The gypsy began: “I am innocent of Silky Kahlberg’s murder. Like, it was almost the other way around.”
John Junior interrupted, in a voice the mother couldn’t make out, more restrained than she was used to from him. Romy shifted places in a blink, reappearing framed between tree trunks. Her hair had been tied back too.
“I did not shoot Lieutenant-Major L–Loius Kahlberg,” she repeated. “I am innocent, and for sure, it could’ve been the other way around. Could’ve been him still running around and me…”
The gypsy lowered her head, trailing a fingernail down her glittering scarf.
“I knew that he was dealing in fake ID’s,” she went on finally. “In counterfeits, officer Kahlberg. Also he knew that I knew. For sure, we both knew the signs, like—”
JJ interrupted again, and Romy reappeared in better posture. With this third take she got across that, at the Museo Nazionale, the liaison officer had planned to kill her.
“I warn the Lieutenant-Major that I will expose him. On the streets there are ways.” Her smile was bitter, the shape of the noise of another passing bike. “The normies never know, the signs we use. Like the SMS, the message on the telefonino. Only better, because Kahlberg, he got it right away, and he knew he had to get rid of me.”
Her stare gathered force. “The man played me, at the Museo. He played me.”
Girl, thought Barbara, join the club.
“Officer Kahlberg,” Romy was saying, “he set it up, he will get rid of me and like, he will look like a hero same time.” Her chin lifted, her confidence growing. “The way the man played it, he will be on top both ways. On top out on the streets, so nobody could take him down, and on top in old Babylon too, in NATO.”
So far as the “play” was concerned, the Lieutenant Major’s plan to get this girl out of his silky hair, Barbara had heard all she needed. The museum visit had always struck her as a dubious trip. And when she’d asked for time alone with the kids, that afternoon, the liaison and his Umberto had run through their bebop repertoire, all those significant looks. What they’d needed was the opportunity to get the gypsy alone. The mother’s request had given them the chance to improvise.
“He was looking forward to it,” said the girl onscreen. “That gun of his, he couldn’t wait to use that.”
Barb was nodding, getting it. She even believed she understood why the liaison had thrown in the tall tale about Romy getting violent: she went right upside his head.
“I knew the man, for sure. But I never expected trouble at the museum.”
Neither the gypsy nor anyone else had cracked Umberto’s head, before the Lieutenant Major went down. But Silky must’ve had it in mind to smack his flunky a good one. Umberto would need a wound to match the story told by his boss. Being boss mattered a lot to the Lieutenant Major, Barbara could see that now. So the liaison must’ve intended first to put a bullet or two in JJ’s girlfriend — or five or ten. Then to top off his afternoon, and to make a point for his colleagues in the Camorra, he’d have given Umberto a pistol-whipping. The NATO man might also have thrown in a bit of groping, a bit of grinding, letting the so-called museum guide know what an American officer kept beneath his Palm Beach whites. He would’ve enjoyed that.
The charade became transparent to Barbara, like a Christmas crèche in which the terra cotta melted away to reveal frames of barbed wire. Meanwhile the fruitiness of Whitman’s shampoo grew stronger, and the girl onscreen, recalling that morning at the Nazionale, looked ever more frightened. The lone stabilizing influence was John Junior, running his set like a pro. Like an adult, leaving the choice of time and place to Romy (the gypsy knew the good hiding places), but meantime taking charge of the larger project. The password, the purpose of the interview — that must’ve been all JJ. And every time you heard Barb’s oldest, through the speakers mounted on the walls, you heard genuine caring, but also restraint. A good deal less histrionic than his mother, lately. JJ’s sweet sanity might in fact make as much of a difference for the former cripple, over time, as his younger brother’s healing hands. Before the picture onscreen jumped again, Romy had broken into a more open smile.
Then JJ went to a whole-body shot, and you could see that the girl had toned down her look. Her jeans fit more loosely, and she toyed with what looked like a childish prop, a thin, smooth length of wood. Was it a sawed-off broomstick? Where had she found that?
She flipped the stick from hand to hand, her tone of voice playful. “I have to show you this. Pinocchio.”
The boy’s off-screen murmur remained unsexy.
“No, get this,” the girl said. “Like, the real Pinocchio.”
She slipped the abbreviated pole between her legs. Like that the mood changed, the girl’s pose appeared obscene, and Romy threw in an orgasmic gasp or two besides. She held the stick so the end just poked from her crotch.
“Pinocchio says,” Romy said, “I got no diseases.”
The wood grew longer, emerging from the vee of her jeans.
“Pinocchio says I love you, always I love you. Since Christ was a carpenter!” The gypsy worked still more of the stick’s length out before her.
“And always I will love you!” Now she needed both hands in front, to hold its full length. “I will be a good father!”
The soundtrack turned to laughter, and the stick fell from Romy’s hands while she wobbled down into a crouch. Or was that the camera wobbling, in JJ’s hands? So much for any sexy mood. Whitman too chuckled over his keyboard, hitting Pause. The filmmaker, the way he laughed, sounded thoughtful; he sounded as though he wanted to work the bit into his next feature. And Barbara remained quiet, though she was grinning, not wanting to make her editor self-conscious. A joke like that could only make her wonder again about this girl and John Junior, how much had gone on between them. When Whitman restarted the video, the mother was glad to see Romy jump-cut back to seriousness. The gypsy was in close-up once more, and frowning.
ROMY: I used to believe in the power of the street, the greatest power. No one can beat (nodding, in rhythm) the power of the street, (starts to smile, stops) I used to believe this, it was history. What does Chris always say about history?
OFFSCREEN: History moves to the left.
ROMY: To the left, yes, like, which means to the street. You know? I used to scrabble around living for no money and, at the same time, I live for this. I believe that, in history, maybe next year or maybe the year after, I will have the power. I believe, old Babylon and the cops, and the suits, they will fall, (shakes index finger) I believe will come a better day, and the suits will sell their blood for money. For sure. We take the sticks from the police and… (throws a punch; hair comes loose from ponytail).