Playing for Pizza by John Grisham Page B

exhaust pipe. It arrived in long bursts, and since Rick had never heard it before, he at first had no idea what it meant, or where it was coming from. Things were foggy anyway. After the marathon at Montana’s, he and Sam, for reasons that were not clear then or now, had stopped at a pub for a couple of beers. Rick vaguely remembered entering his apartment around midnight, but from then on, nothing.
    He was on his sofa, which was too short for a man his size to comfortably sleep on, and as he listened to the mysterious buzzer, he tried to remember why he had chosen the den instead of the bedroom. He could not recall a good reason.
    “All right!” he yelled at the door when the knocking began. “I’m coming.”
    He was barefoot, but wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He studied his brown toes for a long time and contemplated his spinning head. Another screech from the buzzer. “All right!” he yelled again. Unsteady, he walked to the door and yanked it open.
    He was met with a pleasant “Buongiorno” from ashort, stocky man with an enormous gray mustache and rumpled brown trench coat. Beside him was a smartly uniformed young policeman who nodded his greetings but said nothing.
    “Good morning,” Rick said with as much respect as he could muster.
    “Signor Dockery?”
    “Yes.”
    “I am police.” From somewhere deep in the trench coat he produced documentation, waved it under Rick’s nose, then returned it to its hiding place with a move so casual the message was “Don’t ask any questions.” It could’ve been a parking ticket or a receipt from the cleaners.
    “Signor Romo, Parma police,” he said through the mustache, though it barely moved.
    Rick looked at Romo, then at the cop in the uniform, then back at Romo. “Okay,” he managed to say.
    “We have complaints. You must come with us.”
    Rick grimaced and tried to say something, but a thick wave of nausea rumbled down low, and he thought about bolting. It passed. His palms were sweaty, his knees rubbery. “Complaints?” he said in disbelief.
    “Yes.” Romo nodded gravely, as if he had already made up his mind and Rick was guilty of something far worse than whatever the complaint was. “Come with us.”
    “Uh, to where?”
    “Come with us. Now.”
    Complaints? The pub had been virtually emptylast night, and he and Sam, to the best of his memory, had spoken to no one but the bartender. Over beers, they had talked football and nothing else. Pleasant conversation, no cursing or fighting with the other drinkers. The walk through the old town to his apartment had been thoroughly uneventful. Perhaps the avalanche of pasta and wine had made him snore too loudly, but that couldn’t be a crime, could it?
    “Who complained?” Rick asked.
    “The judge will explain. We must go. Please, your shoes.”
    “Are you arresting me?”
    “No, maybe later. Let’s go. The judge is waiting.” For effect, Romo turned and rattled some serious Italian at the young cop, who managed to deepen his frown and shake his head as if things could not possibly be worse.
    They obviously weren’t leaving without Signor Dockery. The nearest shoes were the maroon loafers, which he found in the kitchen, and as he put them on and looked for a jacket, he told himself it had to be a misunderstanding. He quickly brushed his teeth and tried to gargle away the layers of garlic and stale wine. One look in the small mirror was enough; he certainly looked guilty of something. Red puffy eyes, three days’ growth, wild hair. He tousled his hair, to no effect, then grabbed his wallet, U.S. cash, apartment key, and cell phone. Maybe he should call Sam.
    Romo and his assistant were waiting patiently in the hallway, both smoking, neither with handcuffs. They also seemed to lack any real desire to catch criminals.
    Romo had watched too many detective shows, and every movement was bored and rehearsed. He nodded down the hall and said, “I follow.” He dropped the cigarette in a hall ashtray,