think of anything more to say so she signed off with all her love and lots of Xs underneath. There was a pain in her chest, in exactly the same place as her heart.
Scott spent two days in a morphine fug, while doctors and nurses came and went, occasionally stopping to perform some unpleasant procedure. His nose had been broken and there were strips of plaster across it and great wads of cotton wool stuffed inside so that he could only breathe through his mouth. His ribs were strapped up and his left wrist was also broken and in plaster. He vaguely recalled one of the men stamping on it. He had a catheter and he knew there was blood in his urine from all the kidney punches and kicks he’d taken, but the doctor assured him the ‘trauma’ would heal in time.
As well as bruising and swelling, there were many contusions on his face and body, and a nurse said they must have used a pugno di ferro. He’d never heard the term, but from her mime he realised she meant a knuckleduster. What kind of person carried one of those around on a normal weekday morning? That suggestion shook him, but when he examined a cut above his forehead, he could see the indentations of metal knuckles, so it must be true.
Two carabinieri came and he told his story slowly and carefully, remembering every detail of his conversation with the girl and giving a precise description of her brother. He hadn’t seen the other two attackers clearly but thought they had been wearing leather jackets. But when he mentioned the name Ghianciamina, and the fact that they lived in Piazza Navona, the carabinieri glanced at each other.
‘I think you must have misheard, sir. There is a family of that name but they are a very prominent family of good character.’
‘I can show you the exact house where they live,’ Scott insisted. ‘Take me there and I’ll identify the man who did this.’
One of the policemen produced a loose-leaf folder. ‘There’s no need, sir. We’ve brought pictures of all the violent criminals in the city and you can go through and point to the men who hurt you without getting out of your bed.’
Scott began to flick through. They were rough-looking, dark-skinned young men, aged between fifteen and twenty-five, all of them scowling out of police mugshots. ‘My attacker was dressed smarter and his skin was paler than these men,’ he said, but continued to work through the folder until he reached the end. ‘Nope, none of them. Can we go to Piazza Navona now?’
‘The doctors say you can’t be moved. Don’t worry, because we are asking shopkeepers and bartenders in the street and we hope there will be witnesses. You’re sure your wallet was not taken? Often, there is robbery involved.’
‘My wallet is here,’ Scott said, pointing to the cabinet by his bed. ‘I wasn’t being robbed. It was because I was talking to the girl, Gina.’ He was frustrated that he had given them a name and an address and was not being taken seriously. ‘For crying out loud, don’t you guys want to catch him? What’s the problem? Are you going to wait till he does this to somebody else?’
‘At least you are alive,’ one of them said quietly. ‘Your bones will heal.’
Scott stared at him, too surprised to respond.
The nurses had asked if he wanted a family member to be contacted but he decided it would cause too big a furore to call his mother and father in the States. They’d fly over and make a huge fuss and want to stay on for weeks while he recuperated. Scott knew this because he had been beaten up once before. A local gang attacked him on the way home from school and he’d fought back, which meant he’d come off worse than his friend who’d run away after the first punch was thrown. His mother had reacted with hysteria and insisted on collecting Scott from school in the automobile for the rest of the semester, not letting him go out with friends in the evenings either. Getting beaten up was just one of those things that happened to guys from time to time – hopefully not too often.
Still, he shuddered every time he thought of the knuckleduster, and the fact that it had been three against one. They had wanted to inflict serious harm and hadn’t cared whether he lived or died, and that was chilling.
One young nurse, Rosalia, seemed especially concerned that he didn’t have any visitors and began to linger by his bed to chat with him while she was on duty. She was a little plump around the hips but had sexy dimples in her cheeks so he began to flirt.
‘Rosalia, do you think I will ever get a girl again? I’ll look horrible with all my scars and a crooked nose. Will I have to check myself into a monastery?’
‘You’ll do fine,’ she replied. ‘It’s personality that counts.’
‘OK then, I’m doomed,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a personality. I always relied on my gorgeous face to get the girls.’
‘Maybe you will be a nicer person now,’ she suggested. ‘You’ll have to be very sweet to girls, buy them presents and be a gentleman.’
‘I’m going to be real lonely when I get out of here. I’ll be stuck in my little apartment recuperating all on my own. I’ll miss our talks. I don’t suppose …’
It didn’t take much to persuade her to have dinner with him after he was discharged. It would be handy to have a nurse around, he thought, just in case he needed more painkillers. Surely she’d be able to get spares from the hospital dispensary? Meanwhile, flirting with her helped to pass the time.
His secretary came to visit, bringing some paperwork he had to sign. He explained about his frustration that the police wouldn’t act over the attack but when he mentioned the name Ghianciamina, she was visibly startled.
‘Scott, you must listen to me. They are Mafia, from Sicily, and you must not try to press charges against them because the police will not be able to protect you. Come back to work, forget what happened and stay well away from them. Otherwise, you will have to leave Rome.’
‘You’re joking! So they get away with it? No way.’
‘Yes, that is exactly what I mean.’
‘What kind of a country is this?’
Scott knew they had Mafia back home in New York and Chicago because occasionally the details of some internecine war hit the headlines, but the American police did their best to lock away the worst offenders. Here in Italy they seemed happy to let them roam the streets. It was outrageous.
He lay back against his pillows. No way could he let them off the hook. Somehow, he had to get revenge, but he’d have to think of a way of achieving it that didn’t compromise his own safety. He decided he’d sleep on it.
On the 14th of October, Walter Wanger dropped by the production office to invite Diana to a party hosted by Kirk Douglas to celebrate the anniversary of the release of Spartacus. ‘He said to bring our top people. Elizabeth is coming, of course. See you later, my dear.’
