Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [60]
“Assumptions and intel analysis are dangerous bedfellows,” Jack observed.
“True. If he’s moved on, I bet that fucker’s laughing his ass off watching everybody hump those mountains looking for him. How would he do it, though? Sure as hell couldn’t just walk into the Islamabad airport and ask for a ticket.”
Dominic said, “Money can buy you a lot of knowledge, too.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“There’s an expert for every problem, Jack. The trick is knowing where to look.”
The day passed quickly. At five, Jack poked his head into Dominic’s office. Brian was sitting in the chair across from his brother’s desk. “Hey, guys,” Jack called.
“Yo,” Brian responded. “How’s the computer maven?”
“Chipping away.”
“What’s for dinner?” Dominic wondered.
“Open for ideas.”
“His love life must be like mine,” Brian muttered.
“Found a new place in Baltimore. Wanna give it a try?”
“Sure.” What the hell, Jack thought. Eating alone was never fun.
The three-car convoy headed north on U.S. 29, then turned east on U.S. 40 for the trip into Baltimore’s Little Italy—nearly every American city has one—off Eastern Avenue. The trip was almost identical to Jack’s normal drive home, a few blocks from the baseball stadium at Camden Yards. But that season had ended, again without a trip into the playoffs.
Baltimore’s Little Italy is a rabbit warren of narrow streets and few parking lots, and for Jack, parking his Hummer was not unlike bringing an ocean liner alongside. But in due course he found a spot in a small parking lot and then walked the two blocks to the restaurant on High Street, which specialized in Northern Italian food. On walking in, he saw that his cousins were camped out in a corner booth, with nobody else close by.
“How’s the food here?” he asked, taking a seat.
“The head chef is as good as our grandfather, and that’s high praise, Jack. The veal is really first-class. They say he buys it himself every day at Lexington Market.”
“Must be tough, being a cow,” Jack observed, scanning the menu.
“Never asked,” Brian noted. “Never heard any complaints, though.”
“Talk to my sister. She’s turning into a vegan, except for the shoes.” Jack chuckled. “How’s the wine list?”
“Ordered,” the Marine responded. “Lacrima Christi del Vesuvio. I discovered it in Naples on a Med Cruise. The Tears of Christ from Vesuvius. Took a trip to Pompeii, and the guide said they’ve been growing wine grapes there for about two thousand years, and I assumed they have it pretty well figured out. If you don’t like it, I’ll drink it all,” Brian promised.
“Brian knows his wine, Jack,” Dominic said.
“You say it like you’re surprised,” Brian shot back. “I’m not your typical jarhead, you know.”
“I stand corrected.”
The bottle came a minute later. The waiter opened it with a flourish.
“Where do you eat in Naples?”
“My boy, you have to work real hard to find a bad restaurant in Italy,” Dominic told him. “The stuff you buy on the street is as good as most sit-down restaurants over here. But this place is seriously okay. He’s a paisano.”
Brian tuned in: “In Naples, there’s a place on the waterfront called La Bersagliera, about a mile from the big fortress. Now, I’ll risk a fistfight and say that’s the best restaurant in the entire world.”
“No. Rome, Alfonso Ricci’s, ’bout half a mile east of Vatican City,” Dominic pronounced.
“Guess I’ll take your word for it.”
The food came, along with more wine, and the conversation turned to women. All three dated, but casually. The Carusos joked that they were looking for the perfect Italian girl; for Jack’s part, he was looking for a girl he could “bring home to Mom.”
“So what’re you saying, cuz?” Brian asked. “You don’t like ’em a little slutty?”
“In the bedroom, hell, yes,”Jack replied.“But out in public … Not a big fan of halter tops and giant tramp stamps.”
Dominic chuckled at this. “Brian, what was the name of that girl, you know the one, the stripper with the tattoo?”
“Ah, shit …”
Dominic was still laughing.