Night Trap. Gordon Kent

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      The room was only big enough for the bed and a TV; the bathroom was no bigger than a closet, everything in it molded out of plastic, as if they’d just dropped the unit into place. Shower, no tub. No free shampoo or lotion or any of that shit. But clean.

      Only when he was in the room with the door locked did he take out what he had collected in the men’s room. He unfolded a sheet of paper. His lips moved a little as he read the instructions written there. His anger showed in his face now. He read it again, then tore it into bits and slammed into the tiny bathroom and flung the pieces into the toilet.

      The message had said to burn the paper when he was done, but everything in the bathroom was plastic and he was afraid of what the flame would do. And who the fuck was going to glue the pieces back together in the Naples sewer? “Kiss my ass,” he said aloud as he flushed the toilet.

      Still, there was no question of his disobeying the message. He left his toilet kit on the sink and, seeing that he still had fifteen minutes, turned on the TV and watched an American horror film, dubbed into Italian. He’d seen it before, something about American kids saving the world from Dracula. In his experience, American kids couldn’t save a gnat’s ass from a spiderweb, but it probably sold movie tickets to tell them they were the hope of the world.

      At five after ten, he went out.

      Bonner knew the Galleria Umberto, but he’d forgotten how to get there, so he did some wandering and actually asked somebody for directions before he found it, then was astonished that he’d forgotten how easy it was to find. He went in, crossed the vast terrazzo floor under the vaulted glass ceiling and found a chair at one of the cafés there. A waiter waved him to come closer, but he shook his head and stayed out there in the middle. Not that he liked it out there. What he liked was a corner, or at least a wall that he could put his back to. But the instructions were to sit in the middle. So they could check him out, he knew. He knew all that.

      The Galleria was like a church, he thought. Like one of those big, over-decorated Italian churches you’re supposed to fall down and vomit over because they’re old. Still, the Galleria had its good points: you could get a coffee or a beer in there and stay dry; you got the feeling of being outdoors because of the glass ceiling; you could see everybody who came and went.

      “Coffee,” he said to the now angry waiter.

      The waiter shot something at him in Italian. Of course the guy spoke English; they all had a little English, Bonner was sure. But he was making his point by speaking Italian because Bonner wouldn’t sit close to the kitchen so he didn’t have to carry anything so far. Instead, Bonner was sitting out here in Siberia, in the middle of the huge pavement.

      “Can’t understand you, sorry,” Bonner said. “No capeesh.”

      The waiter hissed something.

      “Coffee, I want coffee. Just bring me coffee. Black, okay? A little sugar. What the hell. Sugar-o. Okay?”

      The waiter spat some more words, of which Bonner understood “espresso.”

      “Sure espresso, fine, molto benny. And some sugar-o, okay?”

      Surprisingly, it came with two packets of sugar, and it was very good. The waiter had decided to dazzle him with service. He even brought the international Herald-Tribune. It was yesterday’s, but what the hell? The news was just like home—bullshit. Bush was doing this, the Democrats were doing that, the economy was up or down or sideways; what the hell?

      Bonner sat there for more than half an hour. He read the newspaper a little, but mostly he sat there with his hands folded over his belly, looking around the Galleria. There were several floors to it, and each one had a kind of arcade and places for people to look down to the vast floor where he sat. They had something interesting to look at, he thought—a few people coming in one entrance and going out another, using the Galleria like a street; him, sitting there, obviously an American; more people drifting in and taking tables, morning break time. The Italians, he thought, spent most of their lives on breaks; no wonder they were broke.

      At nine minutes after eleven, he crossed the floor and went out a different entrance, as he was supposed to do. There was a payphone. It rang.

      “Across the street from you will be a taxi with flame painted on the hood. Get into it.”

      And there it was.

      And he did as he was told, cursing them for making him do it.

      She sighed. “See Naples and die.”

      “Jesus Christ!” Alan blew out his breath. “Wow.”

      She held him tighter. “I love you so much.”

      They lay silently together, timeless. “Say you love me,” she said. He whispered it into her hair. “You need practice,” she said. He could tell she was smiling. He raised his head and looked down at her. “It’s true,” he said. “I find it hard to say.”

      “It gets easier with time.” She was still smiling. She kissed him. “Let’s just stay in bed all week and when we’re starved we’ll tell them to bring us champagne.”

      “Not all week, Kim.” He hadn’t told her yet. He had thought there would be a good moment. “I’ve got to report to the boat day after tomorrow.”

      “No, you don’t.” Something steely, also new, sounded in her voice.

      “Yeah, I do. There’ll be a plane at Capodichino to take me. See, they started their liberty three days ago, while I was—”

      “Well, you’ll just have to be real sick. Or tell them you’re doing charity work with an American woman who’ll die otherwise.”

      He laughed. “Right! Compassionate leave. No, the Navy’s understanding, but not that understanding.”

      “I won’t let you go.”

      “Sweetie, they cut a set of orders for me. I have to get back to my own ship.” He kissed her. “Be good. Please.”

      “I hate the Navy.” A tear trickled down from the corner of her right eye. “No, don’t—” She avoided another kiss and twisted aside under him, escaped and ran to the bathroom for a tissue, with which she started to dab her eyes.

      Naked, Kimberley Hoyt looked as if she had been put together from male fantasies. She was very large where men wanted size, very small where she was supposed to be small. She had honey-amber hair that she wore long, and it blazed around her face like a sunburst. She was, in fact, the very woman most of the men of the carrier hoped to meet in Naples, and only Alan would.

      He rolled over on his back. “Let’s have a great day together,” he said. “Kim? Okay?”

      She burst into tears.

      He went to her and they clung together, naked. When she was quiet, she said into his shoulder, “I think I don’t know you very well. It scares me, you going away and going away—I thought we’d have—time—”

      “I have to.”

      “Why? Why?” She flung her head back and stared at him. “Is it your father?”

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