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heading for Via di Ripetta. He
stepped in front of it, and as the bike tried to swerve around him, he reached
out and grabbed the passenger's arm and pulled him off the back and took him
down on the cobblestone surface. The guy was trying to get up, but McCabe was
bigger and stronger, knees on his chest, holding him down, a skinny teenager
with a big nose, wearing a striped soccer jersey, looking up at him, stunned
and afraid.
        McCabe
pulled the girl's purse out of his hand and now the girl ran up and started
kicking him in the ribs, swearing in Italian. McCabe got off him and watched
her. The kid tried to cover up and then scrambled to his feet, running, the
girl going after him, letting him go. She yelled something in Italian, but the
kid didn't look back.
        McCabe
handed her the purse, a black shoulder bag that said Prada Milano, silver metal
in a black triangle on the side. She stared at him, studying him.
        "What
you did was very courageous. How can I repay you?"
        McCabe
could think of a few ways. He said, "Have a drink with me." She was
better-looking up close, about his age, early twenties.
        She
said, "Only if you let me buy one for you."
        Her
English was perfect and she spoke with a sexy Roman accent.
        "I've
got a table," he said.
        "Not
here," she said. "I know a better place. Do you mind?"
        Did
he mind? He couldn't believe his luck. He stepped over and put a five-euro note
on the table and the people sitting there applauded him. He moved back to the
girl, surprised by the reaction.
        She
said, "See, you are a hero."
        They
walked across Piazza del Popolo and down Via del Babuino toward the Spanish Steps,
passing storefronts: Gente, Bonora, Feltrinelli and Carlucci.
        She
said, "What do you do when you are not pulling thieves off the back of a
motorcycle?"
        "Have
drinks with good-looking girls," McCabe said, walking past St Attanasio, a
small church tucked in among the designer shops, an odd contrast he thought.
"I'm a student, and the only reason I saw the motorcycle was because I was
watching you."
        She
gave him an innocent look.
        "What
school do you go to?"
        "Loyola
University. It's on Via Trionfale in Monte Mario."
        "What
do you study?"
        "Art
history."
        "You
are in the right city, uh?"
        They
were on a narrow sidewalk crowded with pedestrians, lined on one side by
boutiques and restaurants, and on the other side by parked cars. They had to
stop occasionally to let people pass,
McCabe checking her out, trying to be discreet.
        She
caught him and said, "What're you looking at now?"
        "The
sights of Rome." He smiled and she did too. "What about you?"
        "I
can't tell you. It would spoil the mystery. You have to guess."
        "You're
a model?"
        She
gave him a look. "No."
        McCabe
said, "Okay, you're an actress."
        "Why
do you think that?"
        "You
remind me of Manuela Arcuri."
        She
shook her head. "I don't think so." And seemed embarrassed by the
compliment.
        "I
give up," McCabe said.
        She
gave him her sexy look again.
        "No,
you can't."
        "Let
me think about it."
        They
walked along Via Condotti, congested now after siesta, strolled past designer
storefronts: Missoni, Prada, Gucci, D&G, Valentino and MaxMara.
        She
stopped in front of Armani. "Is this where you shop?"
        McCabe,
in faded Levis and a blue Nine Inch Nails tee- shirt with red type, said,
"You can tell, huh? Yeah, I'm very fashion-conscious."
        'You
do have your own style," she said, grinning now, "I have to
say."
        She
was making fun of him and he liked it. She took him to an enoteca in the
neighborhood. They sat outside, drinking glasses of Brunello di Montalcino, her
choice, and watched people go by. She held up her wine glass, looking sexy, her
brown eyes and skinny arms and nice