A New Story Most Thursdays
In This Edition of Thursday Stories: Noir in the Eternal City
Happy New Year, Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. And so, drumroll please, I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the print-only tales have been set free.
You can find all of my stories and more at the Marco Etheridge Fiction Website:
This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Sdamuele Trulla PI, a dark noir piece featuring a Vatican detective, a gorgeous dame, and a McGuffin. This story first appeared in the Dragon Soul Press anthology Malice, published in 2025. Now, without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.
Samuele Trulla PI
by Marco Etheridge
When some wide-eyed believer claims to have seen the face of Saint George toasted in her morning crumpet, or The Son emblazoned on a tortilla, or the Blessed Virgin etched in mold on a Tuscan wall, wheels are set in motion. An ancient bureaucracy lurches into action, its velocity determined not by the strength of the purported miracle but by the volume of public noise the alleged miracle produces.
Deep in the Vatican’s cobbled alleys, where bureaucratic machinery and tarnished miracles collide, that’s where you’ll find me. My name is Samuele Trulla, Papal Investigator. You can call me Sam.
Debunking miracles is a dirty racket, but someone’s gotta do it. I’ve heard stories from every Signora Rosso and Tía Maria in Italy and beyond; more wild tales than I can count. Every pious soul is convinced that their miracle is the real McCoy. But ask yourself, what would happen if we accepted every two-bit miracle as genuine? Every day would be a saint’s day, and no work would ever get done.
I am not saying all miracles are bogus. Far be it from me to cast doubt on a bona fide holy healing or divine intervention. It’s just I’ve never seen one. Those real-deal holy events are dealt with by the Congregation for the Causes of Saints, or one of the other front-office Vatican groups. For the dirty jobs, the back-alley apparitions, the Monsignori call on me.
Don’t expect to find me in the Basilica. That’s reserved for the top-drawer brass. Sure, I’ve got an office. It’s tucked so far back in Città del Vaticano I could hop the wall into Rome proper.
Walk a dingy corridor, find the worn oak door with the brass plaque: FRA S. Trulla. Talk your way past Sister Ghiaccio and you’ll find yourself in a cramped office with a wooden desk and two chairs. That’s where I was when the dame walked in and started the whole mess.
I was reading case files, feet on the desk, espresso in hand. The intercom buzzed. Sister G’s voice filled the room.
“Your ten o’clock is here. A Miss Waverly. Brace yourself.”
I swung my dogs to the floor and tapped the console.
“Consider me braced. Send her in, Doll.”
The inner door opened. She clicked in on Prada stilettos. A cloud of Sister Ghiaccio’s disapproval followed. From the doorway, Sister G arched an eyebrow, then rolled her brown eyes heavenward.
One hard look at the newly arrived client explained the Sister’s eyeball antics. Miss Waverly was a tall drink of water, blonde, from somewhere far north of Rome. She wore black crêpe, Versace I guessed. Her dress was just large enough to cover a very small choir girl. Neither appellation applied. The crêpe accented curves that would cause a weaker man to question his vows.
I rose from my chair and forced my eyes to focus above Miss Waverly’s neckline. I’ve done easier things.
“Buon giorno, Miss Waverly. Please, have a seat.”
The dame lowered herself to the chair without taking her eyes off mine. Blue with a touch of grey, like glacier ice.
“Would you care for coffee?”
Miss Waverly shook her lovely head. I looked back to the doorway where Sister G smirked.
“That will be all, Sister. Thank you.”
G threw me a stage wink and vanished.
“What can I do for you, Miss Waverly?”
The dame’s eyes broke away. She gave my office the once over, which took all of a second. She did not seem impressed. Then she spoke. A throaty voice, a tenor saxophone in a smoky jazz club.
“I tried to see the bishop, but his secretary sent me to you.”
Her accent was English by way of Oxford, but somewhere else lurked beneath her vowels.
“His Excellency is a very busy man.”
Her eyes shifted to the brass plaque on my desk.
“Ex nihilo nihil.”
I smiled.
“My motto. It means…”
“Nothing from nothing. I understand the Latin, Mister Trulla. Or should I call you Brother Trulla?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“This isn’t what I expected. Not exactly the front office, is it?”
“No, Miss Waverly. This is not even the back office. This is the office behind the back office, and I am its humble keeper. Now, perhaps if you told me what this is about?”
She sighed; a long sigh chock-full of all the pathos a decent actress could conjure.
“Very well. What if I told you I know the location of one of the great relics, precious beyond reckoning?”
“I’d be all ears. But I must warn you, the Church’s capability for reckoning runs very high.”
“Not this high. Not for what I’m talking about.”
“And what exactly are you talking about, Miss Waverly?”
“Mister Trulla, what do you know about the Knights Hospitaller?”
A dame who answered questions with questions. I decided to play it her way, at least for the moment.
“They were a military order formed in the Holy Land to protect the hospital of Saint John in Jerusalem.”
“Yes, the Knights were the military power in Jerusalem until the city fell to Saladin. After that, they had fortresses in Rhodes, then Malta, and even Saint Petersburg. But the Reformation changed everything. After centuries of power, the Knights fell into shadow, stripped of their possessions. Despite the decline of the order, the knights kept and guarded one sacred object. But the keepers of the secret grew old and died, and the precious relic was forgotten.”
She gave it a dramatic pause, her eyes shining. I took the bait like a good little rube.
“And what relic would that be?”
I wondered if she’d play it loud or soft. She leaned in for the whisper.
“The Grail, Mister Trulla. The Holy Grail.”
Right, the Grail, as if I didn’t have important cases to deal with. The old lady trying to pass a chicken bone off as Saint Jude’s ring finger. A lost cause, that one. Two claims of stigmata, one crying statue, and another case of rural children visited by the Virgin. I was a busy man.
“The Holy Grail is a myth, Miss Waverly, a story for Hollywood or crazy Englishmen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”
That’s when she gave me the look, her head turned ever so slightly. It was the look a falcon gives a mouse. I would see it again.
When she spoke, her voice was that of a patient teacher disappointed with her star pupil.
“You’re wrong, Mister Trulla. The Holy Grail exists. I know what it looks like. The Grail is a Scyphus, a common Roman drinking cup. It’s wrought in silver, the size of a small bowl, with finger handles on either side and thumb rests on the rim. But the Grail is anything but common. When one is in its presence, power radiates from it. There is no mistaking it.”
“And you’ve experienced this power firsthand?”
“No, but I know someone who has. The last keeper. He’s dead now.”
Of course he is. Dead men stick to their stories.
“For the sake of argument, tell me about this last keeper.”
“He was a Russian count. By the time I met him, his fortunes were gone, and he was wandering in the last of his memories. I served as an au pair to his grandniece. The old man took me into his confidence. He said I was the only person he could trust. But then he died; went to sleep and never woke up.”
“Not a bad way to go. And the Grail?”
“They buried the count in Saint Petersburg. The family returned to find their villa ransacked. I knew the Grail was gone. That was ten years ago.”
“And since then?”
“Since then, I’ve learned everything there is to know about the Grail. The men who stole it were common thieves. They didn’t know what they had. A silver Scyphus is worth a tidy sum. The Grail disappeared into the shadow world of ill-gotten antiquities. Then it ended up here, in Rome. It’s here now. I know where it is.”
Miss Waverly flipped open a Valentino clutch, or maybe a good knockoff. From it, she pulled a small paper ticket which she laid on the edge of my desk.
A heartbeat of silence, then the chirping of a cellular phone. She plucked the phone from her clutch and stared at the screen. A mask of shock fell over her pretty face.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry. I have to go.”
She sprang from her chair, clicked across the office, and yanked open the door.
“Wait! Where can I reach you?”
“The Saint Regis Hotel. I’m sorry, I’ll be in touch.”
Then she vanished. Sister G appeared in her wake.
“I’d never have guessed a woman wearing stilettos could run that fast. And I’ll lay odds it’s not her first time.”
I stared past the good Sister, pictured the dame sprinting down the corridor.
“Keep your odds. That’s a sucker’s bet.”
I reached for the forgotten ticket. Sister G walked to my desk.
“What’s that, Sam?”
It was the size of a business card but perforated at the edge. Something spit out of a machine. I read the front side, flipped it over. The back was blank.
“Find out what you can about this ticket, will you, Doll?”
She gave it a quick look.
“Nothing to find out, Sam. It’s a check ticket from Deposito Bagali, one of those luggage storage places for tourists. See? Via della Chiesa Nuova, right off Corso Vittorio Emanuele, next to the church. Santa Maria in Vallicella.”
“Ah, the worst directions in Rome. Yes Sir, just two blocks up, next to the church.”
“Well, it is next to a church, Sam.”
I smiled at her. Sister Ghiaccio didn’t need a computer, at least not for anything Roman. She knew every place and almost every person in the Eternal City.
“What do you think, Sam? Is it a good lead?”
I laughed out loud.
“More likely a sucker’s play. Here, let me have that thing.”
She returned the ticket. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and gave it another long look.
“Huh, Piazza della Chiesa Nuova. Any good gelato near there?”
“Gelateria Frigidarium is nearby.”
“That’ll do. If I’m signing on to be a patsy, I better make it worth my while. I’ll be back after lunch.”
* * *
Piazza della Chiesa Nuova was like any other Roman plaza. Tourists pointed cameras, boy pigeons chased girl pigeons, garbagemen abused a dumpster, and good Romani slouched on benches until they were late for their next appointment.
I found the bag drop on a narrow street a few steps off the piazza, right where Sister G called it. A young woman guarded the counter, one of those hard-edged art student types slumming for tuition money. Purple hair, piercings, the usual uniform.
The girl gave me the fisheye when I flashed the ticket. Maybe she remembered Miss Waverly. I didn’t know and didn’t much care. I flipped open my credential wallet and flashed it. That shiny Vatican badge snapped her to attention. You’ve got to love the faithful, or at least the indoctrinated. She scurried off like a good Catholic schoolgirl.
Punk girl reappeared in under two minutes. She shoved a black plastic roller bag through a gap in the counter. The whole time she called me Father, a common enough mistake. Here you are, Father. Have a good day, Father. Wanted me out of the shop, and quickly. I didn’t hold it against her. She probably had bad memories of vicious nuns. Tough luck, kid.
As a reliquary, the cheap bag was wholly unimpressive. One of those crappy carry-ons that rattle themselves to pieces bumping over cobblestones. But as the wise man said, it’s what’s inside that counts. She took the ticket; I took the bag. Deal done.
I hadn’t gotten ten steps across the piazza before Goon Number One appeared. He blocked my path, a smiling gladiator dressed in two hectares of Armani suit.
“Buon giorno, Brother Trulla.”
Those were Goon One’s first and only words. I never saw Goon Two, not that day, but I felt his electrifying presence.
Something stung my neck and the piazza erupted into stabbing white light. A lightning storm out of a clear, blue sky. Then the blue sky went black as Satan’s broom closet. I felt daemons claw my flesh. The evil bastards laid me down amongst the devil’s smelly mops and slammed the door.
I came to slumped on a bench, my body buzzing with pins and needles. Not a good way to wake up, even for a sucker and a rube. The roller bag had disappeared along with the Goons. I forced myself to my feet and staggered to the nearest taxi stand.
Back at the Vatican, I fought down the haze in my brain and the nausea in my guts. A long corridor, an oak door, brass plaque, FRA S. Trulla. Should add Chief Idiot to the title. Maybe do that later.
Once past the door, Sister G’s face gave me something to focus on. My focus was still blurry.
“Samuele Trulla, what happened to you?”
I waved a hand and tried a smile.
“I ran into a couple of goons packing lightning.”
“No bag, right?”
“No bag, Sister.”
“Tell me you at least got your gelato?”
“Nope. Listen, Doll, who do we know at the Saint Regis Hotel?”
I watched G’s eyes go up and left as she searched her mental Rolodex.
“Right, Federico, first cousin once removed on my mom’s side. He works security there.”
Why was I not surprised?
“See if you can get him on the line. I’ll be in my office.”
Sister G sprang into action while I walked a more or less straight line into my inner sanctum. I felt better once I sat behind my desk, and better still when I opened the bottom drawer and found my emergency bottle of Nardini. After two shots of grappa, the world seemed a friendlier place.
The intercom buzzed. Sister G’s disembodied voice filled the room.
“Federico on one.”
I shook off the grappa and reached for the phone.
“Pronto, Trulla here.”
I listened to the voice on the other end of the line.
“Thanks, Federico. Yes, a favor, semi-official. I’m looking for a woman claims to be a guest. A Miss Waverly, English, late twenties, tall, blonde. Right, thanks, I’ll hold.”
A minute later, G’s cousin once removed was back.
“Nothing, huh? I’m not surprised. Anybody matching that description crossed your radar in the last few days? She’d be hard to miss. The kind of woman who asks you to unzip her and then breaks your heart.”
That got a response.
“I see, hanging around the lobby. Right, had to be asked to leave the premises. Un-huh, got it, double-n, double-s. Emily O’Hennessy.”
I scribbled on my notepad.
“Grazie mille, my friend. You’ve got a favor in the bank here. Anytime. Right. Ciao.”
Somehow, the afternoon passed. My brain struggled back towards normal and then it got busy. By late afternoon, the walls and my thoughts were closing in on me. I had plenty to mull over, but it wasn’t getting done cooped up inside.
I buzzed Sister G.
“Going out, Doll. I need a walk.”
“You need a gelato, Samuele. And don’t leave the office naked.”
“Right.”
I fished a small key from its hidden slot under my desktop. The key unlocked a drawer beside my right knee. Inside the drawer lay my Beretta Apex Compact. I lifted the pistol from the drawer, checked the magazine, and slipped it into my suitcoat. Then I reached for an extra magazine.
Saint Peter looks out for his followers. I believe that. But I also believe that Peter is a busy guy. He doesn’t mind if his followers do some of the heavy lifting.
* * *
Trastevere was a thirty-minute walk from my office, just the right distance for a good think. I slipped through the narrow lanes of the Vatican, skirted south of Saint Peter’s Square, and then out onto Borgo Santo Spirito. Funny how I always feel sharper once I’m outside the walls, out on the streets. I pulled the brim of my black Borsalino low over my eyes.
Five minutes later, I stepped out of the narrow brick canyons and saw the Tiber. The last of the evening sun illuminated the dusky trees on the far side of the river. I shuffled down the stone steps to the river promenade, careful to avoid the discarded syringes and used condoms.
That’s Rome for you. Keep your eyes raised to the pretty towers, and everything is a tourist postcard. Look down, and you discover the real city is not so picturesque.
On any normal day, a good walk clears my head. But this was no normal day by any stretch. I didn’t like the thoughts bouncing through my thick skull.
Admit it, Sam, the good Miss Waverly, real name Emily O’Hennessy. That’s what’s eating you. She got under your skin.
The dame and the city were a lot alike. As long as a fella didn’t look too close, he saw a gorgeous woman with ice-blue eyes, eyes a man could lose himself in. But behind that, past the dangerous curves under a tight black dress, a man could see lies and goons in dark suits. Assuming he was honest enough to look.
I walked along the Tiber and thought about the dame. Sure I did. She reminded me of a bogus miracle. If you want a miracle to keep its shine, don’t get too close. I knew that better than anyone. So I walked away, further from her and closer to my favorite gelato joint. That’s what I told myself.
By the time I’d threaded my way into the labyrinth of Trastevere, I wasn’t thinking about anything except a good gelato. That’s when I saw her.
A Mercedes sedan parked on the cobblestones and her in the back. Her pretty hands cut hard gestures through the air. She did not look happy, and she wasn’t alone. Goon One filled the driver’s seat. A smaller thug sat beside him, half-turned toward Emily O’Hennessy. Had to be Goon Two.
A man with a cooler head might have stopped to weigh the odds. A chance meeting on the streets of Rome is a longshot. Just then I wasn’t a man with a cool head. An angry red mist rolled over me. I didn’t play it smart, and I didn’t play it cagey.
I slid my hand into my pocket, wrapped my fingers around the pistol, and thumbed the safety. Then I took two fast steps to the Mercedes, yanked open the rear passenger door, and led with the nose of the Beretta. The three of them froze for a heartbeat, long enough for me to follow the 9mm and pull the door closed.
“I see anything I don’t like, I shoot, capisce?”
The two thugs kept still except for their nods. Not such tough guys after all. I rammed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of the driver’s seat, hard enough to send a message.
“Let’s start with you, big man. Left hand, take your weapon out by the butt, pass it over the seat. You move too quick, I blow German upholstery through your spine.”
Goon One followed instructions given the right incentive. Right hand in the air, he dipped his left paw inside his jacket and came out with a Glock 17 dangling from his sausage fingers. I snatched his pistol with my free hand and dropped it between my feet.
“Okay, lightning boy, your turn. I still owe you one. Flinch wrong, I shoot you in the face. Same drill as the big man and make sure you hand over the taser while you’re at it.”
The little guy wasn’t any more trouble than the big oaf. I added an ugly Sig Sauer and a wicked-looking Taser to the pile on the floor.
“You boys did good. Now, hands on the dash where I can see them. You know the drill.”
It was too easy, but right then I didn’t care. I kept the pistol trained on the goons and dared a quick look at the dame.
“You okay, Miss Waverly? Or should I call you Miss O’Hennessy?”
That was the second time I caught the steely eyes of a falcon about to snatch a fat pigeon out of the sky. Then the look faded into a blink and tears sprang into her eyes.
“Oh, Sam! Thank God you found me. These men kidnapped me. I was so frightened!”
I remembered her angry hands slicing the air just before I broke up their party. Looked more like she was reading someone the riot act rather than pleading for her life. But that would have to wait. I still had two thugs to deal with. I figured I could handle her if I got her alone, which goes to show what a sap I can be.
“Right, time for you two to take a walk. We’re going to borrow the Mercedes. If you need something to do, there’s a good gelato joint just up the street. Try the gianduia. It’s to die for. Leave the keys in the ignition and get moving. Now.”
The boys obeyed like two punks busted by an angry nun. They climbed out of the Mercedes and slunk off into the narrow streets of Trastevere. I expected to see them double back, but the two suits disappeared into the swirl of evening tourists. They didn’t give the Mercedes so much as a backward glance.
I realized I was still holding the Beretta in plain sight where any nosy Carabinieri could spot it. Not smart. I set the safety, slipped the pistol beneath my suitcoat, and put my brain back into gear.
“Time to be somewhere else. I’ll drive. Get in the front.”
I pushed open the door and stood on the cobblestones. One quick scan and not a thug in sight. I dropped into the driver’s seat. A second or two later, Miss O’Hennessy slipped in beside me and the car door sealed us in. I turned the key. The big German engine purred to life.
“Where are we going, Sam?”
A damn good question, and one that needed an answer.
“First, we get out of here, across the river. Then we ditch the car. We can talk about it on the way.”
It took a few twists and turns to thread the usual snarl of Roman traffic and get the Mercedes aimed in the direction of the Tiber. The whole time, she never said a word. It wasn’t until we were crossing the Ponte Garibaldi that she spoke.
“I’m starving, Sam. Do you know any good places to eat?”
That was the first and last time she ever asked a silly question.
“Yes, I do, Miss.”
“I think we’re well past Miss at this point. Call me Emily, please.”
She smiled then, a real smile that almost broke me.
Emily wanted dinner and I needed to ditch the car. I knew just the right neighborhood for both. At the far end of the bridge, I swung the Mercedes south and followed the Tiber into Testaccio.
A quick left and right brought us to a no-parking zone on a dark street. A minute later, we were walking away from the Mercedes. I left the keys dangling in the ignition. Three steps from the car, I felt her arm slip through mine.
* * *
The last thing I expected was an enchanted evening with a beautiful woman, but that’s exactly what unfolded. Our dishes were perfect, from antipasti to secondi, vino paired just so with each course. She sparkled across the table. She called me Sam. I called her Emily.
Sure, maybe I heard a nagging whisper in the back of my brain. She’s too beautiful, Sam, too good for a backroom detective. If I heard the whisper, I ignored it.
When the waiter asked us about dessert, Emily turned him down flat. No dolce for us. Confusion crossed the waiter’s ancient face. It must have crossed mine as well. She sent the old fellow tottering off for the check and turned her bright eyes on me.
“Poor Sam. Don’t pout. I’ve got a special dessert planned. Take me back to my hotel and we can share it.”
I did my best to keep a straight face while praying for the old waiter to sprout angel wings and fly back to our table with the bill.
Outside the restaurant, I hailed a taxi and we fell into the back. Emily tucked herself in against me and whispered the address. I translated for the driver, and he drove us through the Roman night.
The hotel turned out to be a modest joint in the old city. Most definitely not the Saint Regis. No grand lobby, no hotel detective, just a disinterested night clerk with his eyes glued to a football match. No one asked any questions.
Out of the elevator, she led me down a quiet hallway. A key card, the lock buzzed, and the door opened and closed behind us. We were alone.
The room was a mini-suite. She took my hat and jacket, led me to a small couch, and sat me down. I could see the bedroom through a half-opened door.
“Wine, Sam, and then dessert.”
I tried to say something, but her cool fingers covered my lips.
“Wait and see.”
She shimmied over to the bar, uncorked a bottle, and poured two glasses of red. I kept my mouth shut and enjoyed the view.
Emily walked back to the couch, a wine glass in each hand. She leaned forward to hand me mine and the view got better. Sliding down next to me, she clinked my glass and raised hers.
“A toast, Sam. Here’s to what we can do together, just you and I.”
She drank. I drank. The wine was good. She smiled at me.
“Now for the first part of your surprise.”
Rising from the couch, she crossed the carpet to an armoire and opened it. Looking past her lovely calves, I caught a glimpse of a half-size carry-on bag nestled in the shadows. She turned away from the armoire with a big grin on her face and a cardboard box held between her hands.
Without a word, she stepped to the coffee table, placed the box on it, then slipped around to the couch and tucked herself in close. She was beaming like a kid on Christmas morning.
I stared at the thing, my wine glass hovering in my hand. It didn’t look like much. An ordinary brown box plastered with shipping labels. Not the sort of container you’d expect to hold a treasure.
Emily held up her wine glass.
“We’ll open it in a minute, Sam. But first, another toast. To the future, our future, together with the Grail. Think of it, Sam, just think of it.”
We raised our glasses and drank to the future, but my brain was busy trying to sort out what was happening in the here and now.
She laid a hand on my cheek and my thoughts jumped their track and wandered off.
“I’m going to get out of this dress and into something more comfortable. You enjoy your wine and I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared into the bedroom. I stared at the parcel on the table. Such an ordinary object. A brown box bound with packing tape. So simple. Then the room seemed to shift, and my eyelids felt like they were made of lead.
The room began to spin and the parcel with it. I tried to focus on the cardboard box. That only made things worse. That damn box began to float up into the air above the coffee table. Either that or my head was sinking.
Then I saw an angel, a bona fide angel with golden wings. The room faded into darkness, but the angel floated in a soft glow all her own. I felt her fingers on my face. Then she spoke to me, her words soft and sweet.
“Flunitrazepam, Sam. Sorry, Darling.”
My fingers went slack, and the wine glass fell from my hand. The glowing angel disappeared. Then the room tilted, and a wave of black washed over me.
* * *
I came to sprawled on the couch with a head full of cotton wool and a thick taste on my tongue. Something foul, like a choir of fountain cherubs had used my mouth as a pissoir. Sunlight slanted into the room and stabbed at my eyeballs. I raised a hand to shield my eyes as a groan shot out of my throat.
The hotel room was empty. I knew it before I dragged myself upright on the couch. Miss O’Hennessy was gone and so was the cardboard parcel. No dame, no grail. Then I saw the note. A single folded sheet with my name on it. I tried to read the opening line, but the letters wobbled off the paper. Gave it up and closed my eyes.
Sometime later, I staggered to my feet, found my hat, and patted down my suitcoat. My absent angel had left me my wallet and Vatican badge, but not the Beretta. Figures. Fought my way into the coat, then stuffed her note into the breast pocket.
I wobbled down to the street looking for a café. I downed two espressos before my eyes began to focus. That’s when I pulled out the note. She wrote a beautiful hand, that was sure, but her words stung like a wasp.
Dearest Sam,
I’m sorry it had to be you. Believe me or not, but it’s true. Doping you turned out to be a mistake. I opened the box after the Mickey took you out. Nothing but a decent copy of a Roman drinking cup. Silver plate over pot metal, a cheap phony just like me. But the grail is out there, I know it is. Now I’m one step closer to finding it. I must leave Rome, of course. Know that I will miss you. I’m sorry we didn’t get to share that special dessert.
Rain check? Kisses, Emily
I read the note again, me, the champion chump. Stuffed the note into my pocket and massaged my temples. It didn’t help, but it was something. Called for a third espresso. I hadn’t got the sugar stirred when I saw the morning newspaper on the next table.
The front page trumpeted two suckers in dark suits shot dead on the banks of the Tiber. No identification on the stiffs and no suspect. My eyes skimmed the rest, but my fuzzy brain saw mostly speculation. The cops didn’t have much.
Chump that I am, I did not doubt the ID of the victims and the shooter. Only one question pounded in my skull. Before they deceased, were the goons chasing the dame or working for her? Either way, the double-cross had gone down and they lost.
I scanned the rest of the headlines. Nothing about the sudden appearance of the Holy Grail. One small blessing, anyway. I dropped the rag, drained my espresso, paid my tab, and stepped out into the Roman morning.
My brain was still woolly, but my tongue tasted of espresso instead of cherub piss. I thought about a taxi, then opted for a long walk as penance. Walking helps me think, and I had a lot to mull over.
The streets of the Eternal City were already wide awake. A trio of priests marched along the sidewalk. Further on, I saw cassocked monks, a few early tourists, and the first traffic snarls.
An ordinary morning, except it wasn’t. Not for me. I couldn’t undo my mistakes. The smart play was guessing where the next shoe would drop and not be under the sole when it did.
The two goons were dead and gone. I shed no tears over their demise, but there was no joy either. Put me down for the middle, like purgatory.
I didn’t have much to go on. Maybe my Emily capped the dead goons. Maybe she didn’t. The killings happened outside the Vatican walls. Let the Carabinieri figure it out. If the city cops found my Beretta, well, I’d have to cross that Rubicon when and if.
Amazing what a man could lose in one short night. The grail was a fake. Emily O’Hennessy was most certainly gone. That loss hurt more than I’d admit anywhere outside a confessional booth. And my faith that I could still do my job? Maybe not gone altogether but certainly beat to a pulp and dangling on the ropes.
No Grail, no dame, no miracle. Maybe miracles are wasted on a guy like me. Sure, I debunk the miraculous for a living. But could I recognize a bona fide revelation if it smacked me in the kisser? I gave myself fifty-fifty odds at best.
Still, the morning wasn’t all bad. I was still breathing. There might have been three corpses found on the dirty Tiber instead of two. Would she have capped me? My heart answered no, but my heart was broken.
Sister G was at her desk when I pushed open the oak door. She took one hard look and lit into me.
“Samuele Trulla, you look like death on a stick. Did you sleep in that suit?”
Before I could answer, she shot from behind her desk, got me by the shoulders, and marched me to a chair. She pushed me down and stuck her face in mine. I guess I passed the test because the worry left her face and was replaced by a hard look, that righteous glare that scares the hell out of schoolkids.
“It looks like you’ll live, anyway. Tell me the truth, Sam. Did you do anything last night that can’t be undone?”
I shook my head and it hurt.
“Anything that requires an immediate confession. Or the Vatican doctor?”
Again, with the head shake, this time with a raised hand to back Sister G off.
“No mortal sins, G. Nothing a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers can’t fix.”
Sister G smiled and let me off the hook.
“You’re here, anyway. That’s something. How can I help?”
“Espresso, Sister, a very large espresso. That might work miracles.”
G pushed herself upright. That business-as-usual face appeared on her pretty mug.
“This once, Samuele, I will fetch the coffee. But I think you need a caffè corretto. A drop of grappa to chase that dog away. You settle into your office. I’ll be right back.”
Sister G bustled out and I stepped inside my inner sanctum. I folded myself into the ancient office chair. A groan folded with me.
This is where the whole mess started, not twenty-four hours ago. A single day can hold a lot of bad. Caesar knifed by his cronies, the Titanic losing to an iceberg, or Samuele Trulla brought low by a grifting dame. Before I could sink any further, the good sister pushed through the door bearing a tray of salvation.
“A double caffè corretto and a pastry, which you will eat. Then we can get on with our work.”
I took a sip of the spiked espresso. I managed a believable bite of the pastry. Cradling the demitasse in one hand, I leaned back in my faithful chair.
“So, Doll, what bogus miracle are we unraveling today?”
A grin spread across Sister G’s face.
“You’ll like this, Sam. We’ve got the face of the Blessed Virgin appearing on the concrete ceiling of a girls’ locker room in San Marcos.”
“Ah, a classic.”
“Old school is good school. And there’s another bakery incident. An image of the Savior in a cheesecake.”
“We’re talking plain cheesecake, right?”
“Is any other kind? It’s good to have you back, Sam.”
“Good to be back, Sister G.”
Finis
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