Sci walked over to the bar and was greeted by a sour-faced bartender.
“Sì?”
“Beer,” he replied. “Peroni.”
The bartender nodded and grabbed a bottle from the fridge, which he served without a glass.
“Grazie,”Sci said.
The bartender asked for five euros, which Sci paid, surreptitiously slipping an audio device under the lip of the counter as he handed over the note.
As the fight outside took people’s attention, Sci carried his drink and moved to a booth in the middle of the bar. He slid across the bench seat and placed a bug under the table.
He sat silently drinking his beer for a while before going to the rear of the bar and placing audio-visual devices in the men’s room, corridor, and outside the kitchen.
Satisfied with his work, Sci returned to the main saloon andhis booth only to find a man waiting for him there. He had short gray-flecked hair, evil eyes, a scarred face, and a broken nose. Sci recognized him as Milan Verde.
“I’ve not seen you here before,” the man said. “And I know everyone.”
“I’m visiting Rome and I read about how great this place is for bikers,” Sci replied.
Milan sneered. “Tourist? That’s nice. But this isn’t really a place for out-of-town visitors.”
Sci looked around. “Seems nice enough to me.”
Milan pursed his lips before breaking into a thin smile. “I’m going to need to see what’s in your bag.”
Sci remained impassive.
“New faces are rare in here,” Milan continued. “You understand.”
Sci slung the old leather satchel off his shoulder and pushed it across the table.
“My girl left me a couple of months back. I forgot her birthday,” he said. “I’m getting back on two wheels and into the scene again after years of being with someone who hated bikes, but if that’s not something I’m allowed to do here, you just let me know.”
Milan opened the bag and peered inside. He frowned and pulled out a bottle of peach schnapps and a Rome guidebook. Sci hoped he didn’t delve any deeper and discover the secret compartment beneath the false bottom, where the AV devices were hidden.
“Schnapps?” Milan scoffed.
“My girl switched me onto it,” Sci said. He believed cover stories had to have an absurd quality to feel authentic, reflect the absurdity of life. “It’s the only good thing she left me with.”
Milan returned the bottle and book to the bag. “What do you ride?”
“A Fat Boy, but I have half a dozen other bikes, including an original 1941 Indian Scout.”
Milan whistled. “Nice bike.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Milan stared at Sci, holding his gaze with eyes that exuded darkness. Finally, he spoke.
“You can come here whenever you’re in Rome.”
Sci drained his beer.
“Thanks. It’s been fun,” he said, standing. “You run a tight place here.”
He felt Milan’s eyes burning into his back as he walked toward the exit, eager to leave before he did or said something that renewed the man’s suspicions.
