All He Saw Was the Girl by Peter Leonard

hills, to Loyola, had to be six miles.
        He
went in the lobby expecting to see Franco behind the front desk, but no one was
there. He went upstairs to the second floor and down to 217, the room he shared
with Chip. It was 4:05 a.m., Monday morning. He sat on his bed, too tired to
take his clothes off, and laid back, head on the pillow, body aching and let
out a breath. The side of his face was swollen where the big man had hit him,
paying him back, but he felt lucky, fortunate to be there. He still couldn't
figure out why they let him go. But he wasn't complaining.
        Chip
was in his bed ten feet across the room from him. Chip sat up, leaned over and
turned on his desk light.
        McCabe
said, "Turn that goddamn thing off."
        Chip
got up and crossed the room, standing over him in his underwear.
        "What'd
they do to you, Spartacus?"
        McCabe
said, "What's it look like?"
        "You
got your ass kicked," Chip said.
        "That
sounds about right," McCabe said.
        "They
thought you were me, didn't they?"
        Chip
moved back and sat on his bed, legs over the side, feet on the floor.
        McCabe
said, "How much was the ransom?"
        "Half
a million euros."
        "Who
paid it?"
        "The
senator."
        McCabe
closed his eyes. That was the last thing he heard him say.
        The next
morning there was a note on the floor, pushed under the door, telling McCabe to
contact Mr Frank Rady immediately He took a shower and went to Rady's office.
The door was open. Rady was sitting at his desk and looked up when he walked
in.
        "What
I don't understand, McCabe, is why you didn't come and see me when you got
back."
        He
couldn't win with this guy. He'd been kidnapped and beat up and Frank Rady
acted like it was his fault. "It was the middle of the night. I was tired.
There was nothing you could've done till morning."
        "That's
up to me," Rady said. "Not you. How'd you get past the front desk
without Franco seeing you?"
        "He
wasn't there. What difference does it make?"
        "You
let me worry about that," Rady said, staring at him. "Looks like you
pissed off the wrong people." He seemed pleased all of a sudden, flashed a
grin. "Somebody tagged you good, huh?"
        McCabe
didn't say anything.
        "Change
your clothes, put on a nice shirt. We're going to go downtown, talk to Captain
Ferrara with the carabinieri. I think you know him."
        
        
        McCabe
looked around the room. It was the same one he and Chip had been taken to the
night they were arrested. He remembered the light-green walls, and the clock
that made time creep by, and the line gouged in the tabletop that looked like
it was made by a key or a belt buckle. McCabe could relate. Being in this room
put you on edge.
        "Tell
me what happen," Captain Ferrara said, taking the pipe out of his mouth.
        McCabe
liked the sweet smell of the tobacco. The captain sat next to Frank Rady,
across the long table from him. "I was walking through Villa Borghese and
four guys jumped me."
        Captain
Ferrara said, "You were alone?"
        "Yes,"
McCabe said.
        Ferrara
said, "What were you doing in Villa Borghese?"
        "Looking
at the Bernini sculpture in the gallery." McCabe paused. "And four
guys came through the trees and took me down."
        "When
this was happening," Captain Ferrara said, "what were you thinking?
Why did they come after you?"
        McCabe
said, "I had no idea at the time. But later, I figured they’d seen the
article in the newspaper and thought I was Chip."
        Captain
Ferrara said, "What did they say to you?"
        "Nothing.
They kept me chained in the cellar of a farmhouse somewhere outside Rome."
        "And
you told them you are not Chip Tallenger," Ferrara said. "I
did."
        "Why
not prove it, show them your ID," Rady said.
        McCabe
said, "I left my wallet at