The Hotel Riviera(61)

“How long a wait?”

Jack could almost feel his shrug. “Three, six months.”

“Sold many lately?” Jack asked, feeling him out.

“Sold many? Hah, I wish, but my allocation was only two.”

“Sell any to foreigners?” Jack asked.

The Italian laughed and said, “Signore, there is no foreigner’s discount, if that’s what you are asking.”

“You know what,” Jack said, “I’ll be there tomorrow and you can show me what you have.”

“But I have only one, signore, and it is already sold.”

“So, I’ll order one like it,” Jack said, “and the name is Jack Farrar. Expect me tomorrow, in the afternoon.”

He finished his coffee, fed the rest of the croissant to Bad Dog, who was lounging under the table, walked back to the quai, and took the dinghy back to the sloop. Within half an hour, Bad Dog was in his life jacket and running excitedly back and forth on deck, barking, and Jack was chugging out of Lola’s cove, rigging his sails and heading west to Genoa.



Genoa is a big city that has grown along the coast, encompassing many of the old fishing towns and villages into its urban sprawl. It was not exactly where Jack wanted to be on a breezy sunny afternoon, but he moored the sloop and took the dinghy into the old port. Bad Dog panted next to him as they walked up the unprepossessing street in search of a taxi. It took a while, and when they did, the driver wasn’t too happy about having the dog in his cab, but consented for an extra few euros to let him ride along.

Muttering darkly in Italian, the driver wound through a series of narrow streets, into a busy area crowded with traffic. The fumes were killing and Jack thought longingly of the sea and the fresh wind behind him, sails billowing. He only hoped it wasn’t a wild-goose chase, but he had a gut feeling about this one, and he always trusted that. Or at least he had, until the gut feeling he had about Lola March and exactly what he felt about her.

Hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, in a blue T-shirt bleached gray by the sun and the salt water, wearing his comfortable old Tod’s, Jack tied Bad Dog to a convenient lamppost and strolled into the glossy premises of the automobile dealer. He got a couple of sharp looks from the young salesmen hanging about, who decided he didn’t warrant their efforts and left him alone. He headed for the manager’s office, pausing to admire a shiny black Fiat Barchetta en route, smiling at the young woman assistant, who looked at him twice and decided he was definitely worth the effort.

“Hi,” Jack said, “I’m looking for Signor Mosconi, he’s expecting me.”

“He is?” She gave him a dazzled look, then remembered to ask his name.

Signor Mosconi came bustling from his office, a middle-aged man in a pin-striped suit and polished wing tips, a thin mustache and rimless glasses.

“Signor Farrar,” he said, offering his hand. “Buona sera. But I’m afraid your visit is in vain. I warned you there are no Ducatis. The last one has gone. We must await our shipment, and those are already pre-ordered.”

He ushered Jack into his office, offered him a seat, an espresso, and a large brochure showing the Ducati motorcycles.

“So, what is the one that interests you?” he asked, struggling with his English.

“As a matter of fact, it’s this one here.” Jack pointed to the picture of the 748S. Then said, “Sell many of these lately?”

“Of course, signore, we sold two just a month ago. A magnificent machine, a magnifico design, and the power. Ahh, forget the Harley, there is nothing to match a Ducati.”

“Any chance one of the new owners might want to sell? At a substantial profit, of course?”

Signor Mosconi assessed him in a quick up-and-down glance. “You are talking a great deal of money, Signor Farrar.”

Jack nodded conspiratorially. “I guess so. But a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do to get a Ducati these days. And with a little help from you, Signor Mosconi, I can guarantee I’m a very generous man.”

The Italian sat silently for a moment, thinking, then he got to his feet. “Why don’t we discuss this over an aperitivo, Signor Farrar,” he suggested. “There is a very nice bar not too far from here.”



Two hours later, Jack and the mutt were back on board the sloop, munching on a slab of still-hot-from-the-oven focaccia sprinkled with salt and olive oil, a local specialty picked up in a pizza joint in the greasy-spoon quarter near the docks. The wind had dropped and Jack started up the engine and headed out to sea, then, hugging the coast, headed west to the dowager queen of the Ligurian resorts. San Remo.

In his pocket was the name of the Ducati owner, Cosmo March, and the address of the Hotel Rossi.





Chapter 58




Lola

I’ve been here three weeks and I’m only just getting used to (a) the weather, (b) more weather, and (c) the Englishness of it all. I just love it, apart from the weather that is, and apart from the fact that I’m missing Jack Farrar more than any woman has a right to, especially since he is definitely not in my future.

He’d given me his phone number, but of course I haven’t called him. To say what? I ask myself when I’m tempted. Hi, how are you? How’re things? I miss you. No, if there were important news Jack would call me. Meanwhile, I guessed he was checking out the Ducatis, plus getting on with his own life, back and forth to the U.S Maybe there was even a new Sugar around by now.