The Venice conspiracy

CHAPTER 4

Venice 'Piazzale Roma!' shouts the bus driver, almost as though it's a profanity. 'Finito. Grazie.'

The small, dark cube of a man jumps from his vehicle and is outside smoking long before the first passenger disembarks. Tom slings his sports bag over his shoulder and asks directions: 'Scusi, dove l'hotel Rotoletti?'

The driver blows out smoke. Small black eyes take in the fresh-faced American with his phrasebook Italian. 'It no far from here.' He wafts his cigarette towards the far end of the Piazzale. 'Turn left at corner – at bottom you see 'otel.'

The guy's right: 'it no far' at all – Tom's there in seconds.

A woman behind a cheap wooden reception desk is polite but falls far short of friendly. She shows him to a claustrophobic bedroom that is badly furnished in bloodshot red and faded blue. A small dirty window overlooks the air-con plant and doesn't open. Tom dumps his bag and heads back to the streets as fast as he can.

After half an hour of walking, he finds himself in Piazza San Marco, dodging a million pigeons and window shopping for clothes that he soon realises he can't afford. Silk ties cost more here than he paid for a stack of shirts and pants back in the discount mall. He prays his suitcase shows up soon.

The smell of fresh-roasted coffee and the buzz of tourist chatter and laughter draws him into Florin's. He orders a cappuccino and a salade Nicoise. Aside from a blonde woman in her early thirties reading at the table next to him, everyone else is in pairs or small family groups. A middle-aged British guy sitting opposite is telling his over-made-up and under-dressed young girlfriend how, centuries ago, the cafe was an up-market brothel and high-class music club. Both Tom and the blonde look up to eavesdrop on his monologue about eighteenth-century Venice, Casanova and libertine life.

'Sounds like we arrived three hundred years too late,' the blonde whispers huskily across to Tom.

He spoons froth from his coffee. 'Not sure about that. I have enough problems with modern life, let alone Venetian decadence at its peak.' He smiles comfortably as he really notices her for the first time. 'Anyway, how did you know I spoke English?'

She brushes a fall of blonde hair away from her sparkling pale blue eyes. 'No disrespect, but you don't look or dress anything like an Italian.' She pauses. 'In fact, I'm not sure what you dress like.' A small laugh – not unkind – confident and warm. 'And I guess the big giveaway is that you're drinking cappuccino in the afternoon and playing with it, with a spoon.' She nods to the middle-aged guy across from them. 'The Brits are probably the only Europeans unsophisticated enough to drink cappuccino after breakfast. So I have you down as a fellow American, and judging from the tan, West Coast.'

Tom nods. 'You're on the money.' He places her accent as Manhattan. Uptown. 'What are you, some kind of cop?'

She laughs again, deeper and longer this time, even nicer to hear. 'Me? No. No way. I'm a travel writer. Freelance. Everything from Lonely Planet to Conde Nast.' She leans across the tables. 'Tina – Tina Ricci.'

'Pleased to meet you, Tina.' He shakes her hand.

She looks into his warm brown eyes and waits for his move. Waits to be asked to his table. Waits for the follow-up line that she's sure will come.

It doesn't. Tom says nothing. He grows awkward and looks away, his heart beating like he's just gone three rounds back in the boxing ring in Compton. He can feel her still staring. The bell's rung and, for the first time in his life, he's stuck in his corner wondering what to do.