And speaking of, the same pair of “tourists”
(fanny pack and I ♥ ROME T-shirt? this is what happens when the bad guys watch too many movies)
were coming up on them for the third time.
Delaney got to her feet, and Rake was so busy glugging his fourth fizzy water that it took him a few seconds to notice. She cleared her throat with a delicate bark. “So g’bye, then.”
“Wait!”
Delaney, already leaving, turned back and raised her eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“You can’t just—” He made an all-encompassing gesture that indicated the table, the restaurant, the child, the city of Venice, the country of Italy, the planet of Earth. “Y’know. Leave me in the middle of all this.”
“Don’t worry,” Lillith said. “I have money.”
She figured she had another forty seconds before Frick and Frack were on them, and gave him her card. “I’m at the Best Western Olimpia if you want to get a drink sometime. They make a terrific Negroni,” she teased.
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” To Lillith, who was the way she always was, calm and quiet and noticing everything while the adults talked over her. And who had probably deduced Delaney’s sudden need to depart. “So you two are all set. Gotta go.”
“Thanks for helping me,” she replied. She put a small hand on Rake’s. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Good to know.” She left, and this time he didn’t call her back, which was just as well, because she was about to have her hands full.
Nine
He definitely didn’t watch Delaney hurry away until he couldn’t see her anymore. Well, maybe he did, but it didn’t mean anything. He had to look somewhere, right? While he figured out his next move? He didn’t want to freak out the kid. And staring after the shapely weirdo who walked into his life, wove a tale of vermouth-fueled shenanigans, dropped a child in his lap, then trotted out (almost sprinted out, TBH) was something to do while he pondered.
But! To business. First things first, he’d check his phone. Call his bank, have them wire money, and maybe FedEx new credit cards. He’d promise a four-figure check to whoever could get funds to him the quickest. Then he’d—
He’d—
No. No-no-no.
No.
“Fuck!” he roared, then felt himself flush as Lillith jumped. “Sorry. I’m not that guy. Well, maybe sometimes.”
“Lost your phone?”
“Are you a witch?” he asked with honest curiosity. “That’s totally fine, by the way. I’m just curious.”
Lillith giggled, dark eyes squinching almost shut in her mirth. They were her most noticeable feature, followed by her short, straight black hair, the bangs cut ruler-straight just above dark brows, with dark blue streaks running through the strands. She was pale and slender except for the swell of her tiny tummy beneath the yellow T-shirt (I’M MY OWN SAFE SPACE!). The same message was on her backpack, and blue jeans and battered sneakers completed the look. “No,” she replied. “Not a witch.”
“Then how’d you know?”
“You’re lost in a strange city with no money and no wallet, which you already knew. What else would you freak out over so hard?”
Witch or not, she’d put her finger on the problem: He’d lost his phone. No. That wasn’t right. He knew where it was: the bottom of the Grand Canal. He’d had it on him from the moment he slipped it back into his shorts. And it would have taken some real flailing to dislodge it from the secure side pockets designed by the good people at—Cargo? Was that the name of the company, or just what they called pants and shorts with those nifty side pockets that, normally, cradled his belongings (and his balls) in secure comfort?
Focus, moron.
His bitchy Blake inner voice was right. No time to get distracted (again). It wasn’t difficult to figure out where he’d lost the thing. But that was a big, big problem. His life was in that phone, now marinating in the canal. His numbers. Everyone else’s numbers. Account stuff. All his passwords. His Deadspin app. Not to mention the means to contact—who? The Italian version of Social Services? Did he call the cops and report … what, exactly? How to get rid of this kid, who definitely wasn’t his? He hadn’t the vaguest idea how to begin.
Fine. Fucking fine. He’d find a café or a library, somewhere with free Wi-Fi, and he’d access his bank that way. They could still move money for him. Amex could still FedEx a new card; he’d be a real person again by 10:00 A.M. local time tomorrow.
Where are you going to sleep tonight? Correction: Where are the two of you going to sleep tonight?
He’d worry about that later. First things first: stealing Wi-Fi. He had to find a place that would (a) let him in so he could (b) borrow someone’s phone or laptop in order to (c) use their free Wi-Fi. All this without (d) buying anything, or (e) showing ID. He could eliminate every hotel right off the bat. Oh, and it had to be somewhere close, because he had no money for a vaporetto. Which was too bad, because he loved the vaporettos.
And he had to do it all with a kid in tow.
Normally, none of that would be a problem. Well, maybe the last part. But even then, not much of one: Rake was a vain realist. But normally he didn’t start his day by taking a bath in a toilet.
Several humiliating rejections later (Who knew the word ew translated into so many languages?), the kid stepped up, grabbed his hand, and put those big dark Matchbook Girl eyes to work. My daddy and I are lost, his phone was stolen, they threw him in the canal, can we please use your phone to call for help?
Damn. She was good. Worked on the second guy she tried it on, and—
Wait. That was Italian. Had she been speaking Italian the entire time and he’d only now noticed? The question must have showed on his face, because Lillith replied, “We’re in Italy. What else would I speak?”
“But … you’re not…”
“No, I’m a ’Merican.” She paused, then added helpfully, “I was born in Las Vegas. Then we moved to Colorado. But Mama talked Italian to me as much as English; her mama came from Sicily.”
“Hey, I was born in Las— Grazie,” he said fervently, clutching the proffered phone.
The person who lent him his was, ironically, still a kid himself. The dark-skinned teen, who could have been central casting’s dream Roma Gypsy but for the blue eyes, was probably a pickpocket—he kept a wary eye fixed for cops—and Rake most certainly wasn’t going to judge. Neither was Lillith, who thanked him prettily and got an amused “Sei la benvenuta, sorellina”* in response.
He nearly fell on the teenager’s neck and wept with gratitude, but contented himself with taking the phone and logging in to his bank’s site, which took a hundred times longer than usual without his apps. You’re putting your name and password into a stranger’s phone, moron. Yes. He was. Whatever. He’d move everything but a thousand bucks, fuck it, let the kid take it. He’d never miss it.
Except.
“Fuck!”
The kid laughed at him. Rake supposed he couldn’t blame him. If it had been happening to someone else, he probably would have laughed, too. Or at least giggled.