He left the bar hungry. He walked along Viale Vittoria, then ventured down a side street, looking for nothing but enjoying the sights. Another bar beckoned. He walked in with confidence, went straight to the cashier, another hefty old woman, and said, "Buongiorno, cappuccino please." She couldn't have cared less where he was from, and her indifference encouraged him. He pointed to a thick pastry on a rack by the counter and said, "And one of these." She nodded again as he handed over a ten-euro note, certainly enough to cover coffee and a croissant. The bar was less crowded than the other one, and Rick savored the cornetto and cappuccino.
It was called Bar Bruno, and whoever Bruno was, he certainly loved his soccer. The walls were covered with team posters and action shots and schedules that dated back thirty years. There was a banner from the World Cup victory in 1982. Above the cashier Bruno had nailed a collection of enlarged black and whites--Bruno with Chinaglia, Bruno hugging Baggio. Rick assumed that he would be hard-pressed to find a bar or cafe in Parma with a single photo of the Panthers. Oh well. This ain't Pittsburgh. The Fiat was exactly where he'd left it. The jolts of caffeine had raised his confidence. He eased perfectly into reverse, then pulled away smoothly as if he'd worked a clutch for years. The challenge of central Parma was daunting, but he had no choice. Sooner or later he had to go home, and take his Fiat with him. At first glance, the police car did not alarm him. It was following at a benign pace. Rick stopped at a red light and waited patiently while mentally working the clutch and accelerator. The light turned green, the clutch slipped, the Fiat lunged, then died. Frantically, he re-shifted as he turned the key and cursed and kept one eye on the police. The black-and-white cruiser was on his rear bumper, and the two young cops were frowning.
What the hell? Something wrong back there? His second attempt was worse than the first, and when the Fiat died another quick death, the police suddenly laid on the horn. Finally the engine caught. He hit the gas and barely released the clutch, and the Fiat rolled forward, roaring in such a low gear but hardly moving. The police followed tightly, probably amused at the bucking and lunging ahead of them. After a block, they turned on the blue lights. Rick managed to pull over in a loading zone in front of a row of shops. He turned the ignition off, pulled hard on the parking brake, then instinctively reached for the glove box. He had given no thought to Italian laws governing vehicle registration or driving privileges, nor had he assumed that the Panthers and specifically Signor Bruncardo would handle such matters. He had assumed nothing, thought of nothing, worried about nothing. He was a professional athlete who was once a high school and college star, and from that lofty perch small details had never mattered. The glove box was empty. A cop was tapping on his window, and he rolled it down. No power windows. The cop said something, and Rick caught the word "documenti." He snatched his wallet and thrust out his Iowa driver's license. Iowa? He hadn't lived in Iowa in six years, but then, he hadn't established a home anywhere else. As the cop frowned at the plastic card, Rick sunk a few inches lower as he remembered a phone call from his mother before Christmas. She had just received a notice from the state. His license had expired.
"Americano?" the officer said. His tone was accusatory. His name badge declared him to be Aski.
"Yes," Rick replied, though he could've handled a quick "Si." He did not, because even the slightest use of Italian prompted the speaker on the other end to assume the foreigner was fluent. Aski opened the door and motioned for Rick to get out. The other officer, Dini, strutted up with a sneer, and they launched into a quick round of Italian. From their looks, Rick thought he might be beaten on the spot. They were in their early twenties, tall, and built like weight lifters. They could play defense for the Panthers. An elderly couple stopped on the sidewalk to witness the drama from ten feet away. "Speak Italian?" Dini asked.
"No, sorry." Both rolled their eyes. A moron. They separated and began a dramatic inspection of the crime scene. They studied the front license plates, then the rear. The glove box was opened, carefully, as if it might just hold a bomb. Then the trunk. Rick grew bored with it and leaned against the left front fender. They huddled, consulted, and radioed headquarters, then the inevitable paperwork began with both officers scribbling furiously. Rick was very curious about his crime. He was certain that registration laws had been broken, but he would plead not guilty to any moving violation. He thought about calling Sam, but his cell phone was next to his bed. When he saw the tow truck, he almost laughed. After the Fiat disappeared, Rick was put into the rear seat of the police car and driven away. No handcuffs, no threats, everything nice and civilized. As they crossed the river, he remembered something in his wallet. He pulled out a business card he had taken from Franco's office and handed it to Dini in the front seat. "My friend," he said.
Giuseppe Lazzarino, Giudice. Both cops seemed to know Judge Lazzarino quite well. Their tone, demeanor, and body language changed. Both talked at once in muffled voices, as if they didn't want their prisoner to hear. Aski sighed heavily as Dini's shoulders sagged. Across the river, they changed directions and for a few minutes seemed to go in circles. Aski called someone on the radio, but did not find whomever or whatever he wanted. Dini used his cell phone, but he, too, was disappointed. Rick sat low in the rear seat, laughing at himself and trying to enjoy the tour of Parma. They parked him on the bench outside Franco's office, the same spot Romo had selected about twenty-four hours earlier. Dini reluctantly went inside, while Aski found a spot twenty feet down the hall, as if he had nothing to do with Rick. They waited as the minutes dragged by. Rick was curious as to whether this qualified as a real arrest, or one of the Romo variety. How was one supposed to know? One more altercation with the police, and the Panthers and Sam Russo and Signor Bruncardo and his paltry contract could all take a hike. He almost missed Cleveland. Loud voices, then the door swung open as his fullback charged through, Dini in tow. Aski bolted to attention. "Reek, I am so sorry," Franco thundered as he yanked him from the bench and smothered him with a bear hug. Tm so sorry. There is a mistake, no?" The judge glared at Dini, who was studying his very shiny black boots and looked somewhat pale. Aski was a deer in headlights. Rick tried to say something, but words failed him. In the doorway, Franco's cute secretary watched the encounter. Franco unloaded a few words at Aski, then a sharp question for Dini, who tried to answer but thought better of it. Back to Rick. "Is no problem, okay?"
"Fine," Rick said. "It's okay."
"The car, it is not yours?"
"Uh, no. I think Signor Bruncardo owns it." Franco's eyes widened and his spine stiffened. "Bruncardo's?" Both Aski and Dini partially collapsed at the news. They stayed on their feet but couldn't breathe. Franco shot some harsh Italian at them, and Rick caught at least two "Bruncardo's." Two gentlemen who appeared to be lawyers--dark suits, thick briefcases, important airs--approached. For their benefit, and Rick's and his staffs, Judge Lazzarino proceeded to blister the two young cops with the fervor of an angry drill sergeant. Rick immediately felt sorry for them. After all, they had treated him with more respect than a common street criminal could expect. When the tongue-lashing was over, Aski and Dini scattered, never to be seen again. Franco explained that the car was being retrieved that very moment and would be returned to Rick immediately. No need to tell Signor Bruncardo. More apologies. The two lawyers finally drifted into the judge's office, and the secretaries returned to work. Franco apologized again, and to show his sincere regret at the way Rick had been welcomed in Parma, he insisted on dinner the following night at his home. His wife--very pretty, he said-- was an excellent cook. He would not take no for an answer. Rick accepted the invitation, and Franco then explained that he had an important meeting with some lawyers. They would see each other at dinner. Farewell. "Ciao."