In a few minutes, the whole playground turned into a melee of confusion and shouting, a mess it was impossible to untangle and picture clearly. Then Biscottino, putting on a respectful face that ill became him, broke in to restore the peace: “Signo’, Signo’, don’t worry, I’ll get rid of them, I’ll get rid of them for you, ladies!” and he turned and started shouting at the Gypsies: “Get out, get out of here! Zingari ’e mmerda! Jatevénne!” Calling them a bunch of fucked-up Gypsies in dialect, he told them to clear out.
He and Teletabbi started shooing them out. They’d go a certain distance, but then come back, over and over. That was when Biscottino started saying: “Signo’, if you give me five euros, I’ll get rid of them for the whole day, and you won’t see them again!”
That was the toll they needed to pay if they wanted to enjoy the playground undisturbed; the women figured it out fast, and so some of them handed them five euros, others just gave them three … Each gave according to what she had … and that was fine with them.
Once they’d gathered the money, the paranzina said goodbye and the playground went back to its usual routine, like before they arrived.
Biscottino headed over toward Nicolas and Briato’ and introduced them to Pisciazziello and Teletabbi. Pisciazziello said to Nicolas: “I know you, I’ve seen you with my brother!”
“Give him my regards. How’s Carlito’s Way?”
“Out of his mind.”
“Good, that means he’s happy.”
“But he’s the best,” said Biscottino, referring to his friend. “Working together we pull a ridiculous con.”
“Like how?” asked Briato’. After what they’d seen, he was no longer surprised at what those little snotnoses would come up with next.
“Basically, once the Gypsies get out of here, he shows up and snatches two or three purses. You see, the grandmothers leave them on the benches … And I chase him down and get back their handbags for them. The ladies are so grateful they give ten euros, sometimes twenty. The grandmothers are always loaded.”
Nicolas bent over and squatted down to look them right in the eyes and, putting a hand on Biscottino’s shoulder and the other on Pisciazziello’s, squeezing slightly, he said: “How much do you pay these little Gypsies, these rometielli?”
“No, I don’t pay them a cent … I buy them a fried pizza, a croquette or two. For instance, now they’re working for free because I gave them my sister’s bicycle, she doesn’t ride it anymore anyway.”
So these little feral puppies had found their own way of making money with their inventive shakedowns, establishing an alliance with the Gypsies. He was going to have to find someone higher up he could make an alliance with, that was fundamental if he wanted to start a paranza of his own. But who? Don Feliciano Striano had turned state’s witness, Copacabana was hanging tough, but still, he was in Poggioreale prison, and Micione was the outsider devouring the heart of Naples.
SOLDERING IRON
They were in the back room, as usual, when at a certain point, with his smartphone in hand, Tucano said: “Guagliu’, look at this. Look at this item on Twitter.”
No one looked up, only Lollipop commented: “Those assholes who do fantasy soccer leagues.”
“It’s got nothing to do with fantasy soccer. They’ve completely cleared out the New Maharaja. Every stick of furniture. There’s an article here.”
Nicolas immediately said: “Send me the link.”
His eyes darted from one page to the next, and with his thumb he ran over photographs, statements. They’d broken in at night and taken everything that wasn’t nailed down. Everything. Dishes, utensils, computers, candelabra, chairs. A truck had come and hauled off everything on the place’s weekly closing day. The alarms had been deactivated.
“Fuck,” said Nicolas. “And now I’m curious to see who it was. And especially what that shithead Oscar does now, if he just gives up.”
He immediately called Oscar, but there was no answer. So he sent him a text: “It’s me, Nicolas, answer.” Nothing. He texted him again: “It’s me, Nicolas, answer, super-urgent.” Nothing. He called Stavodicendo: “Hey, did you see what happened at the New Maharaja?”
“No, what happened?”
“They cleaned the place out!”
“What are you talking about?”
“That means they left nothing! We’ve got to figure out who it was.”
“Why? What are you now, a private detective?”
“Stavodicendo, if we can figure out who it was, the private back room is ours for good, no one will take it away again…”
“If they stole everything in the place, then maybe it’ll shut down.”
“Impossible. With that terrace over Posillipo, no one can shut them down. Come on home!”
Stavodicendo arrived an hour later.
“What the fuck did you do?” Nicolas greeted him. In that hour, he’d thought of everything, including pulling out the Francotte and holding it on him for a while, to see how long it took him to start shitting his pants. But then Stavodicendo made him change his mind: “I went and talked to my father.”
Stavodicendo’s father had been a fence for years, and now that he was out of prison, he was working as a waiter in a restaurant at Borgo Marinari.
“My dad told me that we need to go…” and as he sat down on the bed, he paused dramatically.
“Where?!”
“Eh, I was just saying, to see the Gypsies.”
“To see the Gypsies?”
“Eh, I was just saying exactly that! We need to go see the Gypsies.”
“Well?”
“My dad said that he was pretty sure that it was either the Gypsies or else someone trying to make money off the insurance. Which would mean that Oscar and them did it themselves.”
“That would seem strange,” Nicolas said quickly. “They’ve got plenty of money.”
Stavodicendo had clasped his hands behind his head and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Nicolas was aiming the gun at him, but he didn’t so much as blink. The confidence he lacked in speaking and the obsessive use of words that had earned him his nickname was more than made up for by the cold composure he maintained in the face of the most dangerous situations.
“Ah, so you brought a gat, too,” he said in a raucous voice.
“Exactly,” Nicolas replied, and tucked the pistol down the back of his pants. “Let’s go pay a call on the Gypsies.”
They hopped onto Nicolas’s Beverly and pushed past Gianturco. They headed straight for the Gypsy camp. A favela that, before it reached your eyes, wafted right up your nostrils, with its stench of unwashed clothing, sunbaked corrugated sheet metal, filthy children wallowing in the mud. Waiting to meet them, in front of the trailers, were just women and children. All around them a horde of little kids chased after them, shrieking, playing with a half-inflated ball. As soon as he got off his scooter, Nicolas immediately turned aggressive and started shouting into their faces: “Who’s in charge here? Do you have a fucking leader or not?” Among the many strategies that could be adopted, that of the dog that barks first and loudest struck him as the most effective.
“What do you want, who are you looking for?” a woman replied; she was broad in the beam and stood up from the plastic chair she’d been sitting in, and took a few wobbly steps toward him.
“I want to talk to your leader, your husband, whoever the fuck is in charge here. Who is it who goes and does your stealing for you? Who cleans out villas? Who is it that robbed the New Maharaja? L’aggi’ ’a sapé! I need to know!”
“Get the hell out of here!” A young kid showed up and started shoving him. Where had he materialized from? In response Nicolas simply kneed the kid in the gut, knocking him to the ground, in front of the women, who came running awkwardly, tripping over their overlong skirts. The woman who looked to be the youngest, her ash-blond hair pulled back under a scarf, spoke to Stavodicendo: “What are you two here for? What do you want?” There wasn’t so much as a gra
m of fear in her voice, only surprise and annoyance.
In the meantime, the other women were yanking at Nicolas, pulling him here and there by the hem of his T-shirt; he seemed fought over much more than under attack. He tried to brace himself to regain his balance, but then another woman would come along and tug him toward her. If Nicolas hadn’t drawn his gun and aimed it at the demented swarm, the dance could have gone on indefinitely. And then it all happened at once: he found a biceps wrapped around his neck, crushing his throat from behind. He couldn’t catch his breath, and it felt as if his Adam’s apple was in his mouth. While his vision was growing blurry, he saw Stavodicendo take off at a run toward the motor scooter.
The Gypsies didn’t seem to notice, or more likely they didn’t care; they’d captured the one they were interested in. They dragged Nicolas into a shack and tied him to a wooden chair with metal legs they must have stolen from a school or a medical clinic, then they started slapping and punching him, asking him obsessively what he was looking for and why he’d come: “Now we’re going to kill you.”
“Did you want to shoot at our children?”
Nicolas felt himself infected by fear, and the thought disgusted him, because he certainly had no reason to be afraid of Gypsies. He kept on saying: “You’re thieves, you’re thieves!” He seemed completely stunned. And the more he repeated it, the more punches and slaps he took.
In the meantime, Stavodicendo was going to get the one person capable of helping, the only one with blue blood: Drago’. He was a Striano and the Gypsies couldn’t even live in the camp without the approval of the families. But Drago’s cell phone wasn’t picking up; after he called for the third time without getting an answer, Stavodicendo raced to Forcella.
When Stavodicendo finally found him, he was in the back room playing pool. Stavodicendo went in without a word to anyone and rushed over to Drago’, who was bent over the table.
“Drago’, we’ve got to get going, come on, come on, come on!”
“What’s going on?” asked Drago’, who’d figured out this was a serious matter and had put down his pool cue.
“Nicolas, the Gypsies took him!”
“Right, right, sure, they kidnapped him,” he said, laughing.
“No, they really got him, get moving, come on!”
Drago’ didn’t say another word, left the unfinished game, and followed him out. On the motor scooter Stavodicendo shouted out an explanation of how they’d wound up there.
“But did he really fuck up like that?”
“He says that they were Gypsies but, like I was just saying, I really don’t know who those people are.”
Meanwhile, the man who must have been the boss came into the shack where Nicolas was being held prisoner. He moved as if everything in that space belonged to him. Not human beings, not even animals. Just things. And of course, things that were his property. He wore an Adidas tracksuit that seemed to have just come from the store. It was a couple of sizes too big, and so the Gypsy had rolled the sleeves back a couple of times and the pants dragged on the ground. He was clearly worried about the invasion and greedily chewed on a toothpick. He spoke only a halting Italian; he must have just arrived in the country.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Nicolas, from Tribunali.”
“Who do you belong to?”
“To myself.”
“You belong to yourself? They told me that you were sticking your gun in the kids’ faces. Around here you’re going to die, you know that?”
“You can’t kill me.”
“Why not? Do you think we’re afraid that your mother might come around here looking for the last few scraps of you?” The Gypsy was avoiding Nicolas’s eyes, and he walked along staring at the tips of his shoes. Adidas. Gleaming and new. “Around here you’re going to die,” he said again.
“No, instead around here you earn the right to go on living,” said Nicolas, and he rotated his head to bring them all into it. Then he went on, addressing the leader of the group: “You earn the right to go on living because when I become the head boss, I won’t come here to kill you and all the rest of you Gypsies one by one. That means you can’t hurt me, because if you do, you’ll all die.” The backhanded smack that hit him square on his right cheekbone blurred his vision, then Nicolas blinked his eyes a couple of times and the man in the tracksuit swam back into sight.
“Ah, so you’re going to become a boss…”
Another backhanded smack, this time delivered without the same conviction. The cheek was already red, the capillaries were lacerated, but there was no bleeding yet, just a hint on the teeth, on account of the lips slamming against them. They were curious to know who was behind him, and that’s what they were worried about. He heard a chorus of children’s voices outside, and a man stuck his head into the shack: “Your friend is back.”
Then he heard Stavodicendo’s voice: “Nicolas, Nicolas, where are you?”
“Ah, look, your little girlfriend came back,” said the leader, and hit him again. In the meantime, Drago’ and Stavodicendo had been surrounded by the usual group of woman and little kids. Entering that Gypsy camp was like stamping on an anthill: people came running by the dozen the way ants climb up your foot, your ankle, your calf to defend their nest.
“I’m Luigi Striano,” Drago’ shouted. “You know my father.”
Silence fell over the shack and the circle of bodies that was tightening around the two young men fell back, too.
“My father is Nunzio Striano, ’o Viceré, brother of Feliciano Striano, ’o Nobile, my grandfather is Luigi Striano, ’o Sovrano, and I have his same name.”
At the words ’o Viceré, the Viceroy, the head of the Gypsies froze in place, rolled up the sleeves of his tracksuit as if to make himself presentable, and walked out of the shack. As he walked up, there formed a path through the people who had surrounded Drago’ and Stavodicendo, the way the stalks of wheat move aside with every step through a field.
“You’re the son of ’o Viceré?”
“Sì, è pàtemo.” Yes, he confirmed, that’s my father.
“I’m Mojo,” he said, extending his hand. “What the fuck are these people doing? What the fuck are you doing here? We got no word from ’o Viceré, what’s going on?”
“Let me talk to Nicolas.”
When they found him, he was smiling brashly. Now things were turned around, and he could afford to work up a mouthful of spit and blood, which he used to soil the Gypsy’s fucking spotless tracksuit. The gob of spit landed with great precision on the black Trefoil logo, and Mojo lunged forward. But Drago’ blocked him with the flat of his hand, reminding him of where he’d come from and to where he, Mojo, would be sent back.
“Untie him, and fast,” said Drago’.
Mojo tilted his head and Nicolas was freed. Drago’ was tempted to ask Nicolas what the fuck he was doing there, but Mojo would then have understood that they weren’t there at Viceré’s behest at all, so he went on with the masquerade: “Nicolas, explain to Mojo exactly why you’re here!”
“Because you stole, you stole from the New Maharaja.”
“We haven’t stolen anything.”
“Yes, it was you, and now you have to give it all back.”
Mojo put his hand around his neck: “But we didn’t steal a fucking thing!”
“Easy, easy,” and Stavodicendo separated them.
Nicolas looked at him: “Well, the New Maharaja in Posillipo was picked clean, and only you could have done it, they used trucks.”
“We didn’t do a fucking thing.”
Drago’ improvised: “My father thinks it was you, though, all the families in the System think so.”
Mojo raised both arms in surrender and then invited them to follow him: “Come and see, come take a look at the vans!” There were three white Fiat Fiorino vans, without logos on the side, identical and well cared for. Unsuspectable. Ready to go.
Mojo opened the van doors and, while he did his best to clean the spit
off his tracksuit with the back of his hand, he said: “Look, look at what’s here.” In the dim light, they could make out boxes containing washing machines, refrigerators, television sets, even a complete set of kitchen appliances. There were lawn mowers, hedge trimmers, electric saws, a glittering array of tools for an avid gardener, as if Naples were a city suited for someone with a green thumb. All things that had nothing to do with the New Maharaja.
“Eh, you’re no fool,” said Nicolas, “you got rid of the stuff from the New Maharaja right away, maybe it’s already safe in Roma land.”
“We haven’t stolen a fucking thing, and if we had I’d be naming a price right now. I wouldn’t give anything back free of charge.”
“My father would have made you give it back free of charge,” said Drago’.
“Even your father has to bargain with Mojo.”
Mojo had shown that he didn’t pull bullshit moves, and now he could afford to sit on his high horse with those three kids.
“What’s your name … Mocio Vileda,” he said mocking him by calling him the name of a popular mop, “my father would have come here, burned down the whole camp, and sold off whatever he wanted, you understand that or not?”
“Why does ’o Viceré want to burn?” Mojo looked worried and the boys loved it.
The Piranhas, The Boy Bosses of Naples Page 10