"She's twenty-one, Coach. And, yes, she's close by."
"Bergamo was impressive, no fumbles, only two penalties. Won by three touchdowns. They seem much better now that the streak is off their backs."
"And Maschi?"
"Brilliant. He knocked out their quarterback in the third quarter."
"I've been knocked out before. I suspect they'll put the two Americans on Fabrizio and pound him. Could be a long day for the boy. There goes the passing game. Maschi can shut down the run."
"Thank God for the punting game," Sam sneered. "You got a plan?"
"I got a plan."
"Mind sharing it with me so I can sleep tonight?"
"No, it's not finished yet. A couple more days in Venice and I'll have the kinks worked out."
"Let's meet Thursday afternoon and work on it."
"Sure, Coach."
Rick and Livvy trudged through the basilica of San Marco, shoulder to shoulder with some Dutch tourists, their guide prattling on in any language requested. After an hour, Rick bolted. He drank a beer in the fading sun at a cafe and waited patiently for Livvy. They strolled through central Venice and crossed the Rialto Bridge without buying anything. For the daughter of a rich doctor, she was behaving frugally. Tiny hotels, cheap meals, trains, and ferries, an apparent concern with what things cost. She insisted on paying for half of everything, or at least offering. Rick told her more than once that he was certainly not wealthy nor was he highly paid, but he refused to worry about money. And he refused to let her pay for much. Their metal-framed bed rocked halfway across the room during a late-night session, enough noise to prompt Signora Stella to whisper something discreetly to Livvy during breakfast the next morning. "What did she say?" Rick asked when Stella disappeared. Livvy, suddenly blushing, leaned in and whispered, "We made too much noise last night. There were complaints."
"What did you tell her?"
"Too bad. We can't stop."
"Atta girl."
"She doesn't think we should, but she might move us to another room, one with a heavier bed."
"I love a challenge."
Long boulevards do not exist in Venice. The streets are narrow, and they twist and curl with the canals and cross them with a variety of bridges. Someone once counted 400 bridges in the city, and by late Wednesday Rick was certain he had used them all. He was parked under an umbrella at a sidewalk caft, puffing languidly on a Cuban cigar and sipping Campari and ice, waiting for Livvy to polish off another cathedral, this one known as the church of San Fantin. He wasn't tired of her, just the opposite. Her energy and curiosity inspired him to use his brain. She was a delightful companion, easy to please and eager to do whatever looked like fun. He was still waiting for a glimpse of the pampered rich kid, the self-absorbed sorority queen. Maybe it didn't exist. Nor was he tired of Venice. In fact, he was enchanted by the city and its endless nooks and dead ends and hidden piazzas. The seafood was incredible, and he was thoroughly enjoying this break from pasta. He'd seen enough cathedrals and palazzi and museums, but his interest in the city's art and history had been piqued. Rick was a football player, though, and there was one game remaining. It was a game he had to win to justify his presence, his existence, and his cost, meager as it was. Money aside, he had once been an NFL quarterback, and if he couldn't put together an offense for one more win here in Italy, then it was time to hang up the spikes.
He had already dropped the hint that he needed to leave Thursday morning. She seemed to ignore it. Over dinner at Fiore, he said, "I need to go to Parma tomorrow. Coach Russo wants to meet in the afternoon."
"I think I'll stay here," she said without hesitation. It was all planned. "For how long?"
"A few more days. I'll be fine."
And he had no doubt she would be. Though they preferred to stick together, both needed their space and each was quick to disappear. Livvy could travel the world alone, much easier than he could. Nothing flustered or intimidated her. She adjusted on the fly like any seasoned traveler and was not above using her smile and beauty to get what she wanted.
"You'll be back for the Super Bowl?" he asked. "I wouldn't dare miss it."
"Smart-ass." They had eel, mullet, and cuttlefish, and when they were stuffed, they walked to Harry's Bar on the Grand Canal for a nightcap. They sat huddled in a corner, watching a crowd of loud Americans and not missing home.
"When the season is over, what will you do?" she asked. She was wrapped around his right arm, and his right hand massaged her knees. They sipped slowly, as if they might be there all night. "Not sure. What about you?" he asked.
"I need to go home, but I don't want to."
"I don't need to and I don't want to. But I'm not quite clear on what I'm supposed to do here."
"You wanna stay?" she asked as she somehow managed to get even closer. "With you?"
"Got anybody else in mind?"
"That's not what I meant. Are you staying?"
"I could be talked into it." The heavier bed was in a larger room and solved the problem of complaints. They slept late Thursday, then said an uncomfortable good-bye. Rick waved to her as the ferry shoved off and eased through the Grand Canal.
Chapter 29
The sound was vaguely familiar. He'd heard it before, but from the depths of his coma he could not remember where, or when. He sat up in bed, saw that it was four minutes after 3:00 a.m., and finally put things together. Someone was at his door. "Coming!" he growled, and his intruder removed hisher thumb from the white button in the hallway. Rick pulled on gym shorts and a T-shirt. He flipped on lights and suddenly remembered Detective Romo and the non-arrest months earlier. He thought of Franco, his own personal judge, and decided he had nothing to fear. "Who is it?" he said to the door, his mouth close to the latch. "I'd like to talk to you." Deep scratchy voice, American. Hint of a twang. "Okay, we're talking."
"I'm looking for Rick Dockery."
"You found him. Now what?"
"Please. I need to see Livvy Galloway."
"Are you a cop of some sort?" Rick suddenly thought of his neighbors and the commotion he was creating by yelling through a closed door. "No." Rick unbolted the door and came face-to-face with a barrel chested man in a cheap black suit. Large head, thick mustache, heavy circles around the eyes. Probably a long history with the bottle. He thrust out a hand and said, "I'm Lee Bryson, a private investigator from Atlanta."
"A pleasure," Rick said without shaking hands. "Who's he?" Behind Bryson was a sinister-faced Italian in a dark suit that cost a few bucks more than Bryson's. "Lorenzo. He's from Milan."
"That really explains things. Is he a cop?"
"No."
"So we don't have any cops here, right?"
"No, we're private investigators. Please, if I could just have ten minutes." Rick waved them through and locked the door. He followed them into the den, where they awkwardly sat knee to knee on the sofa. He fell into a chair across the room. "This better be good," he said. "I work for some lawyers in Atlanta, Mr. Dockery. Can I call you Rick?"
"No."
"Okay. These lawyers are involved in the divorce between Dr. Galloway and Mrs. Galloway, and they sent me here to see Livvy."
"She's not here." Bryson glanced around the room, and his eyes froze on a pair of red high heels on the floor near the television. Then a brown handbag on the end table. All that was missing was a bra hanging from the lamp. One with leopard print. Lorenzo stared only at Rick, as if his role was to handle the killing if it became necessary. "I think she is," Bryson said.