He said, “That’s great. I want your life. Things always seem to fall into place.”
She hadn’t told him about Richard yet, this cute boy in her psych class. They had been hanging out for a few months and Sara liked him a lot, maybe even loved him. Next time her dad came to DC she was going to introduce them.
She found her car in the lot, a baby blue ’68 Ford Falcon her father had bought for her, cruising north on 15th, windows down, listening to Joni Mitchell do Blue. Passed the statue of Alexander Hamilton and the Treasury building and New York Avenue, approaching Pennsylvania, green light, heading into the intersection, singing with Joni, really belting it out:
Hey blue, here is a song for you…
Hess had no idea where he was. He had been driving west on Pennsylvania Avenue, and now was somehow on K Street. He regretted stopping at the gentlemen’s club but he’d needed several drinks to calm him down, he had been so charged up, so high on adrenalin.
To the right was a sign for Lafayette Park, and he realized he was traveling in the wrong direction. The White House was somewhere south through the trees. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lighted it with a match, steering the big Mercedes-Benz with his knees. He was drunk, the white line dividing the road, blurring into two. He closed one eye to correct his vision.
Hess brought the cigarette to his mouth, but it slipped through his fingers. He fumbled, tried to catch it with dulled reflexes, cigarette dropping in his lap, falling to the floor. He glanced down, saw it and reached to pick it up, but it rolled toward the accelerator pedal. He looked up now, approaching an intersection, red traffic light sending an alarm to his brain, foot going for the brake pedal, but too late.
He slammed into an automobile, hitting it broadside with serious impact, crushing it, pushing it through the intersection. Hess was conscious of his head striking the steering wheel, the Mercedes spinning, crashing into a storefront. He heard voices and the high-pitched whine of a radiator under pressure, the sound of a siren some distance away, and saw faces staring at him through the windows.
Harry was in his office at the scrap yard, writing a check to the IRS, he couldn’t see the amount, but it was enough to put him out of business. He was signing his name when he heard the phone ring, sounding like it was far away. He woke up, opened his eyes, the phone on the table next to his bed, ringing. Slid over, glanced at the clock. 3:17 a.m. Answered it, barely awake. “Hello.”
“Mr. Levin, this is the Huntington Woods Police Department.”
“Yeah? You know what time it is?” Harry said.
“Sir, your daughter has been in an automobile accident. There is a police officer at your house. Will you please answer the door?”
No way it was Sara. “My daughter’s in Washington DC. What’s going on?” He heard the doorbell.
“The officer will tell you.”
He hung up the phone. It had to be a misunderstanding. Heard the doorbell ring again as he was putting on his robe. He went downstairs, opened the front door. A Huntington Woods cop in a blue uniform was standing on the porch.
“Mr. Levin, may I come in?”
Harry swung the door open further. The cop stepped into the foyer and took off his hat. He looked young, thirty maybe. Blond hair parted on the side, creased where the hat rested, ruddy complexion. Seemed nervous.
“Mr. Levin, your daughter, Sara, was killed in a car accident this morning in Washington DC.”
Harry felt like he’d been punched in the chest. Stepped back and tried to take a breath. It couldn’t be. He’d talked to her just before she went to work.
But the cop assured him it wasn’t a mistake. His department had been contacted by the DC police. Sara was at Washington Hospital. He gave Harry the name and number of a Washington DC detective named Taggart and a woman named Judy Katz at the hospital. The cop told him how sorry he was, and let himself out and closed the door.
Harry went back upstairs, sat on the bed, holding it in, and called Eastern Airlines, booked a seat on the 6:31 a.m. flight to National Airport.
ii
Rome:
McCabe and Chip, two American exchange students, are about to become embroiled with a violent street gang, a beautiful Italian girl, and a flawed kidnapping plan.
Detroit:
Sharon Vanelli’s affair with Joey Palermo, a Mafia enforcer, is about to be discovered by her husband, Ray, a secret service agent.
Brilliantly plotted and shot through with wry humor, All He Saw Was The Girl sees these two narratives collide in the backstreets of Italy’s oldest city.
All He Saw Was the Girl
They were taken to a room and interrogated by a no-nonsense cop, a detective in a black sport coat. He was built like a soccer player, stocky and still muscular in middle age, thinning salt-and-pepper hair combed back. He introduced himself as Captain Ferrara. McCabe told him their names and told him they were students at Loyola University.
Chip said, “We weren’t actually stealing the taxi.”
Ferrara said, “No? What were you doing?”
Chip said, “We were drunk. It was a joke. Scherzo.”
Captain Ferrara said, “Scherzo? This is how a man makes his living and you dismiss it as something trivial, unimportant. You have too much to drink and use this as an excuse? The man’s automobile is damaged. Now he has no way to earn a living, support his family.”
Chip said, “I’ll buy him a new one.”
He held Chip in his laser gaze, eyes locked on him. Chip said, “You know who Senator Charles Tallenger is, right?”
He sounded drunk.
Captain Ferrara stared at him, studying him.
Chip said, “Well I’m his son, Charles Tallenger III.” Captain Ferrara didn’t say anything, didn’t seem impressed, gave him a stern look.
Chip was a smartass, but McCabe had never seen him turn on this arrogant superiority. Based on the captain’s expression it didn’t seem to be going over very well.
Chip said, “I have to make a phone call.”
He said it like a spoiled Greenwich rich kid, which McCabe decided was redundant, maybe even tri-dundant if there was such a word.
“It’s my right as an American citizen,” Chip said.
Captain Ferrara said, “You are a prisoner, you have no rights. In Italy, you are guilty until proven innocent.”
Chip said, “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.”
The captain’s face tightened, like he wanted to go over and knock Chip on his ass. He said, “No, I think you are the one who does not understand, but you will.”
He turned and walked out of the room and closed the door. McCabe said, “Do me a favor, don’t say anything else, okay?”
Chip said, “What’s your problem?”
“You’re being an asshole. Every time you open your mouth the situation gets worse.” He’d never seen Chip act like this before. Jesus.
“You want to get out of here?” Chip said. “We’ve got to tell these idiots who they’re dealing with.”
“All you’re doing is pissing him off,” McCabe said, “making things worse. I’m in this thanks to you, and I don’t want you talking for me.”
Captain Ferrara never came back, and a few minutes later a cop in a uniform came in and cuffed McCabe’s hands behind his back and took him to the garage and pushed him in the rear seat of a Fiat. Two heavyset cops squeezed in on both sides, flanking him like he was a hardened criminal, a flight risk.