Tale of a Reluctant Autostrada Hit Man (or something)
We’re cruising down the road around Rome. The name of the road sounds something like “Annular Ring”. Rome is in the center. We are rimming it.
Suddenly I gotta go real bad.
The Babe nudges the Renault off the Autostrada like it’s on greased rails, bringing the diminutive diesel to a stop in front of a big, metal box the size of a cell in solitary at Sing-Sing. It’s marked “Uomini.” That’s “Men” I’m pretty sure.
I jump out of the car and pull the door of the box open. A stench no man wants to smell assaults my delicate sensibilities. Now I have to pee like a racehorse. I’m not happy having to get down on all fours in this slimeball joint, but a man’s gotta do his business. (It’s hard hitting the toilet from this position, but nobody else seems to have had much luck either.)
When I’m finished I’m relieved to get out of that stinking cage. The air is suddenly fresh. I walk over to the car quite a bit more gracefully than I exited it.
Instead of starting the engine when I open the door, The Babe points to somewhere behind the car. “That guy back there thinks he has a meeting with you,” she says. Her sweet voice is warm honey in my ears.
“He thinks you’re Claudio,” she continues, her voice starting to waiver like a sparrow’s winter song.
I am not Claudio.
I turn my head to look at him. He returns my stare and raises a well-groomed eyebrow while folding his arms across a surprisingly wide chest. He has on a dark suit, nicely tailored. He is clean shaven. Who is he? My mind is cranking like a machine making cigarettes.
The story starts spilling out of The Babe. “I was really afraid, Sweety! That big man tapped on the window right by my lil’ ear with his huge, manly knuckles when you were, you know, busy in there. He asked if you were Claudio. He said he had a meeting.”
The scene began to unfold in my mind, the man’s manicured knuckles (the creases ironed out of them in a process unfamiliar to those without ties to organized crime) tattooing a nasty rhythm on the Renault’s glass, making The Babe shake like a leaf. The monster!
Who is Claudio? What kind of person calls a meeting in front of a urine-soaked metal box with bars on the windows?
The gears are turning. I better get in the car quick.
Hit men. That’s who meet like this. Everyone else would have a coffee at a bar. Hit men don’t need coffee. The jitters make it impossible to shoot straight.
I jump into the car without looking back. The Babe palms the shifter and slips it into first graceful as a pommel horse specialist knifing through warm butter. A chirp of the tires and we’re gone.
“Hasta la vista, Baby!” I yell, taking a glance at the side mirror, which makes Mr. Big look really, really, small.
Then a couple of bees find my honey-sweetened ears. You can’t have everything go right.
True story, believe it or not, with a bit of noir embellishment.