“It wasn’t a stupid girl. Trains and trams. Come on, there’s a stop over there.”
“Where do we get a ticket?”
“We don’t. We’re crooks.”
She held his hand as they ran toward an old-fashioned orange tram that was pulling up at a stop. The sign on the front read “Duomo.”
They pushed their way into the crush of passengers, finding a place to grip the smooth metal pole. The car lurched and squealed around bends and points, stopping outside La Scala opera house. The air smelled of perfume and garlic. Immaculate men wore perfect suits with brown suede pointy shoes. Several caught her eye, smiled, or winked. A girl could make her man jealous very easily in Milano. Randolph was grinning at the little pantomime of flirtation she was creating. He leaned in and whispered.
“They trim their nasal ha
