Rick vowed to have a serious little chat with the head coach tomorrow. Real quarterbacks do not run wind sprints, he kept telling himself as he urged himself to get sick.
The Panthers had a delightful post-practice ritual — a late dinner of pizza and beer at Polipo’s, a small restaurant on Via La Spezia on the edge of the city. By 11:30, most of the team had arrived, fresh from showers and anxious to officially kick off another season. Gianni, the owner, put them in a back corner so they wouldn’t be too disruptive. They gathered around two long tables and all talked at once. Just minutes after they settled in, two waiters brought pitchers of beer and mugs, quickly followed by more waiters with the largest pizzas Rick had ever seen. He was at one end, with Sam on one side and Sly on the other. Nino rose to make a toast, first in rapid Italian, and everyone looked at Rick, then in slightly slower English. Welcome to our little town, Mr. Reek, we hope you find a home here and bring us a Super Bowl. An odd round of hollering followed, and they drained their glasses.
Sam explained that Signor Bruncardo picked up the tab for these rather boisterous dinners, and treated the team at least once a week after practice. Pizza and pasta, some of the best spaghetti in town, without all the fuss and ceremony that Nino so fondly dispensed at Montana’s. Cheap food, but delicious. Judge Franco stood with a fresh glass and launched into a windy speech about something.
“More of the same,” Sam mumbled in English. “A toast to a great season, brotherhood, no injuries, et cetera. And of course to the great new quarterback.” It was obvious Franco would not allow himself to be outdone by Nino. After they drank and cheered some more, Sam said, “Those two jockey for attention. They’re permanent co-captains.”
“Picked by the team?”
“I suppose, but I’ve never seen an election, and this is my sixth season. It’s their team, basically. They keep the boys motivated in the off-season. They’re always recruiting new locals to take up the sport, especially ex — soccer players who’ve lost a step. They’ll convert a rugby player every now and then. They yell and scream before the game, and some of their halftime tongue-lashings are beautiful. In the heat of battle, you want them in your foxhole.”
The beer flowed and the pizza disappeared. Nino called for order and introduced two new members of the team. Karl was a Danish math professor who’d settled in Parma with his Italian wife and taught at the university. He wasn’t sure what position he might play but was anxious to select one. Pietro was a baby-faced fireplug, short and thick, a linebacker. Rick had noticed his quick feet in practice.
Franco led them in some mournful chant that not even Sam understood, then they burst into laughter and grabbed the beer pitchers. Waves of clamorous Italian rattled around the room, and after a few beers Rick was content to just sit and absorb the scene.
He was an extra in a foreign film.
Shortly before midnight, Rick plugged in his laptop and e-mailed Arnie:
In Parma, arrived late yesterday, first practice today — food and wine are worth the visit — no cheerleaders, Arnie, you promised me beautiful cheerleaders — no agents here so you’d hate the place — no golf anywhere, yet — any word from Tiffany and her lawyers? — I remember Jason Cosgrove talking about her in the shower, with details, and he made eight mill last year — sic the lawyers on him — I ain’t the daddy. Even the little kids speak Italian over here — why am I in Parma? — could be worse I guess, could be in Cleveland. Later, RD
While Rick was asleep, Arnie returned the message:
Rick: Great to hear from you, delighted you’re there and enjoying yourself. Treat it as an adventure. Not much happening here. No word from the lawyers, I’ll suggest Cosgrove as the sperm donor. She’s seven months along now. I know you hate the arena game but a GM called today and said he might get you fifty grand for next season. I said no. What about it?
Chapter 10
Waking at such a dreadful hour could only be accomplished with the aid of an alarm clock set at high volume. The steady, piercing beep penetrated the darkness and finally found its mark. Rick, who seldom used an alarm and had developed the pleasant routine of waking whenever his body was tired of sleep, flopped around under the sheets until he found an off switch. In the shock of the moment he thought of Officer Romo and was horrified of another non-arrest. Then he shook off the cobwebs and wild thoughts. As his heart rate began a gradual decline and he propped himself up on the pillows, he finally remembered why he’d set the alarm in the first place. He had a plan, and darkness was a crucial element.
Since his off-season regimen had been nothing but golf, both legs felt broken to bits and his abs ached as if he’d been punched repeatedly. His arms, shoulders, back, even ankles and toes, were sore to the touch. He cursed Alex and Sam and the entire Panther organization, if it could be called that. He cursed football, and Arnie, and, beginning with the Browns, every team in reverse order that had given him the pink slip. As he conjured up vile thoughts about the game, he tried carefully to stretch a muscle or two, but the muscles were simply too sore.
Fortunately, he had laid off the beer at Polipo’s, or at least he had stopped at a reasonable limit. His head was clearing with no signs of a hangover.
If he could hurry and complete his mission as planned, he might be back under the covers in an hour or so. He passed on a shower — the pressure was startlingly weak and the hot water only passably lukewarm — and, forcing each movement with a grim determination, was outside on the street in less than ten minutes. Walking loosened the joints and circulated the blood, and after two blocks he was moving briskly and feeling much better.
The Fiat was five minutes away. He stood on the sidewalk staring at it. The narrow street was lined on both sides by compact cars parked bumper to bumper, leaving between them a single lane of traffic headed north, to the center of Parma. The street was dark, quiet, empty of traffic. Behind the Fiat was a lime green Smart car, a model slightly larger than a decent-sized go-kart, and its front bumper was about ten inches from Signor Bruncardo’s Fiat. To the front was a white Citroën, not much larger than the Smart car and wedged in just as tightly. Dislodging the Fiat would be a challenge even for a driver with years of stick-shift experience.
A quick glance right and left to make sure no one was stirring on Via Antini, then Rick unlocked the car and crawled in as sharp pains shot through his joints. He wiggled the stick to make sure it was in neutral, tried to unfold his legs, checked the parking brake, then started the engine. Lights on, gauges up, plenty of fuel, where was the heater? He adjusted mirrors, the seat, the seat belt, and for a good five minutes went through the preflight as the Fiat warmed itself. Not a single car, scooter, or bike passed him on the street.
Once the windshield was defrosted, there was no reason for further delays. His rising heart rate angered him, but he tried to ignore it. This was just a car with a clutch, and not even his car at that. He released the parking brake, held his breath, and nothing happened. Via Antini happens to be quite flat.
Foot on clutch, ease into first, a touch of accelerator, turn the wheel hard to the right, so far so good. A check of the mirror, no traffic, let’s go. Rick eased off the clutch and gave it some gas, but gave it too much. The engine growled, he let off the clutch, and the Fiat lurched forward and bumped the Citroën just as he slammed the brake. Red gauge lights lit up the dash, and it took a few seconds to realize the car had died. He quickly turned the key while shifting into reverse and pressing the clutch and pulling on the parking brake and cursing under his breath while glancing over his shoulder at the street. No one was coming. No one was watching. The trip in reverse was as rough as the one forward, and when he tapped the Smart car, he hit the brake again and the engine died. Now he cursed loudly, no effort to keep the language under control. He took a deep breath and decided not to inspect the damage; there really wasn’t any, he decided. Just a little nudge. Damned guy deserved it for parking on top of the Fiat. His hands moved quickly — steering, ignition, stick, parking brake. Why was he using the brake? His feet were all over the place, tap-dancing wildly from clutch to brake to gas. He roared forward again, barely nicking the Citroën before stopping, but this time the engine did not die. Progress. The Fiat was halfway in the street; still no traffic. Quickly into reverse again, but a bit too quickly and he lurched back, his head snapping and sore muscles aching. He hit the Smart car much harder the second time, and the Fiat was dead. His language was out of control as he again glanced around, looking for spectators.