Incident at Lucca (standard:drama, 2761 words)
Author: Charles Rudolph	Added: Jan 08 2004	Views/Reads: 3407/2823	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Mike Crossetti, returning to Lucca,Italy,for the first time since his wife's death,confronts Italian crime. The story can be emblematic of current relations between the USA and Europe.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


They shook hands and Mike pointed to the empty chair beside him. “Have a
beer with me.” 

“Thanks.” Sullivan sat down. 

“What year was that?” Mike asked, signaling the waiter. “Due Amstels,
per favore.” 

“1960. You knocked us out of the tournament. You’d been killing my
fastballs and I thought I’d fool you with a changeup. But you caught it 
at the end of the bat and plunked it just over the first baseman’s 
head. The ball game.” Sullivan chuckled. “I thought you were headed for 
the big leagues. You were nervous as hell at the plate – like 
Garciaperra, and you hit line drives like him.” 

“I tried it for a year,” Mike said, “but I didn’t like the buses and
those hot, red-necked towns. So I went back to New Jersey and got a job 
selling insurance. Still at it – sort of.” 

“Sounds like semi-retirement.” 

“Yeah. My sons are taking over. We built a nice little insurance and
real estate business over the years. They’re easing me out.” Mike 
shrugged. “But that’s okay. They’re good boys. So now it’s lots of 
golf.” 

The bottles of Amstel arrived, cold and wet. 

“Crossetti. Wasn’t there a Yankee shortstop ...?” 

“Yes. Frankie. Great fielder but light on the hitting.  Played in the
Thirties. No relative.” Mike caught the movement again on his right, a 
figure darting from the arcade into the little alley. “He wasn’t as 
good as Garciaperra – or Jeter. Today’s shortstops are the best crop 
ever.” 

Sullivan nodded. “And Rodriguez is better than both of them, probably
the best player in baseball today. But he’ll die in Texas, the same way 
Willie Mays died in San Francisco. Great players need great teams.” 

“But Rodriguez will die a very rich man.” 

“With little in the record books and no place in  baseball history. If
Willie had stayed in New York, he’d have been another Babe Ruth.” 

“Willie was really something,” Mike agreed. “Maybe the greatest. He
could do it all. I used to take the boys to Shea when the Giants came 
in just to see Willie Mays. But they never took to the game the way I 
did when I was a kid. They liked soccer and swimming – faster sports. 
And they were both on state championship teams. So I drifted away from 
baseball.” Mike smiled. “But I still hold a golf club like a baseball 
bat.” 

“No golf courses in Lucca, I would imagine,” Sullivan said. “What brings
you here?” 

“My wife loved this place. We’d always stop here on our way north to
Conegliano. Know that town?” 

Sullivan shook his head no. 

“Beautiful little place north of Venice near the Dolemites. I still have
relatives there. Driving up that way tomorrow.” 

“Your wife?” 

“Died two years ago.” Mike reached for his glass and took a  swallow.
After a silence, he asked, “Your first time in Lucca?” 

“Yes. I’m with our church delegation at a conference here.” 

Mike masked his indifference. Born Catholic, he had long ago left the
church, accepting Marge’s quiet humanism. They became comfortable 
agnostics, deciding to impose no dogmas upon the boys. And it had 
worked. Marge died peacefully. 

“I’ve become a kind of deacon in our church,” Sullivan said. “One of the
new religions taking hold across North America – and the world. That’s 
why we’re having our third international conference. The last one was 
in South Korea.” 

“Taking on the Moonies?” 

“Taking on no one – and anybody.” 

Mike thought he might as well ask. “So what’s this new religion all
about?” 

Sullivan lifted his eyebrows.  “It takes Christianity into the
twenty-first century – very unorthodox, very informal. Lots of 
spontaneous response, lots of togetherness and community. And no 
hierarchy. Our services connect people with the holy spirit. We’re very 
evangelical I guess, but in the right way.” 

“No hocus-pocus?” 

“I wouldn’t call it that.” 

Mike’s peripheral vision pulled again to his right – the same darting
action in the dark corner of the piazza. 

“There was a terrible void in my life,” Sullivan  said. “Then, of all
places, I happened upon this service in the Toronto airport. The 
movement had started there in the eighties. And it has really helped me 
– saved me actually – so I’ve become deeply active. That’s why I’m 
here.”  He stared at Mike. “Are you interested?” 

“Not really.” 

Sullivan held his stare. 

“Don’t look at me like I’m a heathen,” Mike said. 

“You probably are.” 

“Probably.” 

“You have no beliefs?” 

Mike laughed. “Of course I do. I believe in my seven-iron around the
green. My videotape of ‘Casablanca.’ Rudy Guiliani. My sons. And the 
lasagna verde, ossa bucca, and chianti I’m going to have tonight.” 

“You know there’s more than that.” 

“Probably. Hey, let’s get back to baseball.” Mike paused. “Nothing like
a nice summer night at the ballpark. I like the slowness – the languid 
evening. Baseball games take their own pace, never racing against the 
clock.” 

This time Mike saw it happen. In an instant a thin figure in dark
clothes flicked his hand at the backpocket of passing bluejeans, 
slipping then  into the alley and into a door. “Jesus! Did you see 
that!” 

“See what?” 

“A pickpocket lurking in the shadows over there at the corner of the
arcades by that little alley. He’s made at least three hits since I’ve 
been sitting here. Goes for backpockets. God, keeping wallets in the 
backpockets of jeans is asking for trouble. After the hit, he tucks 
away into the alley and into a door. The bastard ...” 

Sullivan gazed vaguely towards the corner of the piazza.” They say that
Italy is full of pickpockets. They warn you.” 

Mike was staring hard at the shadowed area, his jaw tight. “Let’s nail
him the next time.” 

Sullivan glanced at his watch. “We have an evening session that I should
be getting back for.” 

Mike was still staring at the corner. “They got me once in Rome at the
DaVinci airport. I was wearing jeans and the wallet was hanging halfway 
out my backpocket begging to be lifted. Boy, did I learn! Now I travel 
in these Tilley pants with the wallet and passport deep down in the 
front pockets. Jesus, I’d like to get even and really nail this guy.” 

“No use looking for trouble,” Sullivan said. “There’s so much crime in
the world, you find it anywhere.” 

Mike turned back to Sullivan wondering how the guy could reconcile this
cynicism with his avid new religion. “So you would do nothing? I mean  
we’re watching this bastard stealing people’s wallets.” 

“Not nothing, but something else. Crime, you know, is a matter of the
heart. We should give criminals love and a chance to change their 
lives. We want people to know we care.” 

“Nice thoughts...” 

“Some writer once said that if you give to a thief, then he is no longer
a thief.” Sullivan’s smile assumed victory in the argument. 

Mike studied him, feeling both annoyance and sympathy. The man was a
fool. “Tell me then, how do you apply that philosophy to groups of 
thieves – say the mafia?” 

Sullivan seemed surprised by the question, finally responding, “I
suppose it’s the same. Violence only provokes more violence – something 
I learned in Vietnam. All that killing changed me. I began studying 
Ghandi and Martin Luther King. Violence solves nothing.” 

Glancing away, Mike caught the nimble figure again flashing in the
shadows. “There he goes!” Springing forward, Mike tipped the corner of 
the table. “Let’s get him!” 

The figure, hearing Mike’s commotion, slipped back towards the alley,
hesitated, tossing the wallet back across the marble walkway. Mike 
pounced upon him from behind with a big bearhug, his superior strength 
easily containing the kicking and squirming of the smaller man. 

“He took your wallet!” Mike yelled to a youth in a group ahead. 

The thin squirming figure, whose face Mike could not see, struggled
vainly, kicking his heels back at Mike’s shins as Mike maneuvered 
towards the wallet, kicking it across to its owner, a young Italian man 
with a white open shirt and a large silver cross hanging against his 
bare chest. 

“Grab it!” Mike yelled. 

The young man picked it up as his friends watched the action, none
coming forth to help Mike who continued holding the thief in a 
tightening bearhug, making him squeal with pain. 

Two carabinieri appeared in dark blue tunics with red and white stripes
on the collar and white shoulder bands, the larger officer seizing the 
thief from Mike, grasping his arm, allowing Mike to see the dark, angry 
face. The smaller officer, with open hands against Mike’s chest, began 
pushing Mike aside. Holding the thief, the larger officer called in 
Italian to the victim who,  smiling, held the wallet upside down, 
emptying it, showing it contained nothing. They exchanged more Italian 
that Mike couldn’t understand until the victim and his friends, all 
laughing, moved off down the arcade. 

The big officer, a man with bright eyes and a well-trimmed black
mustache, dragged the thief by the arm into the alley, yelled at him, 
then  pushed him away. 

Gaining his balance, the thief raced wildly down the alley, knocking a
woman aside. 

“What’s going on here?” Mike yelled. 

The big officer came over, signaling with his hand for Mike to lower his
voice. “Are you all right?” His English was good. 

“I’m fine. But what about that guy you just let go? He’s been picking
pockets here like crazy. Why didn’t you arrest him?” 

“Please be quiet, I will explain.” 

Mike steadied himself with a deep breath. 

“The man who owned the wallet will not help us.” The officer, taller
than Mike, stroked his neat mustache with his middle finger. “He said 
he had no money in it, so the joke was on the thief.” 

“But I saw the pickpocket take the wallet.” 

“No matter. You are not the victim. Only victims can report a crime.” 

“So he goes free to do it again?” 

“He knows we watch him.” Again the middle finger across the mustache.
“He is from Albania. If we catch him – with a report – we will send him 
out of Italia.  Too many Albanians here. They make trouble.” 

Mike closed his eyes, still trying to regain composure, telling himself
that this whole thing was so damned stupid. 

“I advise you, sir, not to become a police person. We take care of the
thieves.” The officer had a stern expression. “Where do you go now?” 

“Back to finish my beer.” 

“I do not advise that.” 

“Why?” 

“The thief might return with friends to harm you. You should go back to
your hotel.” 

“Goddammit no. I’m going back to my table to finish my beer. Let them
come.” 

“I would not advise that.” More stroking of the mustache. 

“Look, am I free now?” 

Mike looked hard at the two carabinieri. “Don’t you even thank me for
stopping the thief?” 

“Yes, you have courage. But not again.” 

Puzzled, Mike shook his head and then made his way back into the piazza
towards his table, looking for Sullivan. 

No Sullivan. The table was now occupied by a man and woman already with
drinks. Mike’s beer and newspaper were gone. Looking around, he noticed 
the stares of patrons at other tables as the waiter approached him with 
the bill. Paying it, Mike decided he might as well go back to the hotel 
and try to forget the whole thing. 

In his darkened room, Mike tried to nap, but the incident kept jumping
around his head. They all thought he’d made an ass of himself. Maybe he 
had. But was he really wrong? That Italian cop was like something out 
of a comic opera. If you don’t stop crime where and when it starts, it 
just grows. Guiliani proved that in New York. You just can’t allow 
these things to happen. Europe was beautiful, but way past its prime. 
Much too soft. And that little pickpocket bastard is probably putting 
his sticky little fingers into somebody else’s jeans right now. Why 
can’t the damned Europeans get anything right? 

What a stupid incident. He covered his face with his hands. Oh God how
he missed Marge. If she were here, she would have prevented it. 

He sat up and gazed around the room – at the heavy, half-drawn drapes,
the gold crown molding atop the walls, the dark red wallpaper with pink 
flying angels. Then he thought about the chianti and the ossa bucca, 
felt a little better, and decided to take his shower. 

Standing under the good hot downpour, he had to smile.  Italy – land of
his ancestors – what a crazy goddam country.  Maybe that was why he 
liked it so much, though he really couldn’t tell himself he loved it.  
Anyway, tomorrow he’d be off for Conigliano. 


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