Dominic broke Spiro's third finger. Spiro screamed and whimpered and moaned but the only noise that Carlo heard over it all was the cracking of the bone. Three times. The espresso he had an hour ago rose in his throat. He swallowed, trying to force it down.
Carlo turned, not wanting to watch any longer.
"No more holding back! Ever!" shouted Dominic. "Too many lira stuck to these fingers." He grabbed the broken ones. Carlo cringed waiting for the cracking sound again but all he heard was Spiro's cries.
"You forget the ticket taker at the station is my third cousin. He saw all the bills in the Japanese tourist's wallet. The thousand dollar American bill. So where is it?"
Carlo knew where it was. Spiro had no idea it was even in the wallet. But would have left it anyhow, taking only some lira, not enough to be missed.
Carlo rubbed the stub of his missing finger. He could not afford Dominic's wrath again. The thought soaked his shirt still more. He had to stay above suspicion. He was too old to learn a new trade.
The cracking sound didn't come again, but another did. The click of Dominic's stiletto, razor sharp.
Carlo looked, not wanting to, not being able to look away.
A gasp from the others.
Dominic pointed the knife. Carlo wanted to yell, `no' when he saw what Dominic was going to do.
A quick slice and a damp spot appeared at Spiro's groin, widening..
Then another slice. A louder gasp was overlaid with Spiro's screams.
Dominic had cut off--
Carlo turned, he had to leave, the expresso now in his mouth. He could have been him in Spiro's place.
"My nephew will take his position. I need someone trustworthy."
Trustworthy! Carlo wanted to spit. Dominic's nephew from the North, golden curly hair, so different from those of the South. He was trustworthy as long as you faced him and kept your hand on your wallet. Dominic should watch his own back. The nephew wanted badly to be Dominic.
The nephew had no sense of camaraderie. The Northerners were like that.
Carlo wouldn't be able to get any extra money for a while. He'd have to be satisfied with the American bill--for now.
* * *
"Sorrento? You wish to go to Sorrento? I help. I help travelers." Lydia and Greg looked at the old man who approached them in the train station. He pulled back the lapel of his raincoat to reveal a pin with a red insignia on his jacket. Before Lydia could look closer, he closed his coat. She noticed the missing finger.
Then he helped Greg at the window get their train tickets. He led Greg down the steps onto the platform.
Greg carried his suitcase, chatting amiably with the man while Lydia maneuvered hers down one step at a time. She insisted on being responsible for her own luggage.
When she got to the bottom she noticed Greg putting his wallet away.
The old man with the missing finger walked them to the other end of the platform where it opened to the sunlight, passing the cluster of people on the benches near the steps.
He talked with them for a while, then showed them a picture of his son, as though trying to entertain them. Lydia noticed that in the picture the boy appeared to be about twelve and was in a military uniform. The photograph seemed worn, and old-fashioned.
"Which side will the train come on?" she asked.
"Come, I show," he said to her. He took her halfway back to where a sign hung above the track, its message changing every few seconds. While she was looking at it, he quickly went back to Greg. She turned and walked back also, hearing him asking Greg for fifty thousand lira. Greg pulled out his wallet.
"Wait a minute. Why are you giving him money?" she said.
"He helped us."
"Not fifty thousand lira worth. That's thirty dollars."
"I'm just giving you fifteen thousand this time," Greg said to the man as he pulled the bills out then put his wallet away.
"It's good you keep it here." The man patted his own right front pocket, indicating where Greg had put his wallet.
"You gave him money before?" She was incredulous.
Greg looked at her as though to say, 'We'll talk about it later."
So he had given him money. That's why he was putting his wallet away earlier.
After a few moments more, the old man said `goodbye' and left, climbing another set of stairs near where they were standing.
"Why did you give him money and how much?" she asked, hearing the anger in her voice.
"He asked for fifty thousand lira."
"He asked for fifty thousand lira -- twice? You mean, if someone comes up and asks you for thirty dollars, you'd just give it to them?" She knew her voice was rising.
"He showed us where the train was."
"We could have found it. This is a two-track station. I was about to ask the woman at the Information Booth. I can't believe you gave him..."
"I did it, okay. Let's just drop it."
She gritted her teeth. What had possessed him? She wanted to keep asking him until she got an answer that satisfied her.
Then she thought, what's was the point of having a fight in the middle of Italy? They were supposed to be on vacation, having fun, getting away from the stress of their jobs. Traveling for twenty-four hours had not put them in good humor.
It was just that being an Assistant D.A. in the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office, she knew a lot about con artists and was always amazed how people could be so gullible. And now her own husband --
The train pulled in several yards short of where they stood alone at the end of the platform.
Greg walked back to it pulling his suitcase. A group of well-dressed men, two with overcoats, stood at the first car that had the engineer's compartment in front of it. Everyone else was still at the other end.
The wide doors slid open revealing a large open space for commuters to stand during rush hour. Now it was empty. Greg boarded first, pulling his suitcase up the almost foot high gap between the platform and the train into the open area behind the engineer's compartment. The well-dressed men rushed on and swarmed like gnats around him. Greg swung to one side, his backpack throwing one of the men off balance. He turned to apologize and knocked into another one of them.
The way they were rushing, Lydia felt certain the train only stopped momentarily. She hurriedly pushed in front of one of the other men with her suitcase. She didn't want to be stuck in the station while Greg rode off on the train. Ahead of her, she saw one of the man actually trying to walk up Ted's suitcase in his rush to board. He was between them.
She turned to pull her suitcase up. The man she had pushed in front of, stopped, then took two steps back as he watched her. They looked at each other for a second. He didn't seem in a hurry any longer to get on the train. Was he just seeing someone off? No, she was sure he was trying to board ahead of her with the other men.
She was right behind Ted, his suitcase at his right side and hers behind her. Then the conductor came out of the engineer's compartment, said something in Italian and made a shooing motion. The men all jumped off. The doors closed.
As she caught her breath, standing with Greg and their suitcases alone in the open space, she saw a sign in English next to the door. "Beware of pickpockets."
Ohmygod.
"Do you have your wallet?"
Greg checked his pocket. "Yes." He looked at the sign. "They were pickpockets?"
"They couldn't get to it because of our suitcases," she said. Her heart was pounding. Ted look startled, still taking it all in.
"That guy with the missing finger, the one `who helps travelers,' had to be part of the gang. He found out where you kept your wallet. And you paid him to do it. He made a show of it so the other guys knew, too."
She should have realized that the old man was up to when he patted his own front pocket. He was signaling the gang. She should have seen the whole thing from the beginning -- the knot of well-dressed men, standing away from the other passengers. That's why the old man had taken them down to the other end of the platform. To isolate his marks.
"We were set up?" Greg said.
"On the way to Sorrento."
"I thought the old man really was someone who helped travelers, so why not give him a little money?"
Greg, the good Rotarian.
"I think he was involved, too." Greg nodded toward the conductor who was in the booth with the engineer. For a moment she didn't understand what he was talking about. "He didn't come out until they had circled around me a bunch of times. I think he knew who they were and what they were doing. He was giving them time to do their thing." Greg sounded more savvy now.
Right then and there, she planned revenge on the old man with missing finger. She would do it. In a week.
Being an Assistant D.A. in Los Angeles had taught her a lot of skills her mother would have frowned upon.
A week later, in wig and sunglasses, carrying a large black bag, Lydia walked down the steps from the street into the small station. She wore her best dumb American outfit--a burgundy sweatsuit, looking, she hoped, bewildered. The man with the missing finger wasn't hard to spot.
As she descended off the last tile step, she reenacted her first time there. She pretended to notice the Information Booth and went over. Loudly, she said. "How do I get to Sorrento?" The woman pointed to the ticket booth opposite her.
She looked around as though myopic. The old man with the missing finger rushed up to her. Through her dark glasses, she glanced at the woman in the booth. The woman looked at him and then went back to her fashion magazine. She knew him, Lydia was sure, therefore she must know what he was doing. A new meaning to Tourist Information.
He went through his routine of tourist helper, quick flash of the pin, ticket counter, down the flight of stairs where she had struggled with her suitcase the first time. On the platform, she easily picked out the four guys in their suits. No, five. One had curly blond hair, almost gold in the shaft of light. She was sure he was with them. Now she could see that they kept glancing at the old man with the missing finger who was escorting her. They hung back with the rest of those waiting for the train. The man took her to the other end of the platform as before.
He asked for money. She took out her wallet dropped it, let him pick it up and hand it to her. She opened it and gave him twenty thousand lira. She dropped the wallet again, turned away and fumbled in her gigantic black bag. He picked it up again and gave it to her. She held it in her hand.
He went through the picture routine. He stuck around, chatting the way he had before, the same topics, the same stories. He asked for money again.
She opened her wallet and made an elaborate show of being surprised. She pantomimed an aghast look, screamed, and began running to the other end of the platform. He ran after her. When she got to the stairs and the well-dressed men were within hearing distance, she yelled at him. "You stole seven hundred dollars from me! I'm calling the police. Help, polizia!" She saw him glance nervously at the men.
"Senora, what you say? No, no, I take nothing from you. I help tourist," he grabbed her arm.
"You just stole money from me. Polizia! " she yelled again, shaking him off and sprinting up the stairs.
"Senora, please, you tell them! Come back! Tell them I took nothing."
From the top of the steps, she looked down as a young man with golden curls grabbed him by the arm, with a malevolent smile.
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