Every weekday from 4 to 5 pm, Reggio Martino went to the same tearoom off the Via Torino and had a cognac and a cigar and read Il Giorno.
One day, when he went out the door, he ran smack into a blonde carrying a bag of groceries. Or rather, she ran into him - she wasn’t watching where she was going. She fell down on the wet sidewalk, tomatoes and apples rolling in all directions.
“Signora, are you all right?” Reggio said, taking her hand to help her up. “I’m terribly sorry...”
“My ankle,” she said, wincing. She looked up at him with big blue eyes that nearly stopped his heart.
He squatted beside her. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. More like fourteen, he thought, looking at her more closely.
“Let me help you to my automobile - I’ll give you a ride to the hospital.”
