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snatched up the receiver.
'It’s me, Jimmy.’
'Wait.’ Sam went over to the window and looked down
into Borgo Stella. He was on the stoop immediately below,
talking into his cell; she could see the top of his head, Raybans
set jauntily among blond curls, and the shirt he had on earlier
with the wide magenta stripes. He stepped back off the sidewalk
and, holding out his arms, called up to her, 'E Samantha,
ti amo.’ Jimmy always had to act the fool. 'Amore e 7 cor gentil
sono una cosa . . .’
She leant out to check both ends of the street.
A girl in jeans walked past carrying a single sunflower over
her shoulder like a fishing pole, the base of the stem wrapped
in silver foil. She could hear Puccini’s 'Nessun Dorma’ coming
from an open window somewhere, the big notes struggling
to soar above the traffic. Nothing else stood out. The reassuringly
familiar smell of resin wafted from the furniture
restorer’s workshop two doors down.
'Okay,’ she said and hung up.
She went back out to the hall and buzzed Jimmy in. Her
building didn’t have CCTV or an intercom, which was why
she’d insisted he call first. She wouldn’t unlock the door until
she heard his voice outside, and could check through the
fish-eye that he was alone.
'You look a little rough,’ he said right off the bat.
'Thanks.’ She’d done her best, rinsed the red from her eyes,
pinned back her hair, even put on make-up, but Jimmy knew
her.
He swept past her into the hall. She bolted the front door
behind him, then turned and saw him standing there, waiting
for her. She stumbled into his arms. 'God’m I glad to see
you, you have no idea.’
'Hey, hey, hey. Take it easy.’
She was shaking.
'You’re later than you said. We need to get going.’
'Get going? Where?’ He blinked at her. 'You mind telling
me what this is about? Has that scumbag been messing with
you again?’
Jimmy was never a big fan of Federico.
She pulled away from him, shaking her head. All she’d said
on the phone was that she was in trouble, she needed his
help. It was Jimmy all over that he hadn’t hesitated, and that
it took him damn near an hour to get here.
“There’s been a change of plan. I’m leaving today, I’m
booked on a five-forty train to Venice.’
'Whoa, girl, what about tonight. . . the party? You cannot not be there.’
'Just tell people … I dunno, tell 'em I got news from
home. I had to get back for a family funeral. You’ll think of
something.’
'Come on, Metcalf, you can do better than that. This is
me, Jimmy. What the fuck’s going on?’
Sam smiled and touched a hand to his face. She felt uneasy
about involving him.
She’d known Jimmy Macchado since they were at college
together. After graduating from South Bend, Indiana, they’d
lost contact for a while; then bumped into each other again
by chance in Florence – he’d just arrived to start a job at
the New York Film Academy on Via dei Pucci, teaching
cinematography – and renewed their old friendship. A year
ago he’d moved out to Fiesole, but they stayed close, getting
together or talking on the phone most days.
Jimmy was the one person in Florence she could trust.
'Look, I need you to take me to Santa Maria Novella. All
you have to do is make sure I get on the train.’
'You’re crazy. I’m not moving until you level with me.’
She chewed her lip, debating.
She turned and went in the living room, navigating a path
through the packing cases to the couch. He followed and
helped her clear a space so they could sit down together. She
took his hands, searching his eyes.
'You can’t talk to anyone about this … I mean it, Jimmy.’
He drew a finger and thumb across his lips. 'Zipped.’
'Remember Sophie, the English kid who was murdered?’
'How could I possibly forget?’
'I got a call yesterday from the man who killed her.’ Sam
waited for a reaction, but Jimmy just looked at her. 'He warned
me not to stir up the past.’
'What? Wait a minute, back up the truck.You know her killer?’
'Only