Pronto by Elmore Leonard Page A

come more than anything, and it was true as he said it. Right now what he wanted more than anything was a drink, a Scotch over ice. It was that time of day and he was far enough from home that it would be safe here. He wouldn't be drinking and talking, telling stories -- the way he had most often gotten in trouble in the past, overdoing it -- there wasn't anyone he could hold a conversation with here and not sound as though he was explaining a joke.
    He had imagined himself strolling in the evening along the seafront promenade, the lungomare, where Ezra Pound had strolled more than a half century ago and again a few years before he died, and where Harry had actually watched him stroll in '67. Pound with his style, his cane, his black hat with the wide brim that was like no other hat, the long points of his shirt collar outside his black overcoat. Harry would imagine Ezra Pound returning from his stroll to have a drink with his mistress at the Gran Caffe. Harry had seen Olga Rudge also in '67, gray-haired, but still a knockout. Most people would probably consider his wife, Dorothy, better looking. Maybe, but in one photograph she appeared pigeon-toed and to Harry that indicated a tight-assed personality, little or no sense of humor. He was convinced Olga would have been more fun, or else why get involved in that kind of situation?
    He had never thought of Joyce as his mistress, but now liked the idea as he explored ways of getting her here without being followed.
    He could call his travel agent, charge Joyce's fare to his account. It seemed the likeliest way. Work out a few details....
    There were North Africans here from Tunis, Benghazi, from places in Algeria, who were called "wannabuys" in English and something else in Italian. They sold cheap watches and jewelry on the walk along the seafront: laid out their goods on blankets and called in low voices what sounded like "Wannabuy?" and waited for the people strolling past to notice them.
    Harry stood looking out at the bay, at power boats skimming past the sixteenth-century castle that sat out past the seawall; it was connected to the shore by a concrete ramp, like a driveway, and was much smaller than Harry had imagined castles would be. Four-thirty Sunday afternoon there were only a few people on the beach, some old men playing boccie ball. Harry had taken his blazer off and wore it draped over his shoulders now without putting his arms in the sleeves. He believed he might be taken for a real Italian. Lately he'd been thinking he might have to learn the language.
    About ten feet from him one of the North Africans had unrolled a straw mat and was now laying out a display of umbrellas, the collapsible kind in a variety of dark colors. The black guy paused, bringing the umbrellas out of a plastic trash bag, looked this way, and Harry felt himself being sized up, judged, the guy about to spring some Mediterranean con on him. The man was slim, his T-shirt hanging loose on his body; he wore a mustache, a tuft of beard under his lower lip, rings and a gold earring, sandals, a pleasant-looking guy actually, smiling now. He said in English:
    "I'm not going to sell you an umbrella today, am I? You made up your mind you not going to need one."
    With an accent that was Caribbean, British colonial.
    Harry said, "Where're you supposed to be from, the Bahamas, Jamaica, or Tunisia?"
    The guy said, "You caught me, huh?" Now in American English without the hint of an accent. "I can get away with it talking to Italians, they don't detect the, you know, the nuances. I should've known, man like you would pick up on it."
    "I still don't need an umbrella," Harry said. "Day like this, why would anybody want to buy one?"
    "It's the way I look up at the sky. See?" He raised his gaze as Harry watched. "Like I know something from my native intelligence, in my genes, I can tell when it's going to rain."
    "Being, they think you're from North Africa, the Sahara, and know all about rain."
    "They don't put