The CotW Gang Chronicles
Chapter 2
"It's the Pope," said Miss Hunnimunni with a smirk as she handed me the phone.
I was caught with my pants down.
Indulging in sampling various truffles, matching chocolate made with cocoa from different plantations - we were preparing to ship 300 pounds of it for a celebrity who was having a small wedding (second time around.)
I mean, how sinful can one get - helping divorcees remarry? And the Pope calls. Great.
I was on my knees at once: "Your holiness!" I gushed. "What a most blessed honour!"
"Signore Rider," greeted the Pope, his voice a mixture of lilt, chant, and squirrelly alertness. "Peace be with you my son."
"Same to you, Sir! I mean - your Holiness."
"Signore, you have been recomended by Cardinal Mazerati. The cardinal informs me I should speak to you." He cleared his throat gently as if about to intone the
Oremus. "My officers have been trying to speak on this but I was informed that the signor would only deal directly with the principal buyer." Was it my imagination or was there a hint of menace in the Pope's voice? I shivered.
Miss Hunnimunni had her headpiece on; obviously she could hear all this. I raised my brows in her direction. She inspected her delicate rose-petal pink fingernails, ignoring me as if getting a call from the Pope was an everyday occurrence.
"My apologies, your Holiness, my secretary tends to be overprotective at time."
The Pope sighed, "I have the same problem, my son. It is the price we have to pay."
Turned out with further conversation that the Pope needed a new private jet - my job was to locate one and deliver. As a transport contractor a common enough task but for the person who was playing client today. His Holiness finally released me with a blessing.
"Miss Hunnimunni," I said sternly as I could. "I have to punish you. Pack your over-nighter. We're heading to Rome."
She began tapping her laptop right away booking tickets on the next flight we could catch. She looked pleased.
I was going to have to restrain her.
Mario picked us up at Fiumicino Airport, and nestled in the luxury of the Lambo Estoque he had chosen for the job we were whisked away swiftly away to my Villa in Civitavecchia. Most of my cars at the villa's garage were Italian of course. What else would I drive in Italy?
While half my mind was on the contract handed to me by the Pope, and the coming audience with him to discuss details and pore over specifications, I was thinking of sneaking away for a quick jaunt around the town. I would use one of my GTOs, of course. I had two, one in Jaune Italien, the other disguised in British Racing Green.
I had a third, in a flambouyant custom twin-tone Red , at my California bungalow. In LA. Where else would you drive a Ferrari?
The GTO was my daily driver whenever I visited Italy. This was my go-to car. There's no Ferrari that's more Ferrari to me than the 288 GTO. You can't mistake it for a Lambo. Or a Maserati. Or any other car from a non-italian country. This car screamed FERRARI in caps as soon as you laid eyes on it. It was a
Lights! Camera! Action! sort of Ferrari.
It was a little boy's dream car, even before they could
read the word 'Ferrari'.
If you wanted a Ferrari in a movie, you throw a 288 GTO in there. It would take on any role.
But, hold on - we're talking about the GTO. Not the GTBs. This particular GTO lived in the shadow of the GTBs because it only looked like another sibling - and that was because of the production factors related to homologation.
So it screamed "
Everyday Exotic Sports! Nothing new here!" But actually it was a qualified Gran Turismo Omologato, Group B racing machine. Which never raced officially. In fact the term 288 given to it is unofficial. It is known as the Ferrari GTO.
The Ferrari GTO. Underneath was lean, mean racing machine, downsized from the 308's 3 liter, but boosted with ferocious twin turbos that punched you back when they kicked in and turned the car from daily driver to rocket ship. This car's heritage goes a long way back - back to the 250 GTO, from which it borrowed that ducktail, all the way back to the 250 GTO SWB - which, of course, was a legendary monster.
And the even more secret side to it - because of it's relationship to its elder siblings: touring is an absolute pleasure, whether winding down a mountain road or cruising through interstate countryside. This car hugs you as she dances down the highway, leaping, hip-swung as a Hula dancer, ready to pirouette at a moments notice, or run flat out screaming till your ears burn while the needle still climbs.
I suddenly wanted to take a GTO for a spin. Maybe the one disguised in green.
A few espressos later I was off.
Before long I was swinging the car swiftly through the roads of Rome, soaking in the sights and sounds, safely ensconced in the cockpit of the GTO, as I sneaked my way like a shadow through traffic. Only the angry impatient whine of the GTO told me I was floating around in a car as I swiftly fled through the streets, loping along the pavement at a 100 MPH, effortlessly illegal.
And then . . . right before me, flying ahead much faster than me, were three , yes three, red GTOs.
Now this is no common Italia or California you could pick up from a dealer or locate through the Dupont Report. They'd made very few GTOs, enough to satisfy the homologation requirements. What the hell? I thought.
I pursued them. Suddenly I was a PI. Oh! Yes, and I was in the perfect PI's car. Could this be part of the mob? I put my aviators on, hunched myself down in the seat and gave the GTO legs as I trailed them. I was on the trail of the mob. I would catch them. I had a GTO.
And then I remembered - they were in GTOs, too. I raced after them, stomping my steed in the ribs, the beautiful beast bucking under my arms as I wrestled to control the raw power in her. I got close enough to see past the red Ferraris - there were three, yes, three, whitish GTOs racing ahead of the three red.
Jeebus Murphy, I thought, what was going on? Had I got involved in some turf war? Red's against white? They dissappered in a cloud of dust - I just couldn't keep up with them.
Obviously they were not part of the mob. No gangster could handle a GTO like that. Good guys drove GTOs. Bad guys drove other stuff. Black SUVs. Lincolns.
Back at the Villa I rang up Luigi and explained what I saw.
"Make enquiries and report back as soon as you hear something, " I ordered.
"Yes, signore.' Luigi chuckled. He was perpetually amused about something. Don't ask me, I'm still confused.
Italy makes me happy. It's the most sensuous place on earth, heady with fragrances of food and flowers, wine, and cheese. There is always so much screaming here, people yelling at each other, whether love or scolding, everything with an intense passion. Even with my crowdophophia I felt comfortable isolated by my very own staid foreignness. Everybody on the streets seemed to be kissing each other. Bus stops, park-benches, pizzerias, no place was safe from the romance. Came with the Romans, I suppose; they must have been romantic. I promised myself to spend a day in Naples, maybe take Miss Hunnimunni down for a ride and a dish of gelato.
The meeting with the Pope went off well; he turned out to be a really cool fellow in the end. Whether he was Pope or not, I wouldn't have hesitated to have a drink with him. He was a lot more tougher in person than I had seen in occasional media reports, and I heard he was cracking down hard on the mob, as well as the Vatican Bank, and many of his Officers. Good show I thought. I forgave him for being the Pope and decided that I would get him the best jet I could acquire - the kind that would befit a jet-setting Pope.
I wondered, as I left, how much it would cost to hire some of the Swiss Guard. I heard these these guys were good when it came to looking after money.
Luigi was waiting at the Villa when I returned from the meeting.
"What did you find out?'
"Many things, signore," he said and handed me a sheet of paper. It was a neatly detailed report. Apparently these people were a bunch of mixed aristocrats and magnates, ex-racing drivers, a king, a baron, and so on.
They were known to hold races here off and on.
A king, a baron, races? Now my PI instincts were aroused. Where had I come across that same pattern before?
"Thank you, Luigi, " I said dimissing him. I needed to ponder this over a bole of Rum and Maple.
Finally, I called Mack.
"Oh! Hi! Harry. Wassup chum?" he said, sounding busy as usual - like he was on a treadmill watching the 24 Hours of Le mans while dictating some editorial for an Auto magazine.
"Mack," I began "you remember last week when we were at Brands Hatch acquiring those Spits, there were some other guys there . . . a king? A baron?"
"Yup," said Mack, panting slightly. "King Victor of Apexland. He reigns from the UK, doesn't like to live in the country he's king of. There's all kinds of upsets in Apexland and he lets his Minsters take care of it. And the Baron's a Maple Baron. He exports tons of Syrup. We're all in Italy right now."
This last made me gap out for a second.
"Say what? We? Who?
What do you mean Italy?" I snarled.
Mack laughed; obviously he liked to bug me. Well, actually, he bugged everybody.
"We're racing Monza this evening," he said. "The usual bunch of us. By which I mean
everybody's welcome, because I have organised this event as open to the public, but King Victor, the Baron, Dr. Ryan, Bruno, the usual crowd will be there. We will all be in our GTO's. It's the red against the white. In fact we're half way to Monza . . . we were thrashing Rome this morning."
I was speechless. So
that was the crowd of hooligans who had left me in the dust this after noon.
Damn! I'm not given to swearing but this was the pits.
Mack was chuckling at the other end. Everybody was bloody well chuckling lately.
"Guess you won't be able to make it this time, huh?" He snickered. "You're probably cosied up with Miss lovely honey on that island of yours."
"Probably," I said tightly. "And it's Miss Hunnimunni, not lovelyhoney."
"Whatever, same thing. So what's up, Harry?"
Monza was it? I was headed right over in my yellow GTO. We'd see who had the last chuckle.
"Ah! just curious," I lied. "I wanted to thank you for putting that deal my way anyway, the Spitfire I mean. Good to own a couple of Spits."
"You're welcome, chum. Okay, see you later. Preparing to race here in about three or four hours. We hope the weather holds up. Thunderclouds are on the way." He rang off abruptly.
"Marioo!" I yelled.
Mario came running like I'd had a heart attack.
"I need to get the yellow GTO ready for racing. I'm leaving for Monza right away."
He nearly had a heart attack; I saw him clutch his chest, crying "
Madre de Dios!"
I didn't blame him; Monza was several hours driving, all the way to the north end of Italy.
Why would I give up a drive to Naples in a GTO on a beautiful day like today in the company of Miss Hunnimunni - the most perfect combination of delights that anyone could wish for . . . to go flying pell-mell to Monza to shove myself into a race?
Because this car - this Oh! so perfect car - screams in its stance for a fast jaunt here and there, looking as elegant, quick, and comfortable as a Ferrari sports car would be - but there was quite something else beating in the chest of that beast.
The tattoo of vents on its hauches gives the game away. This was made to be a racing machine. And that was a fact. Yet it never raced.
Would I miss the chance to actually race it? Against a bunch of the same cars? At Monza? With the possibility of rain?
Not even on my quiet little life.
This does mean, of course, that I will have to take the Cobra out to GVE just to see what happens 👍
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