duomo--Rick had peeked inside once out of curiosity--where Livvy took on a Zen like meditative state as she dragged him from corner to corner. He wasn't sure what she was thinking, but occasionally she offered helpful sentences such as "It's one of the finest examples of Romanesque architecture in the Po valley."
"When was it built?" he always asked. "It was consecrated in 1106 by Pope Pasquale, then destroyed by an earthquake in 1117. They started again in 1130 and, typically, worked on it for three hundred years or so. Magnificent, isn't it?"
"Truly." He tried hard to sound engaged, but Rick had already learned that it didn't take long for him to examine a cathedral. Livvy, however, was in another world. He tagged along, followed close, still thinking about their first night together, glancing occasionally at her fine rear end, and already planning an afternoon assault. In the center aisle, staring straight up, she said, "The dome was frescoed by Correggio in the 1520s. It depicts the Assumption of the Virgin. Breathtaking." Far above them, in the vaulted ceiling, old Correggio had somehow managed to paint an extravagant scene of Mary surrounded by angels. Livvy looked at it as if she might be overcome with emotion. Rick looked at it with an aching neck. They shuffled through the main nave, the crypt, the numerous bays, and they studied the tombs of ancient saints. After an hour, Rick was desperate for sunshine. Next was the baptistery, a handsome octagonal building near the duomo, and they stood motionless for a long time before the north portal, the Portal of the Virgin. Elaborate sculptures above the door portrayed events from the life of Mary. Livvy checked her notes but seemed to know the details.
"Have you stopped here?" she asked. If he told the truth and answered no, then she would consider him a rube. If he lied and said yes, it wouldn't matter anyway because Livvy was about to inspect another building. In truth, he had passed it a hundred times and knew that it was indeed a baptistery. He wasn't certain exactly what a baptistery was used for nowadays, but nonetheless he pretended to. She was talking softly, almost to herself, as well she might have been. "Four tiers in red Verona marble. Started in 1196, a transition between Romanesque and Gothic." She took some photos of the exterior, then led him inside, where they gawked at another dome. "Byzantine, thirteenth century," she was saying. "King David, the flight from Egypt, the Ten Commandments." He nodded along, his neck beginning to ache. "Are you Catholic, Rick?" she asked. "Lutheran. You?"
"Nothing really. Family's some strain of Protestant. I dig this stuff, though, the history of Christianity and the origins of the early Church. I love the art."
"There are plenty of old churches here," he said. "All Catholic."
"I know." And she did. Before lunch they toured the Renaissance church of San Giovanni Evangelista, still in the religious center of the city, as well as the church of San Francesco del Prato. According to Livvy, it was one of the "most remarkable examples of Franciscan Gothic architecture in Emilia." To Rick, the only interesting detail was the fact that the beautiful church had once been used as a jail. At one, he insisted on lunch. They found a table at Sorelle Picchi on Strada Farini, and as he studied the menu, Livvy made more notes. Over anolini, the best in town in Rick's opinion, and a bottle of wine, they talked about Italy and the places she'd been. Eight months in Florence, she had visited eleven of the country's twenty regions, often traveling alone on weekends because her roommates were too lazy or apathetic or hungover. Her goal had been to see every region, but she was out of time. Exams were in two weeks, then her long holiday was over.