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Chapter 16

I love Rome.

I always stay in the Excelsior hotel’s Villa La Cupola, a suite that takes up the top two stories of this former palace. I like the outdoor sundeck overlooking the Via Veneto. I like the frescoes on the dome, painted in such a way as to match the horizon out the window. I like the private theater, the sauna, the steam bath, the Jacuzzi.

Who wouldn’t?

Back in the day, Vincenzo the concierge knew and handled my, shall we say, entertainment likings. It would be his task to have what they politely referred to as a “lady of the evening” or “courtesan” awaiting my arrival. Sometimes two. On rare occasions, three. The Villa La Cupola suite had six bedrooms. This made it easy for whatever company was hired to spend the night, if she so desired, but not with me. This was my way. This was how I preferred it.

Yes, I have hired prostitutes on many occasions. I will pause while you gasp out loud in indignation and then tsk-tsk your moral superiority.

Done? Terrific.

I would point out that these escorts were “high-end” or “upscale,” but in truth that makes it no better or worse and it would make me even more of a hypocrite to pretend otherwise. For me it was a business transaction that worked both ways. I like sex. Alert the media. I like sex-and by sex, I mean strictly the pleasures of the flesh-a great deal. I like sex in its purest form, meaning I do not like strings or attachment or other common distractions. Myron believes that what he labels “love” or “feelings” enhances sex. I do not. I believe that those things dilute it.

Do not look into that too deeply. I do not fear commitment. I just have no interest in it.

I have never pretended otherwise. I do not lie to the women I have been with, those hired or those I’ve met and with whom I engage in what might commonly be called a one-night (often two or even three nights) stand. They understand the situation. I explain the limitations and, I hope, the joy. Many have, of course, thought that they could win me over, that once I experienced their skills in the bedroom, once I got close to them and saw how fantastic they were, I would be smitten and it would lead to more than what one might refer to as bedroom romps.

Fair enough. Give it your best shot, my sweet. I will not discourage you.

My dearest friend, Myron Bolitar, though “friend” seems an inadequate word to describe our relationship, worries about this aspect of my personality. He feels there is something “missing” inside of me. He traces it back to what my own mother did to my father. But does the origin matter? This is what I am. I am quite content this way. He claims that I don’t get it. He is wrong. I do understand the need for companionship. My favorite times are when he and I sit around together and simply discuss life or watch television or dissect a sporting event-and then, when we are done, I go to bed with a gorgeous body and, uh, gorge.

Does that sound like “something is missing” to you?

I have no interest in defending myself to the judgmental, but for the record: I am for equal rights, equal pay, equal opportunity. Feminism, by dictionary definition, is the “theory of political, economic, and social equality of the sexes.” By that definition, and almost every definition I encounter, I am a feminist.

I don’t lie to women. I don’t cheat on them. I treat every guest or employee well and with respect. They, in turn, reciprocate. Except, of course, during those inflamed moments when neither one of us wants to be treated well or with respect, if you get my obvious drift.

You may be wondering, then, why I have stopped the practice of engaging in said professional services that has worked so well for so long. The simple truth is, I worked off an illusion of consent, of a fair business practice, of a contract without duress. I have been educated to the fact that this is not always the case. Recent history, especially when you consider the plights of Patrick and Rhys, has just reiterated this point for me. There are those who feel I should have realized this many years ago, that I should have seen the abuses earlier, that I turned a blind eye due to self-interest.

Again my reply: Fair enough.

I leave my room and take the elevator to the Excelsior’s overly baroque lobby. Vincenzo spots me and meets my eye. I gently shake him off. He worries that he will miss my gratuity, but why should he suffer because of my somewhat hypocritical moral code?

I know Rome fairly well. I’m far from a native, but I have traveled here extensively. I head down the Via Veneto toward the American embassy. I make the right at the Via Liguria and wind my way to the top of the Spanish Steps. The walk is nothing short of delightful. I take the 135 steps down to the bottom and make my way to the famed Trevi Fountain. It is overrun with tourists. That is okay. I join them. I take out a coin and, using my right hand, I throw it over my left shoulder.

Too touristy a move for such a sophisticate as moi? Of course. But there is a reason certain activities become touristy, no?

My mobile phone rings. I hit the answer button and say, “Articulate.”

A voice on the other end says, “They are there now.”

I thank him and hang up. The walk to the shop on the Piazza Colonna takes me five minutes. This is Rome. Everything is old. Nothing has been redone. There is no pretense of updating, and I, for one, am thankful. The marble column in the center of the piazza, named for Marcus Aurelius, has stood where it is now since AD 193. In the sixteenth century, almost fourteen hundred years later, the then pope ordered a bronze statue of St. Paul to be placed atop the column.

History in a nutshell: Bye-bye, your god. Hello, mine.

A palace sits on the north end of the piazza. There is a fancy “galleria” on the east. “Galleria,” by the way, is just a snooty way of saying “mall.” The sporting goods shop I am looking for, with its small, tacky window display, is located right next to the tiny white church from the eighteenth century. There is a child mannequin wearing an AS Roma soccer jersey in the window. There are a variety of soccer balls and soccer cleats and soccer socks and soccer scarves and soccer caps and soccer sweatshirts.

In a word: soccer.

I enter. The man behind the counter is ringing up a customer. He pretends not to see me. I head toward the back of the store and up the stairs. I have never been here before, but I’ve been given pretty specific instructions. The door is in the back. I knock. The door opens.

“Come in,” the man says.

I step in the room and he closes the door behind me. He puts out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Giuseppe.”

Giuseppe is wearing a soccer referee uniform. He is going all in with this look. Not only does he sport the shirt, but he rocks the regulation black shorts, the matching socks pulled high, and a whistle around his neck. His watch is big and thick and probably doubles as a game clock.

I look past him. The room is set up like a mini soccer pitch. The carpet is grass green with white lines delineating midfield, out of bounds, the box. There are desks on the opposite walls where the goals would be. The desks face the wall, so that the two men sitting at them have their backs to each other. They are both furiously typing on computers.

“That’s Carlo,” Giuseppe says, pointing to the man on the right. Carlo is decked out in a Roma home uniform of imperial purple with gold trim. His wall is decorated with all things Roma, including the team logo, a wolf feeding human boys Romulus and Remus from her teat, which is historically interesting and visually confusing. Head shots of current Roma players line where the wall meets the ceiling.

Carlo keeps typing. He does not so much as nod in my direction.

“And this is Renato.”

Renato at least nods. He too wears a soccer uniform, his of sky blue with white. His desk/goal is all for a team called Lazio. Everything is in sky blue. The head shots here also line where the wall meets the ceiling. The Lazio logo is far simpler than Roma’s: an eagle carrying a shield in its talons.

“Gentlemen,” Giuseppe says in his accented English, “this is our new sponsor.”

In a sense, Myron has sent me here. He has a remarkable memory. I asked for as much specific detail as he could give me on his brief time with Fat Gandhi. He told me about the gamer situation going on when he entered-I don’t know much about video or computer games or what have you-but he noted how Fat Gandhi wanted to beat his chief rivals-the “damned Italians” with the team name ROMAVSLAZIO.

Roma vs. Lazio.

For those not so educated in the ways of European football, Roma and Lazio are hated soccer rivals. They are both teams from Rome and even share a stadium. Without going into much detail, every year the two teams face off in the Derby della Capitale-the translation, I think, is obvious enough-which could be perhaps the fiercest inner-city match in sports.

Giuseppe leans close to me and whispers, “They don’t like each other much.”

“More like hate,” Carlo mutters, still typing.

“He’s a terrible man,” counters Renato, throwing what the kids call “shade” at Carlo.

“Both of you stop it,” Giuseppe says. Then to me: “Carlo and Renato met at a brawl outside the Stadio Olimpico.”

“Roma won,” Carlo says.

“By cheating,” counters Renato.

“You’re just a bad loser.”

“The referee. He was paid off.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Your man was three meters offside!”

“Stop,” Giuseppe says. “So you see there was a brawl.”

“Crazy bastard tried to kill me,” Carlo says.

“Ah, you so exaggerate!”

“He stabbed me with a knife.”

“It was a pen!”

“It broke skin.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“It scratched for sure. I had a blue mark down my arm!”

“Roma is afraid of the dark.”

“Lazio players wear skirts.”

“You take that back.”

Carlo puts his hand to his ear. “Which team has won more derbies again?”

“Oh, that’s it.” Renato’s face is scarlet. “Let’s go!”

Renato stands and throws a paperclip across the room. It hits the back of Carlo’s chair, going nowhere near Carlo’s face, but Carlo falls to the floor as though he’s been shot.

“My eye! My eye!”

Carlo cups his eye with one hand and rolls back and forth as though in great pain. Giuseppe blows his whistle. He races over to Renato, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a yellow card.

“Sit back down!”

“He’s faking!” Renato shouts.

Carlo is smiling now. He moves his hand away and winks at Renato. When Giuseppe turns toward him, Carlo cups his eye and starts grimacing in pain again.

“He’s faking!” Renato insists.

“I said, sit down. Don’t make me bring out the red card.”

Renato, still fuming, sits back down. Carlo gingerly gets back into his chair.

Giuseppe comes back toward me. “They’re insane, both of them. But they are great at what they do.”

“Which is gaming.”

“Yes. But pretty much anything involving computers.”

“They lost to Fat Gandhi, though.”

Both Carlo and Renato turn in unison: “He cheats.”

“How do you know?”

“No one can beat us fairly,” Carlo says.

“Fat Gandhi has to use more than two players,” adds Renato.

I think back to Myron’s description of the room. “He does.”

Both men stop typing now. “You know for sure?”

“I do.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to us,” Carlo says.

“He took away our title,” adds Renato.

“You’ll have your chance at revenge,” I tell them. “Have you started implementing my plan?”

“One hundred thousand euros?”

“Yes.”

Carlo types with a smile on his face. So does Renato.

Giuseppe says, “We’re ready.”