John Grisham - 2007 - Playing for Pizza.pdf - fuyuhoshikim

time, and the Fiat was dead. His language was out of control as he again glanced around, looking for
spectators.
She just appeared. He hadn't noticed her walking down the sidewalk. She stood there as if she'd been standing
for hours, her body draped in a long wool overcoat, her head wrapped in a yellow shawl. An old woman with
an old dog on a leash, out for the morning stroll, and now stopped dead by the violent pinball action of a
copper-colored Fiat driven by an idiot.
Their eyes met. Her scowl and heavily wrinkled face conveyed exactly what she was thinking. Rick's wild
desperation was quite evident. He stopped cursing for a second. The dog was staring, too, some type of frail
terrier with a look as perplexed as the master's. It took a second for Rick to realize she was not the owner of
either of the cars he was pounding; of course she wasn't. She was a pedestrian, and before she could call the
cops, if she were so inclined, he'd be gone. He hoped. Anyway, he started to say something like "What the hell
are you looking at?" But then, she wouldn't understand, and she would probably realize he was an American. A
sudden patriotism sealed his lips. With the front of the car jutting into the street, he had no time for a staredown.
He jerked his head arrogantly back to the matters at hand, re-shifting and restarting and urging himself
to work the gas and the clutch with perfect coordination so the Fiat could finally roll away and be gone,
leaving his audience behind. He pressed the gas hard, the engine strained again, and he slowly released the
clutch as he turned the wheel hard and barely missed the Citroen. Free at last, he was rolling now, along Via
Antini, the Fiat still in first and straining mightily. He made the mistake of one last triumphant look at the
woman and the dog. He saw her brown teeth; she was laughing at him. The dog was barking and pulling on the
leash, also amused. Rick had memorized the streets along his escape route, no small feat since many were
narrow, one-way, and often confusing. He worked his way south, shifting only when necessary, and soon hit
Viale Berenini, a major street with a few cars and delivery trucks moving about. He stopped at a red light,
shifted into first, and prayed no one would stop behind him. He waited for the green, then lurched forward
without killing the engine. Atta boy. He was surviving. He crossed the Parma River on the Ponte Italia, and a
quick glance revealed quiet waters below. He was away from downtown now, and there was even less traffic.
The target was Viale Vittoria, a wide, sweeping four-lane avenue that circled the west side of Parma. Very flat
and almost deserted in the predawn darkness. Perfect for practice.
For an hour, as day broke over the city, Rick drove up and down the wonderfully level street. The clutch was
dragging a bit halfway down, and this slight problem captured his attention. However, after an hour of diligent
work he was gaining confidence, and he and the Fiat were becoming one. Sleep was no longer an option; he
was far too impressed with his new talent. In a wide median, he practiced parking within the yellow lines, back
and forth, back and forth until he grew bored. He was quite confident now, and he noticed a bar near Piazza
Santa Croce. Why not? He was feeling more Italian by the minute, and he needed caffeine. He parked again,
turned off the engine, and enjoyed a brisk walk. The streets were busy now, the city had come to life. The bar
was full and noisy, and his first inclination was to make a quick exit and return to the safety of his Fiat. But no,
he had signed on for five months, and he would not spend that time on the run. He walked to a bar, caught the
attention of a barista, and said, "Espresso." The barista nodded to a corner where a plump lady sat behind a
cash register. The barista had no interest in making an espresso for Rick, who retreated a step and again
thought about fleeing. A well-dressed businessman entered in a rush, holding at least two newspapers and a
briefcase, and walked directly to the cashier. "Buongiorno," he said, and she offered the same. "Caffe," he said
as he pulled out a five-euro note. She took it, made change, and handed him a receipt. He took the receipt
direcdy to the counter and laid it where one of the baristas could plainly see it. A barista finally took it, they
exchanged "buongiornos," and everything worked fine. Within seconds a small cup and saucer landed on die
counter, and the businessman, already deep in front-page news, added sugar, stirred, then demolished the drink
in one long gulp.
So that's how you do it. Rick walked to the cashier, mumbled a passable "Buongiorno" and flung over a fiveeuro
note of his own before the lady could respond. She made change and handed him a magical receipt. As he
stood at the counter and sipped his coffee, he absorbed the frenzy of the bar. Most of the people were on their
way to work, and they seemed to know one anodier. Some talked nonstop, while others were buried in