Night Trap. Gordon Kent

Okay?”

      The waiter spat some more words, of which Bonner understood “espresso.”

      “Sure espresso, fine, molto benny. And some sugar-o, okay?”

      Surprisingly, it came with two packets of sugar, and it was very good. The waiter had decided to dazzle him with service. He even brought the international Herald-Tribune. It was yesterday’s, but what the hell? The news was just like home—bullshit. Bush was doing this, the Democrats were doing that, the economy was up or down or sideways; what the hell?

      Bonner sat there for more than half an hour. He read the newspaper a little, but mostly he sat there with his hands folded over his belly, looking around the Galleria. There were several floors to it, and each one had a kind of arcade and places for people to look down to the vast floor where he sat. They had something interesting to look at, he thought—a few people coming in one entrance and going out another, using the Galleria like a street; him, sitting there, obviously an American; more people drifting in and taking tables, morning break time. The Italians, he thought, spent most of their lives on breaks; no wonder they were broke.

      At nine minutes after eleven, he crossed the floor and went out a different entrance, as he was supposed to do. There was a payphone. It rang.

      “Across the street from you will be a taxi with flame painted on the hood. Get into it.”

      And there it was.

      And he did as he was told, cursing them for making him do it.

      She sighed. “See Naples and die.”

      “Jesus Christ!” Alan blew out his breath. “Wow.”

      She held him tighter. “I love you so much.”

      They lay silently together, timeless. “Say you love me,” she said. He whispered it into her hair. “You need practice,” she said. He could tell she was smiling. He raised his head and looked down at her. “It’s true,” he said. “I find it hard to say.”

      “It gets easier with time.” She was still smiling. She kissed him. “Let’s just stay in bed all week and when we’re starved we’ll tell them to bring us champagne.”

      “Not all week, Kim.” He hadn’t told her yet. He had thought there would be a good moment. “I’ve got to report to the boat day after tomorrow.”

      “No, you don’t.” Something steely, also new, sounded in her voice.

      “Yeah, I do. There’ll be a plane at Capodichino to take me. See, they started their liberty three days ago, while I was—”

      “Well, you’ll just have to be real sick. Or tell them you’re doing charity work with an American woman who’ll die otherwise.”

      He laughed. “Right! Compassionate leave. No, the Navy’s understanding, but not that understanding.”

      “I won’t let you go.”

      “Sweetie, they cut a set of orders for me. I have to get back to my own ship.” He kissed her. “Be good. Please.”

      “I hate the Navy.” A tear trickled down from the corner of her right eye. “No, don’t—” She avoided another kiss and twisted aside under him, escaped and ran to the bathroom for a tissue, with which she started to dab her eyes.

      Naked, Kimberley Hoyt looked as if she had been put together from male fantasies. She was very large where men wanted size, very small where she was supposed to be small. She had honey-amber hair that she wore long, and it blazed around her face like a sunburst. She was, in fact, the very woman most of the men of the carrier hoped to meet in Naples, and only Alan would.

      He rolled over on his back. “Let’s have a great day together,” he said. “Kim? Okay?”

      She burst into tears.

      He went to her and they clung together, naked. When she was quiet, she said into his shoulder, “I think I don’t know you very well. It scares me, you going away and going away—I thought we’d have—time—”

      “I have to.”

      “Why? Why?” She flung her head back and stared at him. “Is it your father?”

      “I signed on. I’m committed.”

      She put a hand on his bare chest and began to move it back and forth, back and forth. She looked at the place as if she would learn something there. “I want you committed to me,” she said.

      The taxi driver said nothing the whole trip, which wound around Naples in an apparently incoherent way, first up toward the Vomero, then down again, then well out toward Mergellina, then back. Bonner did not try to make sense of it. He supposed they were being followed to make sure that Bonner hadn’t brought a tag from the ship. He could have told them he hadn’t. He’d checked. He supposed the taxi driver was one of them, and that if Bonner didn’t check out he’d turn and he would have a silenced nine-millimeter and he’d go pfft! with it right into Bonner’s chest.

      Oddly, most of what Bonner thought he knew about this business he had got from movies. If he’d known that the taxi driver was really only a taxi driver, he’d have been deeply confused.

      Finally, the driver turned back up toward the Vomero, and, halfway up, pulled over to the side and motioned for Bonner to get out. It was a road, not a street; there was a weedy verge and some trash, but nothing close by like a house or a café. Bonner got out and stood there. He was going to ask if he was supposed to pay, when the driver reached back and slammed his door and drove off.

      Bonner found himself on a curve, from which he could look down over the rooftops and terraces of several apartment buildings. The other way, across the road, there was a wall, and, above it and set well back, more apartments. It was an isolated place in the midst of the city. He looked down the road and saw nothing; glancing up, he saw, where the road curved out of sight, a small bulge of green and a bench.

      “That’s it,” he muttered aloud. He began to trudge toward it. The sun was brutal. Bonner did not like this uphill walking in the heat. His anger bubbled up again like heartburn, and he told himself again that he’d really let them have it for calling him in again so soon. They’d had a deal! Well, he’d give them an earful. He rehearsed the sullen speech he had been making up during the long taxi ride.

      The sounds of the city came up to him—motorcycles, horns, a couple of women shouting. The view opened wider as he walked; he could see the palace, the Castel’ dell’ Uovo, then the bay and the carrier riding out there at anchor. A civilian ferry was tied up next to it, taking on more liberty personnel. It looked like a toy next to the ship.

      He walked on, sweating, hating this part of it, which always upset him and made his gut surge. He’d have a bad night, he was sure, up all the time with the crud. Nerves. He was breathing heavily, too, from the climb. At last he came to the bench, and he stood there, and up ahead about fifty yards he saw a car pulled over. The door opened and a man got out.

      Bonner sat on the bench. There was a green metal railing around the little grassy bulge in the road. It was a wonderful viewpoint. He could see the carrier, Vesuvius, the castle, half the city, rolled out from his feet like a figured carpet. It was a great vantage point. But frankly, Bonner wouldn’t give you the sweat off one ball for the greatest vantage point in the world.

      He turned and looked at the man. He didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Carl!” he muttered.

      “A long time, Sheldon.” The man sat down on the bench. He was small, nondescript wore glasses that were only glasses and had no style. He was the only man in the world who called him “Sheldon.” His courtesy seemed based on a respect that was, itself, almost more valuable to Bonner than money. No one called him “Sheldon.”

      “I didn’t know it would be you, Carl.” Already, he was apologizing, nervous; they always managed to do this to him, even though they must have