thought he might be beaten on the spot. They were in their early twenties, tall, and built like weight lifters. They could play defense for the Panthers. An elderly couple stopped on the sidewalk to witness the drama from ten feet away.
“Speak Italian?” Dini asked.
“No, sorry.”
Both rolled their eyes. A moron.
They separated and began a dramatic inspection of the crime scene. They studied the front license plates, then the rear. The glove box was opened, carefully, as ifit might just hold a bomb. Then the trunk. Rick grew bored with it and leaned against the left front fender. They huddled, consulted, and radioed headquarters, then the inevitable paperwork began with both officers scribbling furiously.
Rick was very curious about his crime. He was certain that registration laws had been broken, but he would plead not guilty to any moving violation. He thought about calling Sam, but his cell phone was next to his bed. When he saw the tow truck, he almost laughed.
After the Fiat disappeared, Rick was put into the rear seat of the police car and driven away. No handcuffs, no threats, everything nice and civilized. As they crossed the river, he remembered something in his wallet. He pulled out a business card he had taken from Franco’s office and handed it to Dini in the front seat. “My friend,” he said.
Giuseppe Lazzarino, Giudice .
Both cops seemed to know Judge Lazzarino quite well. Their tone, demeanor, and body language changed. Both talked at once in muffled voices, as if they didn’t want their prisoner to hear. Aski sighed heavily as Dini’s shoulders sagged. Across the river, they changed directions and for a few minutes seemed to go in circles. Aski called someone on the radio, but did not find whomever or whatever he wanted. Dini used his cell phone, but he, too, was disappointed. Rick sat low in the rear seat, laughing at himself and trying to enjoy the tour of Parma.
They parked him on the bench outside Franco’soffice, the same spot Romo had selected about twenty-four hours earlier. Dini reluctantly went inside, while Aski found a spot twenty feet down the hall, as if he had nothing to do with Rick. They waited as the minutes dragged by.
Rick was curious as to whether this qualified as a real arrest, or one of the Romo variety. How was one supposed to know? One more altercation with the police, and the Panthers and Sam Russo and Signor Bruncardo and his paltry contract could all take a hike. He almost missed Cleveland.
Loud voices, then the door swung open as his fullback charged through, Dini in tow. Aski bolted to attention.
“Reek, I am so sorry,” Franco thundered as he yanked him from the bench and smothered him with a bear hug. “I’m so sorry. There is a mistake, no?” The judge glared at Dini, who was studying his very shiny black boots and looked somewhat pale. Aski was a deer in headlights.
Rick tried to say something, but words failed him. In the doorway, Franco’s cute secretary watched the encounter. Franco unloaded a few words at Aski, then a sharp question for Dini, who tried to answer but thought better of it. Back to Rick. “Is no problem, okay?”
“Fine,” Rick said. “It’s okay.”
“The car, it is not yours?”
“Uh, no. I think Signor Bruncardo owns it.”
Franco’s eyes widened and his spine stiffened. “Bruncardo’s?”
Both Aski and Dini partially collapsed at the news. They stayed on their feet but couldn’t breathe. Franco shot some harsh Italian at them, and Rick caught at least two “Bruncardo’s.”
Two gentlemen who appeared to be lawyers—dark suits, thick briefcases, important airs—approached. For their benefit, and Rick’s and his staff’s, Judge Lazzarino proceeded to blister the two young cops with the fervor of an angry drill sergeant.
Rick immediately felt sorry for them. After all, they had treated him with more respect than a common street criminal could expect. When the tongue-lashing was over, Aski and Dini
“Speak Italian?” Dini asked.
“No, sorry.”
Both rolled their eyes. A moron.
They separated and began a dramatic inspection of the crime scene. They studied the front license plates, then the rear. The glove box was opened, carefully, as ifit might just hold a bomb. Then the trunk. Rick grew bored with it and leaned against the left front fender. They huddled, consulted, and radioed headquarters, then the inevitable paperwork began with both officers scribbling furiously.
Rick was very curious about his crime. He was certain that registration laws had been broken, but he would plead not guilty to any moving violation. He thought about calling Sam, but his cell phone was next to his bed. When he saw the tow truck, he almost laughed.
After the Fiat disappeared, Rick was put into the rear seat of the police car and driven away. No handcuffs, no threats, everything nice and civilized. As they crossed the river, he remembered something in his wallet. He pulled out a business card he had taken from Franco’s office and handed it to Dini in the front seat. “My friend,” he said.
Giuseppe Lazzarino, Giudice .
Both cops seemed to know Judge Lazzarino quite well. Their tone, demeanor, and body language changed. Both talked at once in muffled voices, as if they didn’t want their prisoner to hear. Aski sighed heavily as Dini’s shoulders sagged. Across the river, they changed directions and for a few minutes seemed to go in circles. Aski called someone on the radio, but did not find whomever or whatever he wanted. Dini used his cell phone, but he, too, was disappointed. Rick sat low in the rear seat, laughing at himself and trying to enjoy the tour of Parma.
They parked him on the bench outside Franco’soffice, the same spot Romo had selected about twenty-four hours earlier. Dini reluctantly went inside, while Aski found a spot twenty feet down the hall, as if he had nothing to do with Rick. They waited as the minutes dragged by.
Rick was curious as to whether this qualified as a real arrest, or one of the Romo variety. How was one supposed to know? One more altercation with the police, and the Panthers and Sam Russo and Signor Bruncardo and his paltry contract could all take a hike. He almost missed Cleveland.
Loud voices, then the door swung open as his fullback charged through, Dini in tow. Aski bolted to attention.
“Reek, I am so sorry,” Franco thundered as he yanked him from the bench and smothered him with a bear hug. “I’m so sorry. There is a mistake, no?” The judge glared at Dini, who was studying his very shiny black boots and looked somewhat pale. Aski was a deer in headlights.
Rick tried to say something, but words failed him. In the doorway, Franco’s cute secretary watched the encounter. Franco unloaded a few words at Aski, then a sharp question for Dini, who tried to answer but thought better of it. Back to Rick. “Is no problem, okay?”
“Fine,” Rick said. “It’s okay.”
“The car, it is not yours?”
“Uh, no. I think Signor Bruncardo owns it.”
Franco’s eyes widened and his spine stiffened. “Bruncardo’s?”
Both Aski and Dini partially collapsed at the news. They stayed on their feet but couldn’t breathe. Franco shot some harsh Italian at them, and Rick caught at least two “Bruncardo’s.”
Two gentlemen who appeared to be lawyers—dark suits, thick briefcases, important airs—approached. For their benefit, and Rick’s and his staff’s, Judge Lazzarino proceeded to blister the two young cops with the fervor of an angry drill sergeant.
Rick immediately felt sorry for them. After all, they had treated him with more respect than a common street criminal could expect. When the tongue-lashing was over, Aski and Dini
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