About the Author John A. Broussard was born in Cambridge Mass in 1924. AB Harvard '49. MA and Ph.D. University of Washington. College teacher for 20 years. Some success with non-fiction. Several articles published. Reviewer: non-fiction for Bibliophilos; mystery/suspense books for I Love a Mystery; books and videotapes for The American Association for The Advancement of Science. About two hundred short stories recently sold and published. Books: "MANA." Pulsar Books. ISBN 1-58697-206-5 (print) and ISBN 1-58697-892-4-2. (electronic). "DEATH OF THE TIN MAN'S WIFE." Coffee Cup Press. ISBN 0-9713660-2-0. THE LEFT HAND OF DEATH. Coffee Cup Press. ISBN 0-9713660-5-5. DEATH OF A DEVELOPER. HandHeld Crime ISBN 0-9713660-7-1. A METHOD TO MURDER. To be published by HandHeld Crime in February. "FIFTY-MINUTES" FLAHERTY & MURDER AT MILLTOWN JUNIOR COLLEGE. Publication dates to be announced. Boson Books. Roadblock is his first short story in Nuvein.

A half-dozen carabinieri were strung across the rain-soaked road, assault rifles at the ready. A sergeant stood in front of them, hand upraised, signaling for Cory Watkins to stop. Cory couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. Stan Gold had warned him only yesterday about the roadblocks, but he had pooh-poohed the possibility.

*****

Stan had been complaining about Italy—as usual. Even after six months of working at United Communications’ overseas branch, Stan was singularly incapable of adjusting to life in Milan. Ordinarily, all the grumbling annoyed Cory, but today he was merely amused. The food spread before them at lunch was just too good to allow Stan to spoil its enjoyment.

“You can’t drive five blocks from a night club or restaurant,” Stan was saying, “without running into a roadblock.”

Cory sampled the first of his broiled garlic scampi. Absolutely delicious. “I haven’t heard of any roadblocks.”

“Of course not. In this country they’re so common they’re not even news anymore. Besides, living out in a small town like Rivorno the way you do, you’re not likely to be up and around after midnight. They roll their sidewalks up at nine.”

“What do the police stop people for?” Breaking off a large chunk of bread, Cory wondered how it could be so different and so much better than the best bakery bread back home.

“Who knows? The Italians claim they’re looking for terrorists.”
“Be grateful, then. A few minutes stopping at a check point is a small price to pay to avoid being kneecapped by some crazy urban guerilla.” The rich, pungent chianti was a perfect complement to the scampi’s rich sauce. “Besides, you admit they don’t hassle you. They just salute you and wave you on, along with your girlfriend of the evening.”

“Well, it’s the principle of the thing. The cops don’t stop you for no good reason in the States. They’re checking for drunks or stopping you for speeding. That makes sense. But the Italian police couldn’t care less. All they ever do is look at your ID.”

Cory pointed a piece of bread dripping with sauce at his companion. “You know, Stan, your problem is that you’re still single. Settle down the way I have, move out to the suburbs or a little town like Rivorno, get used to the Italian way of doing things and start enjoying your stay here. Now, Jill’s an American, but if I weren’t married, I’d hitch up with one of these lovely Italian girls you keep going out with. Yeah. Settle down. Italian women love American men. Wasn’t there a book called “Latins are Lousy Lovers” written back a lot of years ago? Well, they were then and they still are. You’d be a prize catch.”

Sampling the green beans in olive oil and lemon juice, Cory smacked his lips and went on. “You just have to learn to look differently at the world. When we first came here, Jill was just like you. She was a party gal back in the States, and life looked pretty dull over here. But she settled in. She gardens, goes to market, wouldn’t go back to city life in the States for love nor money. She speaks Italian like a native, and we’ve been here only a little over a year. If she can do it, you could too.”

Stan looked skeptical.

Cory held up the cup of black coffee. “See, life in Italy is just like this. I couldn’t stand the taste of the coffee when I first came here, but now I wouldn’t even think of drinking the dish water that passes for coffee back in the States.”

“Well, just wait. I’ve heard they’re going to have roadblocks during the day and will be moving them out to the countryside. You’ll sing a different tune then.”

*****

The sergeant saluted and asked for identification. Cory reached into his pocket, and for a moment thought he had lost his wallet. A search and an explanation in his broken Italian produced stony silence from the sergeant and no wallet. Then it occurred to Cory that he had changed to his best suit for today’s presentation and had left the wallet in his other trousers.

The sergeant stood in the pouring rain listening patiently to his explanation and even practiced some of his very inadequate English on Cory. The gist of what he said was, “Well, if you forgot your wallet, why don’t you just turn around and go back and get it?”

“Grazie. Grazie.” Cory heaved a sigh of relief. Would that have ever happened in the States? Never. Absolutely never! At least a fifty-dollar fine for driving without a license. Probably a search for marijuana. Certainly extra citations for a broken windshield wiper or for some other inane reason. No! Italians were just plain civilized. No other word for them.

The rain had gradually become a full-blown storm, but it was only five miles to the house. Still enough time to get to the office and put the finishing touches on the presentation for the Ministro delle Comunicazione who was flying in from Rome.

Pulling up in front of the house, Cory rushed up the steps through the pelting downpour and into the shelter of the overhang. It was then he remembered he’d left his keys in the car. What else could go wrong? Would Jill be awake? Never mind. This was too important to worry about her beauty sleep. He pounded on the door. After a few moments, he heard the bedroom window open.

“Che cosa?” Jill’s Italian was good, but her American accent was unmistakable. She was peering out of the open window and at the same time trying to shield herself from the rain.

“I left my wallet in my other trousers, and there’s a roadblock on the road to Milan. They won’t let me through without an ID. Bring it down, will you? And hurry. I’ve got to handle that presentation for the Rome bigwigs this morning.”

The head disappeared and reappeared almost instantly. “Here it is. Catch.”

He caught it handily, stuffed it into his pocket, hollered, “Thanks” and ran back through the downpour to his car.

The same sergeant, now all smiles, greeted him as he pulled up to the roadblock. Part of the good humor was probably a reflection of the improving weather, which had now subsided to a light drizzle. The sergeant opened the wallet, gave it a cursory glance, started to close it, opened it again, then said, “Scuzi. Momento. I need talk to Capitano.”

What was it? Surely his residency card couldn’t have expired. It was good for at least six more months. His driver’s license? No. A standard international one that had never been challenged before. Cory shrugged. A minor bureaucratic mixup. Surely something easily resolved here in Italy.
He took advantage of the sergeant’s departure to phone his secretary. Wonderful news. Because of the weather, the Ministro’s plane hadn’t been able to land at the Milan airport. The presentation was being put off until late afternoon. Cory decided that a day that had begun badly had now turned completely around. Another indication of the turn-around was the fact that the short, rotund capitano approaching the car even spoke passable English.

“You are perhaps making the joke, sir.” He held the wallet open and faced it toward Cory who was leaning out of the window to get a better look. “You are most certainly not the Mayor of Rivorno.”

There, peering out at him from the corner of an ID card and behind the glassine surface was a very Italian face wearing a charming smile.

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