White Shotgun Read Online Free PDF Page B

centuries. Instead of killing one another, they have a race. It’s the most dangerous, fastest horse race in the world. Ninety seconds, that’s it, in the middle of town, on a track with mattresses stuck in the corners. The jockeys ride bareback and do anything to win—make deals, shove one another off the horse. The whips are made of the skins of calf penises. It’s so crazy Italian.”
    “Calf penises?”
    “They use them to whack the hell out of each other. It’s a blood sport. Someone always gets hurt. God forbid the horse. The horse eats at the table. I kid you not. They have outdoor dinners, and the horse eats at the table . Kind of like Thanksgiving at my in-laws’ house,” he muses, screwing in an ear pod as the phone rings with my alleged new family member on the line.
    “Oh, Ana!” exclaims Cecilia Nicosa when I’ve picked up and identified myself. “How beautiful to hear from you! I was hoping I would, but I was never certain that you got my letters.”
    Her accent would be hard to place. Latin, but not quite.
    “I was on vacation in London when I got the call from Los Angeles that you were looking for me,” I say, maintaining eye contact with Dennis.
    “Where are you now?” she asks.
    “At the FBI office in Rome.”
    “Rome! That is just two hours from us!” she says, and immediately invites me to come and stay with her husband and their teenage son, Giovanni, in their “little house on a hill.” Dennis gives the thumbs-up. We settle on a train the following day.
    “A car will take you back to your hotel,” he says, “and drop you off tomorrow at Stazione Termini. Look for Caffè Nicosa, smack in the middle of the station. Get the prosciutto, goat cheese, and arugula panino . Trust me.”
    Despite the frigid air-conditioning, there are sweat stains under his arms. Had the interview been that stressful?
    “I trust you,” I say with a hollow laugh.
    “We should be in good shape in Siena. No worries; I work closely with the locals. I’ll be checking in.”
    He hands over a bound report issued by the U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation. “For Trusted Agents Only. PROFILE: NICOLI NICOSA. ”
    “Reading material for the train.”
    “How long have you been keeping files on my relatives?” I ask lightly.
    Dennis lays a big hand on my shoulder. “The city never sleeps.”

FOUR
    At Stazione Termini the next day, an impatient crowd is staring at a board where all the departure signs are rolling over to say, “Soppresso.” Nearby, a group of exhausted teenagers lies in a pile on top of their rucksacks in the middle of the floor. I ask what’s going on.
    “It is a train strike,” replies a girl with a Persian accent. “We’ve been waiting all night.”
    Everybody in Rome seems to know the trains aren’t running, except the FBI’s legal attaché. I wonder why this is. Has Dennis Rizzio been prisoner of the mock Bureau office so long he has forgotten that we are actually in Italy?
    At least Caffè Nicosa is where he said it would be, a deftly lit island of elegance in the center of the hall. Brick dividers, aluminum moldings punched out with playful circles. Starbucks, it is not. Enviable customers are picking at tiny balls of mozzarella in nice white bowls. Floating like a golden leaf in a sea of sweaty, pissed-off commuters, Caffè Nicosa beckons you to come in and be civilized. I am dying to sit down with a cold glass of Pinot Grigio and bask in the irony of reading the FBI file on its owner, Mr. Nicosa, but every table is occupied and there’s a long line.
    Slowly I come to understand that the only way to get to Siena in the foreseeable future is by bus. I text Cecilia the change in plans and haul my suitcase outside, where the devilish cobblestones break a wheel. The heat is laughable; the hot winds must blow directly from Algeria, because my face has dried out like a date. When I shout, “Stazione d’autobus?” over the car horns and swirling grit, a