Playing for Pizza

Chapter 29

The sound was vaguely familiar. He’d heard it before, but from the depths of his coma he could not remember where, or when. He sat up in bed, saw that it was four minutes after 3:00 a.m., and finally put things together. Someone was at his door.

“Coming!” he growled, and his intruder removed his/her thumb from the white button in the hallway. Rick pulled on gym shorts and a T-shirt. He flipped on lights and suddenly remembered Detective Romo and the non-arrest months earlier. He thought of Franco, his own personal judge, and decided he had nothing to fear.

“Who is it?” he said to the door, his mouth close to the latch.

“I’d like to talk to you.” Deep scratchy voice, American. Hint of a twang.

“Okay, we’re talking.”

“I’m looking for Rick Dockery.”

“You found him. Now what?”

“Please. I need to see Livvy Galloway.”

“Are you a cop of some sort?” Rick suddenly thought of his neighbors and the commotion he was creating by yelling through a closed door.

“No.”

Rick unbolted the door and came face-to-face with a barrel-chested man in a cheap black suit. Large head, thick mustache, heavy circles around the eyes. Probably a long history with the bottle. He thrust out a hand and said, “I’m Lee Bryson, a private investigator from Atlanta.”

“A pleasure,” Rick said without shaking hands. “Who’s he?”

Behind Bryson was a sinister-faced Italian in a dark suit that cost a few bucks more than Bryson’s. “Lorenzo. He’s from Milan.”

“That really explains things. Is he a cop?”

“No.”

“So we don’t have any cops here, right?”

“No, we’re private investigators. Please, if I could just have ten minutes.”

Rick waved them through and locked the door. He followed them into the den, where they awkwardly sat knee to knee on the sofa. He fell into a chair across the room. “This better be good,” he said.

“I work for some lawyers in Atlanta, Mr. Dockery. Can I call you Rick?”

“No.”

“Okay. These lawyers are involved in the divorce between Dr. Galloway and Mrs. Galloway, and they sent me here to see Livvy.”

“She’s not here.”

Bryson glanced around the room, and his eyes froze on a pair of red high heels on the floor near the television. Then a brown handbag on the end table. All that was missing was a bra hanging from the lamp. One with leopard print. Lorenzo stared only at Rick, as if his role was to handle the killing if it became necessary.

“I think she is,” Bryson said.

“I don’t care what you think. She’s been here, but not now.”

“Mind if I look around?”

“Sure, just show me a search warrant and you can inspect the laundry.”

Bryson swiveled his massive head again.

“It’s a small apartment,” Rick said. “With three rooms. You can see two from where you’re sitting. I promise you Livvy is not in there in the bedroom.”

“Where is she?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I was sent here to find her. That’s my job. There are folks back home who are very concerned about her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to go home. Maybe she wants to avoid those same folks.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s fine. She likes to travel. You’ll have a hard time finding her.”

Bryson picked at his mustache and seemed to smile. “She might find it difficult to travel,” he said. “Her visa expired three days ago.”

Rick absorbed this, but did not relent. “That’s not exactly a felony.”

“No, but things could get sticky. She needs to come home.”

“Maybe so. You’re welcome to explain all this to her, and when you do, I’m sure she’ll make whatever decision she damn well pleases. She’s a big girl, Mr. Bryson, very capable of running her own life. She doesn’t need you, me, or anyone back home.”

His nighttime raid had failed, and Bryson began his withdrawal. He yanked some papers out of his coat pocket, tossed them on the coffee table, then said, with an effort at drama, “Here’s the deal. That’s a one-way ticket from Rome to Atlanta this Sunday. She shows up, no one asks questions about the visa. That little problem has been taken care of. She doesn’t show, then she’s AWOL here without proper documentation.”

“Oh, that’s really swell, but you’re talking to the wrong person. As I just said, Ms. Galloway makes her own decisions. I just provide a room when she passes through.”

“But you will talk to her.”

“Maybe, but there’s no guarantee I’ll see her before Sunday, or next month for that matter. She likes to wander.”

There was nothing else for Bryson to do. He was being paid to find the girl, make some threats, scare her into coming home, and hand over the ticket. Beyond that, he had zero authority. On Italian soil or otherwise.

He climbed to his feet, with Lorenzo following every movement. Rick stayed in his chair. At the door, Bryson stopped and said, “I’m a Falcons fan. Didn’t you pass through Atlanta a few years ago?”

“Yes,” Rick said quickly and without elaboration.

Bryson glanced around the apartment. Third floor, no elevator. Ancient building on a narrow street in an ancient city. A long way from the bright lights of the NFL.

Rick held his breath and waited for the cheap shot. Maybe something like: “I guess you’ve finally found your place.” Or, “Nice career move.”

Instead, he filled the gap with “How did you find me?”

As Bryson opened the door, he said, “One of her roommates remembered your name.”

It was almost noon before she answered her phone. She was having lunch outdoors at Piazza San Marco and feeding the pigeons. Rick replayed the scene with Bryson.

Her initial reaction was one of anger — how dare her parents track her down and force themselves into her life. Anger at the lawyers who hired the thugs who barged into Rick’s apartment at such an hour. Anger at her roommate for squealing. When she settled down, curiosity took over as she debated which parent was behind it. It was impossible to think they were working together. Then she remembered that her father had lawyers in Atlanta, while her mother’s were from Savannah.

When she finally asked his opinion, Rick, who’d thought of little else for hours, said that she should take the ticket and go home. Once there, she could work through the visa issue, and hopefully return as soon as possible.

“You don’t understand,” she said more than once, and he truly did not. Her baffling explanation was that she could never use the ticket sent by her father because he had managed to manipulate her for twenty-one years and she was fed up. If she returned to the United States, it would be on her own terms. “I would never use that ticket, and he knows it,” she said. Rick frowned and scratched his head and was once again thankful for a dull and simple family.

And not for the first time he asked himself, How damaged might this girl be?

What about the expired visa? Well, not surprisingly, she had a plan. Italy, being Italy, had some loopholes in the immigration laws, one of which was called the permesso di soggiorno, or a permit to stay. It was sometimes granted to legal aliens whose visas had expired, and typically ran for another ninety days.

She was wondering if Judge Franco perhaps knew someone in immigration. Or maybe Signor Bruncardo? And what about Tommy, the career civil servant, the defensive end who couldn’t cook? Surely someone in the Panthers organization could find a string to pull.

A wonderful idea, thought Rick. And even more likely if they won the Super Bowl.