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  Robert Gee said, "So what do you think?"

  Raylan said, "We got no choice, have to make a run. What's on the other side of Montallegro?"

  "Nothing, goat trails. You go back down the way you came. Go to the police, if you get that far, what do you tell them? These guys are picking on us? These Italian guys with thirty million lire to give away? The police won't move till a crime's been committed. You know that."

  "They might've already been contacted by Miami Beach PD," Raylan said.

  And they might not have.

  So think of something. Work out a way to make a run.

  In the meantime try to make the place look vacant. Keep the shutters closed. No smoke coming out of the chimneys. Try to keep Harry from going outside. Make a run or before you know it the Zip's people would be by to check. Knocking on the front door or poking around looking for the cars, a gray one and a blue one. It would happen within a few days at the latest; there weren't that many villas up here that a wealthy bookmaker might lease. Raylan had found the house asking around. The Zip could do the same, check real estate offices in town, find the one Harry used. That wouldn't be too hard.

  "The first thing we'd have to do," Raylan said, "is get a different car. Trade the Fiat in on something bigger and faster."

  Robert Gee said, "Get a Mercedes like they have, case they want to race." He said, "Why couldn't I do it? They don't know me."

  Raylan said, "You sure?"

  "Walk over to Montallegro and take the funivia down. Nothing to it. Get the car at Avis and drive it up here."

  Raylan shook his head. "They've seen you before."

  "When? The only time would be when I picked up Joyce at the cafe. You were there. They wouldn't have even noticed me till she got in the car and by the time they turn their heads we're gone."

  "You met Joyce in Milan."

  "That's right, but I didn't see anybody follow her. I checked to make sure."

  "How'd they know to come here?"

  That stopped him.

  "They must've followed you. Or they saw her get in the car in Milan..."

  "Maybe. But it don't mean they got a good look at me. See," Robert Gee said, "I get to town I can put on my North African outfit, sell a few umbrellas and shit. You need a watch? I can do it today. Get a Mercedes, a Lancia, Alfa-Romeo, slip back up here tonight and I'll go with you as far as Milan or Rome or wherever you want to go. That'll terminate my employment as a bodyguard, and not any too soon. All the man does is fuss with me, keeps saying I'm gonna sell him out. Joyce says 'cause he's drinking again, it's the way he gets. Yeah, well, I don't need the aggravation. I don't even know what I'm doing here. Risk getting my ass shot off for what?"

  "Didn't you make a deal with him?"

  "I'm saying the man irritates me, that's all."

  Raylan said, "If it turns out the Zip does know who you are and he puts his gun in your face, would you tell him where Harry is?"

  Robert Gee frowned at him. He said, "Man, what kind of a question is that?"

  Harry wished Joyce would leave the kitchen for a minute, go to the toilet or something so he could slip a shot of brandy into his coffee. No, she kept flitting around acting domestic, toasting bread in that medieval-looking oven and bringing it to them at the table that must have been as old as the house, a long oak table full of stains and knife scars. Joyce would put a plate of toast down in front of Raylan and he'd grin like he loved it burnt to a crisp. He had his hat off, for the first time in Harry's presence that he could recall, and was surprised to see the guy had hair, dark brown and cut fairly short, down on his forehead. They had coffee with boiled milk. Harry was the only one who passed on the toast and was dipping his bread in a saucer of olive oil. Mmmmm. He was in a good mood, in spite of not having gotten laid this morning; it was close.

  "Coffee's not bad, is it?"

  They both nodded.

  "Where is he, anyway?"

  They both looked at him again.

  "Robert Gee. My cook."

  "Watching the road," Raylan said. "We're going to have to take turns till we leave."

  Something they hadn't discussed yet. Leaving. Harry hadn't made up his mind yet how to react to the idea. He said, "You're sure he hasn't sneaked off."

  Neither of them said anything. They liked Robert and trusted him. Harry said, "Why wouldn't he tell where I am to save his own skin? Or for more money?"

  Joyce said, "Why wouldn't any of us? You're so much fun to be with. This was not a good idea, Harry."

  "What wasn't?"

  "Coming to Italy. You know where you should go to retire? Las Vegas, it's more your style."

  Harry turned to Raylan.

  "Almost my entire life, all I think about is coming here someday. I save my money, plan for forty-seven years.... Did I tell you that?"

  "In Atlanta," Raylan said. "At that time it was forty years you'd been thinking about it."

  "But my friend here, after giving it some thought -- how long, a couple of minutes? -- says it's a bad idea, I should be in Vegas."

  "Or stay home and retire," Joyce said. "You're Miami Beach, Harry. I think you miss it already." She said to Raylan, "You know what he does? He plays a tape of people calling in bets. You know what I mean? Phone calls he recorded."

  Harry said, "I played it once," as Joyce got up from the table, "that's all, and you happened to hear it."

  "Where is it, Harry?"

  "In the bedroom. I don't even know why I had it in my bag. Robert happened to have a radio that plays tapes..."

  The moment Joyce was out of the kitchen Harry got up from the table, ducked into the pantry, and came out with a bottle of Galliano. He'd have one straight up, out in the open rather than slipping brandy or sambuca into his coffee, and if she said anything he'd tell her this was his house and if she didn't like it... But she wouldn't say anything. Not right away. Or never if he had just one drink. Two at the most. He raised the bottle to Raylan, who shook his head.

  "I tried it last night. It taste like medicine."

  "For what ails you," Harry said, getting a stem glass from the sink and bringing it to the table with the tall slender bottle of yellow liqueur. Busy busy. Talkative too.

  "You say we can't defend this place. Why not?"

  Pouring himself a generous one. Now taking a good sip.

  "The house's too big."

  Harry felt the sweet warmth of the alcohol seeping down to his stomach. He said, "You learn to do what you have to. I'd feel better if Joyce wasn't here. I invite her for a visit and look who she brings." Harry grinned.

  Raylan didn't. Serious even with his official hat off.

  Harry shrugged. "They have nothing against her, or you or Robert. I'm the only one they want."

  "They come in here," Raylan said, "they aren't leaving anybody to tell what happened."

  Harry sipped his Galliano. He said, "Twice before this, you might recall, guys have come to kill me and I shot them both. I throw that out for what it's worth. Or in case you feel I'm inexperienced. I might ask you, since you seem to be the expert in these matters, when the last time was you shot anybody."

  "Yesterday," Raylan said.

  Joyce came in with the portable radio, the tape already in place. She plugged it into an outlet on the counter and turned it on, looking at Raylan and then at the tall bottle of Galliano on the table. She didn't look at Harry.

  "Hello, Mike? One of the missing. It's Jerry."

  "Hey, how you doing, Jerry?"

  "Not bad. What's the Saints today?"

  "New Orleans? Seven."

  "How about the Forty-niners?"

  "Four."

  "Okay, gimme the Saints and the Niners."

  "Niners and New Orleans ten times reverse?"

  "Right."

  "Harry's idea of a good time," Joyce said. Raylan asked who Mike was and Joyce said one of Harry's sheet writers. Another one came on.

  "Mike, Al, from South Miami."

  "Yeah, go ahead, Al."

 
; "The Bears ten times, the Giants fifteen times. Okay, then gimme the Eagles, Bears, and Steelers, nine-dollar round robin, twenty-seven-dollar bet. Okay, also the Oilers five times and the Cowboys five times."

  "I got it."

  "Tampa Bay four times."

  "Yeah."

  "The Falcons, the Eagles and the Broncos, nine-dollar round robin."

  "Got it."

  Silence.

  "Mike, Billy. Too early?"

  "No. Who do you want, kid?"

  "Billy Marshall," Harry said, "works for the Herald."

  "Niners minus four eight times. Detroit minus three forty times."

  "Got it."

  "And New Orleans minus seven ten times if Denver ten times. You have a figure for me?"

  "Asking what he owes to date," Harry said.

  "Just a second. Yeah, Billy? Five fifty."

  "I'll see you during the week."

  "Okay, you've got the Niners forty times, Detroit forty times and the Saints ten if Denver ten."

  "Right. Have a nice day, Mike."

  "Hello."

  "Mike, Joe Deuce."

  "Yeah, Joe."

  "Gimme the Lions and the Forty-niners twenty times reverse, Bears a nickel, Chargers a nickel, Giants five times, New England ten times and the Browns twenty. Mike, I'll get back to you."

  "Hello."

  "Mike, it's Mitch."

  "How you doing?"

  "Mitchell."

  "Yeah, I know who it is. Go ahead."

  "He's a lawyer," Harry said, "in Broward."

  "I want a thirty-dollar parlay."

  "Yeah?"

  "What're the Oilers?"

  "Houston, fifteen."

  "The Saints?"

  "Seven."

  "Seven?"

  "Yeah, what do you want?"

  "A thirty-dollar parlay. I told you."

  "I mean who?"

  "What?"

  "Fucking lawyer," Harry said.

  "Who do you want?"

  "Both of them, the Oilers and the Saints."

  "That's enough," Harry said, "turn it off. The same old shit over and over. And you think I want to go back to that?"

  "In a minute," Joyce said.

  Robert Gee said, "Okay, this is how it is. We got to leave here, right?"

  Raylan nodded, since no one else was going to say anything.

  "And the sooner we leave," Robert Gee said, "the better. Before they come looking."

  They were in the front sitting room where Robert Gee had been keeping watch by the window and called them to come out there. It was going on eleven. He said, "Okay. I go get the car right now, no more talking about it. Or I quit, I walk out of here and you all can do what you like. I said before, I don't want to be here when they come, and nobody else should be either. So tell me right now."

  Harry said, "You'll want your pay before you leave."

  Raylan saw Joyce shake her head with a tired expression and then seem to grit her teeth. She said, "Harry--"

  As Robert said, "Yeah, I want my pay. Why wouldn't I? I don't work for free."

  "I know," Harry said, "you sell your services."

  Joyce went after him again. "Harry, goddamn it--"

  He stopped her with his innocent look. "What? I want to pay Robert what he has coming," Harry said, "and give him a credit card. I'm paying for the car, aren't I?"

  Joyce seemed ready to jump on him again, but didn't say anything. Robert Gee didn't, either, till Harry handed him his money and said, "We square?"

  "We square," Robert Gee said.

  Handing him the credit card then, Harry said, "Don't forget to give this back to me."

  After that Robert Gee didn't acknowledge him in any way, looking like he'd had enough of Harry to last him and anxious to get out of here. He touched Joyce's arm and said something to her Raylan didn't hear. Then looked toward Raylan and nodded.

  Harry said, "Am I allowed to ask what time you'll be back?"

  Raylan didn't think Robert Gee was going to answer him. He didn't until he was walking out. All he said was, "By dark."

  Joyce got on him again, telling Harry he must be crazy and Harry put on his surprised look, innocent.

  "What did I do?"

  "Antagonizing him like that."

  Raylan got into it saying, "It isn't how you treat a man that's going to help you out of a spot."

  Joyce said, "If Robert takes off I wouldn't blame him."

  Harry didn't seem to care what they were saying. He walked over to a window in the south wall of the sitting room that offered a view, standing close to the panes of glass and looking west, of the green countryside sloping away from the villa.

  His back to them he said, "I told you about Ezra Pound and his wife living with his mistress, Olga Rudge? In Sant'Ambrogio, over that way. The Germans kicked them out of their apartment and they had nowhere else to go, no money, he only got three hundred and fifty lire for his radio talks ... the ones that got him in trouble. He claimed they were critical of Roosevelt and Truman, but not profascist. He did think Mussolini was a good guy though. When Mussolini and his girlfriend, Clara Petacci, were hung up by their heels in Milan, Ezra Pound called it 'the enormous tragedy of the dream in the peasant's bent shoulders,' in a poem he wrote. But can you imagine a man living in the same house with his wife and mistress? The three of them were together almost a year, until our army came through here on the way to Genoa. Ezra Pound went down to Rapallo looking for an officer, to give himself up or volunteer his services, I'm not sure which. He couldn't find anyone who knew who he was, or cared. A colored enlisted man tried to sell him a bicycle."

  Harry turned from the window, Raylan and Joyce watching him. "The next day," Harry said, "Italian partisans picked him up and handed him over to the army. By the time I saw him he'd been arrested for treason, giving comfort to the enemy, and was being held in a cage."

  "And that's why we're here," Joyce said. "You believe it?"

  Chapter Nineteen.

  A few days before Ezra Pound tried to give himself up or offer his services or whatever he was doing, Harry passed through Rapallo with a recon platoon from the 473rd Infantry Regiment. It was April 26, 1945.

  He said they took some German prisoners in Santa Margherita and went on to Genoa, where about four thousand Germans surrendered the next day. Harry said he had been trained as a tank crewman at Camp Bowie, Texas, and went to Italy to join the Second Armored Group as a replacement. As soon as he got there the Group was disbanded and reformed as part of the 473rd. Harry was assigned to the Intelligence & Reconnaissance platoon as the lieutenant's driver. He was twenty years old.

  "The war was almost over," Harry said, "so during the next couple months they had us rounding up deserters. There were some famous ones like the Lane Gang, a bunch of guys that stole all kinds of army supplies and sold them on the black market. Clothes, trucks, jeeps, everything. Others were soldiers who'd committed serious crimes and were wanted fugitives. Any deserters we caught we'd take to the Army Disciplinary Training Center, a military stockade they had not far from Pisa, between there and Viareggio. We were here in Rapallo looking for deserters working the black market when we picked up the guy from the 92nd, the one I shot, but didn't find out till later he was wanted for murder. He'd raped a woman and cut her throat. Temporarily we had him locked in a storeroom in the hotel we were using as headquarters, on the Piazza Garibaldi. This one time, because I happened to be standing there, in the lobby, the sergeant picks me to relieve the soldier guarding the storeroom, so he could go to chow. I'm going down the hall and who do I see coming toward me but the guy, the deserter, with the carbine he'd taken off the guy I was going to relieve. Coming fast, to club me with the gun rather than shoot me and let everybody know he'd escaped. Coming at me as I'm reaching for my sidearm, clearing it, a round already in the chamber. I know that 'cause it was the way I kept it. That guy in the parking lot last month.... No, it was in October, wasn't it? He stopped when I pulled the gun. This one didn't, th
e deserter, he kept coming, raising the carbine to club me with it when I shot him and it stopped him. I shot him again and that one knocked him down. He'd killed the guard, so we never found out how he got the carbine away from him.

  "A couple of weeks later, on May twenty-ninth, we delivered a deserter to the Disciplinary Training Center and that was the day I saw Ezra Pound for the first time, scruffy looking, like a skid-row bum inside one of the maximum security cells, where they kept the violent prisoners and the ones condemned to death. They had reinforced the cell Ezra Pound was in with steel wire mesh. He called it a gorilla cage and it did look like one. It sat on a concrete slab about six by ten, had a slanted roof, and was open on four sides, so the rain could come in from any direction. Other prisoners had pup tents inside their cages. All Ezra had the first few weeks were a couple of blankets. They kept a spotlight on him at night and no one was supposed to talk to him. You see," Harry said, "hardly anyone there knew he was a world-famous poet. The camp officials were told he was a traitor and to keep a close watch so he didn't try to escape or commit suicide. There was also talk the Fascists might try to rescue him. Finally, after a while, they eased up and moved him to the medical compound. They let him use a desk so he could continue writing his poetry."

  "His Cantos," Joyce said. "He spent forty years writing a poem that hardly anyone in the world can understand."

  "'No man who has passed a month in the death cells,'" Harry said, "'believes in cages for beasts.' You don't understand that?"

  Joyce said, "Once in a while he made sense."

  "He was a genius," Harry said.

  "He was a racist," Joyce said, "and viciously anti-Semitic. He thought Hitler was right about the Jews; he said they started the war. He called Roosevelt President Rosenfeld."

  Harry shrugged. "He said later that was a big mistake, those views, talking like that."

  "He said later the Cantos were a mess, too, stupid all the way through," Joyce said. "I read the books you gave me, Harry. Don't forget that."