A taxi was standing at the corner. Robert mussed his hair, pulled down his tie, and staggered drunkenly toward the taxi. “Hey, there,” he called. “You!”
The driver looked at him distastefully.
Robert pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and slapped it into the man’s hand. “Hey, buddy, I’m lookin’ a’get laid. You know what tha’ means? D’you speak any goddamn English?”
The driver looked at the bill. “You wish a woman?”
“You got it, pal. I wish a woman.”
“Andiamo,” the driver said.
Robert lurched into the cab, and it took off. Robert looked back. He was not being followed. The adrenaline was pumping. “Half the governments in the world are looking for you.” And there would be no appeal. Their orders were to assassinate him.
Twenty minutes later they had reached Tor di Ounto, Rome’s red-light district, populated by whores and pimps. They drove down Passeggiata Archelogica, and the driver pulled to a stop at a corner.
“You will find a woman here,” he said.
“Thanks, buddy.” Robert paid the amount on the meter and stumbled out of the taxi. It pulled away with a squeal of tires.
Robert looked around, studying his surroundings. No police. A few cars and a handful of pedestrians. There were more than a dozen whores cruising the street. In the spirit of “Let’s round up the usual suspects,” the police had conducted their bimonthly sweep to satisfy the voices of morality and moved the city’s prostitutes from the Via Veneto, with its high visibility, to this area, where they would not offend the dowagers taking tea at Doney’s. For that reason, most of the ladies were attractive and well-dressed. There was one in particular who caught Robert’s eye.
She appeared to be in her early twenties. She had long, dark hair and was dressed in a tasteful black skirt and white blouse, over which she wore a camel-hair coat. Robert guessed that she was a part-time actress or model. She was watching Robert.
Robert staggered up to her. “Hi, baby,” he mumbled. “D’you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Le’s you an’ me have a party.”
She smiled uncertainly. Drunks could be trouble. “Maybe you should go sober up first.” She had a soft Italian accent.
“Hey, I’m sober enough.”
“It will cost you a hundred dollars.”
“Tha’s okay, honey.”
She made her decision. “Va bene. Come. There is a hotel just around the corner.”
“Great. What’s your name, baby?”
“Pier.”
“Mine’s Henry.” A police car appeared in the distance, headed their way. “Let’s get outta here.”
The other women cast envious glances as Pier and her American customer walked away.
The hotel was no Hassler, but the pimply faced boy at the desk downstairs did not ask for a passport. In fact, he barely glanced up as he handed Pier a key. “Fifty thousand lira.”
Pier looked at Robert. He took the money from his pocket and gave it to the boy.
The room they entered contained a large bed in the corner, a small table, two wooden chairs, and a mirror over the sink. There was a clothes rack in back of the door.
“You must pay me in advance.”
“Sure.” Robert counted out one hundred dollars.
“Grazie.”
Pier began to get undressed. Robert walked over to the window. He pushed aside a corner of the curtain and peered out. Everything appeared to be normal. He hoped that by now the police were following the red truck back to France. Robert dropped the curtain and turned around. Pier was naked. She had a surprisingly lovely body. Firm, young breasts, rounded hips, a small waist, and long, shapely legs.
She was watching Robert. “Aren’t you going to get undressed, Henry?”
This was the tricky part. “…tell you the truth,” Robert said, “I think I had a little too much to drink. I can’t give you any action.”
She was regarding him with wary eyes. “Then why did you—?”
“If I stay here and sleep it off, we can make love in the morning.”
She shrugged. “I have to work. It would cost me money to—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that.” He pulled out several hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her. “Will that cover it?”