Balls Page 3

  #

  The next morning, the sun reached in through the blinds (what do they call Venetian blinds in Venice, anyway?), fell on my face and woke me from a restless sleep.

  I’d dreamed I was the one inside the body bag. That I couldn’t breathe. That I was cut up into little pieces and my various body parts sent to the four corners of the earth. My head and heart went back home to San Francisco. When my box was opened, my head stared up at Gina. She looked at me piteously, then closed the box. She had decided to marry Winston instead of me, and my head’s arrival just would not do.

  As I tried to shake the grogginess and untangle myself from the sheets, Winston was already up, shaved and dressed, looking as dapper as ever. I tasted my breath, rubbed at my stubble, and ran my hand through my mop of brown hair. “How long have you been up?”

  “A while,” he said, making the final adjustments to the knot of his $750 tie. “I got in touch with Mr. Freizza. He’ll see us at nine. Chop-chop!”

  I stumbled into the tiny glass-doored shower. I bent my legs enough that I could duck under the low shower head, and the water trickled out like a lukewarm light rain on my face.

  I got dressed and we headed to the address of Freizza’s Venice office. As we stepped into a gondola, the murderers emerged from our hotel.

  “There they are!” I said to Winston. “It’s like they’re following us.”

  “That is quite a strange coincidence,” said Winston, unruffled.

  “Too strange,” I said.

  As we glided off down the canal, I watched as the murderers and their third man met with a large group of other men. I counted eleven all together. All were muscular tough-guy types.

  “A meeting of the mobster heavies?” mused Winston.

  “Could be. Maybe they’re going to divvy up the body parts and hand-deliver them to remote locations.”

  “Ha! Hand-deliver body parts? That’s a good one, Matthew. Or, I mean, Shamus,” Winston stifled a laugh.

  I couldn’t believe he was taking this all so casually.

  The gondolier expertly turned the vessel up another watery street and then grazed the sidewalk with a gentle scraping sound as he slowed to a stop.

  We got out of the wobbly boat, Winston paid the gondolier, and we headed into the squat red brick building with tiny windows.

  Mr. Freizza’s office was located upstairs. We eyed the rickety-looking elevator and decided to take the steps. On the third floor, Mr. Freizza welcomed us into his own private office. It had dark wood paneling throughout, with a small window overlooking the canal, and a large chilled wine rack behind a cupboard door on the wall opposite. It was still before ten, but he took out a bottle and popped it open.

  “My friends! I am glad you have finally arrived.” His English was very clear, his manner jovial. “I have been looking forward to meeting you in person.”

  After a few minutes of cordial small talk, he got down to business. “I will tell you straight,” he said, “I really want to buy the company. I do not have a pressing need for an espresso company, but I am fascinated by the name – Azzurri. It is the same name of one of my holdings – Azzurri Sport. I hold part ownership in the greatest football team – er, soccer as you say – in all the world. I think I could probably play off the name of your company to build a stronger brand identity.”

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

  Freizza rose and opened it, and to my horror, the entire murderous mob we’d seen back at the hotel poured in.

  “Argghhh!!!” I yelled.

  “What? What is wrong?” asked Freizza.

  “Uh, my friend here – he’s afraid of, uh, of large crowds. Sorry,” said Winston.

  “I’d like you to meet the team,” said Freizza. “Nothing to be scared of, just a bunch of great football players!”

  The murderers caught my eye. “Oy, I remember you,” said the one with the British accent. “You were at the train station in Bologna.”

  I slowly nodded. “You’re English.”

  “Yeah, mate – just signed to Azzurri last month. Bloody love it ‘ere.”

  “So,” I said, still stunned, “what did you have in that bag, anyway?”

  “Balls.”

  “Oh, and some football shoes,” added the other man.

  “And why were you in Florence?”

  “We had to pick up Marco, here,” said murderer number one.

  I felt very, very dumb.

  And then my phone rang.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Oh sweetheart, have you managed to take care of that idiot yet?” asked Gina.

  I didn’t answer, unsure of what she was talking about.

  “Winnie? Are you there?”

  “Uh, I think you have the wrong number, Gina,” I said. “This is the idiot.”

  I hung up and looked over at Winston. Sharp as he was in looks and intellect, he caught on right away.

  “Matthew, my good man, we were going to tell you. As soon as you hooked up with a nice Italian babe. Trouble is, you’re too loyal – you just wouldn’t take any of the bait I’ve been pushing your way.”

  I stood there and looked around the room. Mr. Freizza, and the entire Italian soccer team were staring at me.

  I looked at Winston, then over to our host. “Mr. Freizza, I’ll take no less than ten million American dollars for Azzurri Incorporated and all her assets.”

  “Sold!” said Freizza excitedly.

  “There is one stipulation,” I said.

  He looked at me. “Whatever you want, my friend.”

  “Your first order of business is to fire my partner here, Mr. Chambliss.”

  As he nodded his ascent with a confused look, I walked out, and headed to Rome to find myself a silk tie and a hot date.

  estremità

  MORE BOOKS AT WWW.MICHAELDBRITTON.COM