The Big Stiffs Read online

  THE BIG STIFFS

  (BLUES FOR SOPHIA LOREN)

  ED NOON MYSTERY #30

  BY MICHAEL AVALLONE

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  LOS ANGELES

  2016

  Copyright © 2016 by David and Susan Avallone. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

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  Personaggi principali

  …according to the Italian dictionary

  ……….and some of them lose something in the translation.

  Guided Tour

  1. UP THE GODFATHER

  2. THE MARBLE MORGUE

  3. THREE CORPSES IN THE FOUNTAIN

  4. THE SEVEN KILLS OF ROME

  5. SLAUGHTER ON THE SPANISH STEPS

  6. VIOLENTLY ON THE VIA VENETO

  7. THE FIELD OF VILLAINS

  8. THE COLOSSEUM CAPER

  9. QUO VADIS, NOONUS?

  10. ARRIVEDERCI, SWEETHEART

  11. MURDER LA BELLA RAGAZZA

  12. THE STONE PIZZA

  13. BAD FRIDAY FOR THE BIG STIFFS

  14. SPQR---AND OUT

  There have been some

  incredible giants who have

  distinguished and purified the

  Italian ethos by somehow making it

  clearer and less misunderstood all over

  the world. Thereby obliterating the Borgia

  poison, the Mafia machine gun, the cowardly

  soldier and pasta-fattened mamas and papas of

  low comedy, from the consciousness of the universe.

  It's a long walk from Dante and Michelangelo

  and Galileo to the laboratories of Marconi

  and Fermi and the outfield of Joe Di Maggio.

  Frank Capra's camera, as well as De Sica's and

  Fellini's are golden statues besides those

  of Caruso, Toscanini and Lanza.

  Rome is dying now, as I see it, and perhaps

  this book may be able to show a little of

  the Why. But, affectionately and lovingly,

  it is dedicated to the Arts of Italy and, of

  course, to the unique lady of the title---

  the one and only Sophia Loren.

  "To that High Capital, where kingly Death

  keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,

  He came….."

  Shelley, in his elegy dedicated to Keats.

  UP THE GODFATHER

  The Italian police official was someone I had seen in every moviemaker's idea of just what an Italian police official should look like. He was bandit-moustached, broad-shouldered, bombastically proud and on the verge of acquiring a corporation behind the shining Sam Browne belt buckle girdling his waist. His eyes were midnight black, expressive and snapping and he couldn't talk without using his hands. For extras, he was voluble, excessively police and obviously disinclined to wound my feeling with nasty, suspicious questions about the true nature of my visit to his beloved Roma. But he was on to me with something.

  He was maybe ten years younger than Marcello Mastroianni but he wore his weariness just as well.

  Whatever he really was, I seemed to be in trouble.

  His office was a cramped, tiny sweat-box, without air conditioning, located two floors up from the sun-bleached, rotting sidewalk. The station house seemed to be situated in one of the rattier corners of la bella Roma. A personal observation I was not about to voice aloud. I still have relatives living in Italy.

  We were alone because he seemed to want it that way. And maybe two minutes after he confiscated my U.S. passport, New York ID and PI card and license, he was scowling broadly at sight of the .45 Colt automatic lying on the desk before him, which one of his younger, less police, uniformed subordinates had briskly frisked from my shoulder harness.

  He was now also in possession of a 5x8 thick, brown leather book on mine which he held up between his manicured fingers and dangled accusingly. In my face, as it were. As if it were something pornographic like Eight Nights In A Brothel.

  "This is yours, Signor?"

  "You know it is."

  "Prego. Answer my question."

  "You saw your boy bring it into this office, lay it on your desk and say right out loud in perfect English--'I removed this article from the Signor's room at the Villa Del Parco, one ten Via Nomentana at exactly ten hundred hours this morning---' Stop playing games, Inspector."

  "I am a Capitano, Signor. A Captain. Prego---please. I must ask. You must answer. These matters must be handled in a suitable manner. So there is no question later of any violation of rights. You understand, I trust?"

  "Yes." I nodded to show him there were no hard feelings. But the chair I was sitting in was getting hotter by the second. "Or rather I think I do. You've had me arrested after searching my rooms, brought me here to this office, subjected me to a body frisk and not once have I screamed about my legal rights or demanded that you call the American Embassy. All very high-handed, Captain. Wouldn't you agree?"

  "Ah!" His dark eyes twinkled and enormous self-satisfaction rippled over his swarthy face. "Just so. You have come right to the point. And I, simple official that I am, must confess to extreme confusion and surprise that you have behaved in the manner which you so aptly describe."

  "Come again?" I stalled.

  "Why do you not speak up for your rights, Signor?"

  "I'm not throwing my tourist weight at you for a very good reason. I'm rather a student of police procedure all over the world and I do want to see how far you'll take this routine. My education about Italia is sadly neglected."

  I was lying and he somehow knew that, too.

  It was in his dark eyes lighting up like twin cigarette lighters firing. An appreciative smile made the tips of his blossoming, bold moustache fold upward. Jerry Colonna style.

  He tapped the brown book triumphantly with a firm forefinger.

  "Perhaps the reason for your charitable conduct is in this book, Signor. Your journal. Diary, as you would say. Even a single scan-through of the pages of the past few days, would seem to suggest that you are not quite the simple Americano you pretend to be."

  "There's no law against keeping a diary."

  "Of course, there is not. But this particular diary and its most specific details about certain matters again suggests something else. Something, let us say, far less innocent than merely words and notes about my country. Come, my friend. Do not waste the time with me. You know what I refer to."

  "Sorry," I said, staring him straight in the eye. "You'll have to spell it out. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't you?"

  The smile had gone from his face, the politeness took a flying jump through the steaming office window. The unbearable heat of the day, coupled with everything else that was on the Captain's mind, made his next statement something right out of the old Perry Mason TV program. The hot, flaming accusation came slamming across the desk that separated us, leaving fear wherever it touched. He didn't miss an inch of my vulnerable hide.

  "As representative of the Italian Government, Signor Noon, and accredited police official of the City of Rome, I duly notify you that you are under arrest as a spy. Since this comes under the jurisdiction of the Military, you shall be turned over to the Army as soon as we are able to contact them. There is no further use in denials or lame stories and alibis, Signor.
The diary you saw fit to maintain as a record of your activities is quite enough proof for this office. It will be necessary to get in touch with your Embassy since these are very serious charges. But before that, may I respectfully suggest that you make a statement and thereby reduce feelings of ill-will and hostility that your presence has already engendered in the men of my command? It will go much better for you if you do. Believe me, Signor. I mean that most sincerely."

  "You're crazy," I finally managed to blurt, getting out from under the tremendous sense of absurdity I was feeling. "And I mean that, most sincerely."

  His face flushed, his shoulders hunched and he dropped the brown book on the desk. Its thump was like the fall of an axe. An executioner's axe. Somewhere across the back of my neck.

  "This attitude will not serve you well---" he began sternly, as if imploring me to be a good spy and make a clean breast of the whole dirty business. "I deplore your activities, naturally, as a Roman, but if there are mitigating circumstances---"

  "Captain," I said very slowly, very carefully. "There is nothing in that diary that can even come close to what you're accusing me of. You've misinterpreted something. Maybe some of my American slang---"

  "No, Signor. I assure you I have not." His eyes glittered. A four-aces glitter that suddenly made me feel like I was holding a pair of deuces in a life-or-death card game. Suddenly, he nudged the brown diary across the desk at me. "There. Read for yourself. Go ahead. I dare you. And then tell me I imagine things. You need only concern yourself with the entries from the eighteenth of July through to yesterday---the twenty-fifth, I believe. You will see for yourself, I think, just how you condemn yourself from your own mouth. Prego. Do as I tell you. Perhaps it will convince you that this lying and prevarication all comes to nothing."

  Stupefied, I reached for the diary.

  He seemed so rock-bottom sure, so dead certain.

  There had to be some kind of mistake.

  He couldn't have blithely stumbled over my cover. Not this simple, officious Captain of the carabinieri.

  I was a spy, all right.

  But not the spy he meant. Not the type he might be looking for. I hadn't come in from the cold. My business in Roma had nothing to do with Italy per se.

  I had nothing against Italy. Not even spaghetti Westerns. And any country which can lay claim to Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Caruso, Toscanini, Fermi and Sophia Loren has to have something going for it at all times in the credit department. Those are far too many winners to pass off as just a bunch of lucky breaks.

  Even as I picked up the brown leather diary, riffling the pages to the designated dates, I was trying to remember where I could have slipped up---indeed, if I had slipped up at all.

  The dark glittering eyes of the Captain seated behind the desk, no more than two yards away, never left my face.

  Those eyes might have been the black bores of two rifles lined up, ready, waiting, and thoroughly capable of destruction.

  As steaming and hot as the Roma day was, I felt cold.

  My .45 on the desk was toothless. The clip had been removed.

  Strapped to the Captain's Sam Browne belt was a holstered pistol just a little smaller than a siege gun. Close to his hand.

  I wasn't going to give him a chance to use it.

  Or an excuse, either.

  Quietly, without moving a muscle, I read my own diary.

  For better or for worse.

  Or both.

  And mostly for my own edification.

  I didn't expect to be entertained.

  I wasn't.

  "I admire human Nature but I do not like

  Men---I should like to compose something honorable

  To Man…"

  ---John Keats

  THE MARBLE MORGUE

  18 Tuesday July (Martedi)

  Arrivederci, Rapallo and Hello Roma. The Rome Express (Rapido) was the usual clutter of crowded aisles and Italian non sequitirs. Pisa's campanile (bell tower) leaned very brightly as we whizzed through that foggy town. My coach fellow-traveler was Carlo, a 25 year old student, earning extra money to augment his studies by hiring himself out to deliver a limousine to Rome for some African Embassy official. I practiced my Italian on him. He, in turn, used what little English he knew. Roma Termini (the station) was enormo. Porters, cabs, tourists, in droves. Hit the Villa Del Parco, 110 Via Nomentana at 3:30. Nice hotel set back from the street, up a long path. Quiet, secluded layout. Got a fine room on the ground floor, just back of the lobby. Hope my lira holds out.

  29 Wednesday July (Marcoledi)

  In hot, glaring sunlight, Rome's dirty, bleached marble and stone is molto depressing. Molto! Ditto hard-to-get taxis, too much walking to get anywhere and an eternal rat race of miniature autos, bikes and scooters. Went to the Colosseum and it was NOT disappointing, as the guide books tend to indicate. How could such a fabled, storied monster be a bust, even if it's sort of Shea Stadium with holes? Dug it all the way--excavations and all. The Roman Forum close by is almost an overgrown cow pasture now. The huckster guides and Roman sharpshooters out to trim the tourists are very non-simpatico. Beat after the Colosseum, found a Snack Bar on the winding hill above the Termini. Every cab I tried to flag down was "going back to the garage!" Finally cornered one and returned to the Villa Del Parco. Walked down the Via Del Corso to the Fontana Di Trevi, after sundown. Tossed in some coins, made some wishes and wondered where all the hookers and streetwalkers were hiding. Every doll I saw looked young, lovely and just---nice. Hard to tell, though. Rome seems best seen at night. Its cooler and looks less like a whore the way it does in broad daylight.

  20 Thursday July (Giovedi)

  Vatican City at last. Over the bridge. A young daredevil cabdriver zipped me to St. Peter's, which is merely astounding. Rome has a lot but nothing else like this old church. Michelangelo's Rotunda work is really fantastic, and of course, Cappella Sistina (the many signs drove me nuts) is impossible to describe. Hard to assimilate in a noisy, throbbing tourist mob. Lunched at Paolo's outside the Musee (museum), still thinking what a One Man Monument St Peter's really is. Back to the hotel, with the solution on how to handle Roma. You tour in the morning and the evening only, so that in the night you can really enjoy the city. Afternoons are out, definitely. Everything closes after two, the natives take their siesta and all bets are off. Down to the Spanish Steps after dark. The Keats-Shelley Room, overlooking the high staircase, was closed. Bernini's bark (The Tub) is in said shape below, at the base of the steps. Cracked, chipped and just a water fountain for the thirsty idlers. Dined at Nino's, a good, inexpensive ristorante. Ate spaghetti alla Bolognesa---delicious.

  21 Friday July (Venerdi)

  Spanish Steps again. American Express is right down the street. Exchanged some traveler's checks for more lira. Dropped into the Keats-Shelley Room. Excellent and fascinating cubbyhole in the middle of madness. Keats' last four months of life must have been horrible. Living with such beauty and dying by inches. Walked to the top of the Steps, past all the young Hippies with their guitars, long hair and sidewalk pitch-concessions at each landing, and found the Via Veneto. Lunch at the Café De Paris. Air conditioned and great. The Borghese Gardens, Rome's Central Park, is just at the end of the ristorante-crowded street. Took a half-hour hike through the woods. Rain threatened again but pioggia never seems to come. Not in Roma. Toke a ride back to the Colosseum and watched the legions of starved, ugly cats parading in the ghostly moonlight over the ancient pile of rocks. Tourists galore again but still sort of isolated. Then back to the Via Veneto again for a late evening cappuccino with the La Dolce Vita set. Fellini was right. Boredom lives in the Via Veneto, in very expensive clothes.

  22 Saturday July (Sabaro)

  Giardino Zoologico, a zoo like all the other zoos the world over. Fed the mandrills, the goats and the antelope. Saw a cat roaming the merry-go-round area with her about-to-be-born kitten dangling from her hind legs. Old-timer told me dead kittens are all over the zoo. The oppressive, muggy heat drops th
em like flies. Can believe that. Rome: Three O'clock is a Sunday town, every day of the week. Traffic and people seem to simply disappear, only to materialize after six o'clock. Checked out the Via Veneto again, after dining at Doney's. At the sidewalk tables, same faces all the time. Same kinds of faces---i.e. tourist, native, expatriate and mostly---BORED. The Veneto cabbies, who line up around the corner like a fleet, seem to be Roma's true sharpshooters. All out for the hustle and the con and the buck. The U.S. Embassy building right across the street where the hill starts down seems out of place. Quiet and orderly. Though the neighborhood abounds in high-priced luxury hotels. Got a laugh. Private Detectives advertise all over the building with huge, gaudy signs. Ditto the cover of the Roma phone book. Went back to the Colosseum again, before taking the long ride back to the Villa Del Parco. Nobody bothers me there. The desk men don't ask any questions, the maids are all polite and I've had no interference of any kid, so far. So good.

  23 Sunday July (Domenica)

  SPQR---the Italian brand is tattooed over everything. Sidewalks, gratings, fountains, garbage pails. Visited the Piazza de Campaglio, up behind the Vittorio Emmanuello. Great busts and statues prevail in the Museum but the Tintoretto canvases (The Maddelenna is great) dominate here. Molto humido esta giorno, as my cabdriver said. It is---a scorcher, today. Brief thunderstorms at six cooled off the city. Then everything heated up again. Went to the Piazza Navone, dined at Tres Scalini on purely heavenly shrimp and watched the art exhibition in the plaza. Then located the Pantheon where the dark and gloomy Agrippa Temple lords it over a narrow plaza. Met a teenage college female named Joy Deveau who was hiking over Europe for the Summer. Seemed to be a sharp gal, with quiet good looks. I played the wiser, older brother and bought her a coke and then went back to the hotel. Alone. Still haven't found what I came here for. Maybe I never will…

  I looked up from the diary, confused. And perspiring.

  The Captain was still staring at me. Poised, expectant, a tight smile playing with the ends of the bandit moustache.