The Piranhas, The Boy Bosses of Naples

by Roberto Saviano

  “But what does Pisciazziello know about anything? His brother’s always outside the door, not him,” Biscottino finally managed to get out, regaining a more comfortable posture, with his back straight, but Nicolas accelerated brusquely and zipped along down the center line of the road at 55 m.p.h. Traffic was getting tighter and the side mirrors of the cars were grazing the T-Max’s handlebar.

  “Carlito’s Way goes around to collect money for Roipnol. That means he leaves him unguarded for a certain period.” He fell silent and looked into the mirror. “You’re shitting your pants at the idea of doing this piece of work, aren’t you, Biscottino?! You can tell me, eh! There’s no problem, we can find another solution.”

  “No, I’m not shitting my pants,” Biscottino replied.

  “What?”

  “I’m not shitting my pants!”

  “What? I didn’t hear you!”

  “I’M NOT SHITTING MY PANTS!!!”

  Without slowing down, Nicolas pulled all the way over onto the right and continued along slowly, just as he’d started out, until he got Biscottino back home.

  The equation had been solved.

  * * *

  Since the day they’d moved, Crescenzio Roipnol had never set foot outside their new home. His wife upbraided him for being a shut-in, and he had promised her he’d break that isolation. The truth was that Roipnol was too damned scared to go out. In fact, he was terrified, and he did his best to combat his terror with pills, but then he’d just started slurring his words more than usual, and that only pissed off Maddalena worse. A vicious circle, from within which, however, Crescenzio still managed to command the quarter, run the markets, and other solid resistance to Maraja’s paranza. The hardest thing for Roipnol was managing to repress his urge to exterminate these kids. No murders, o’ Micione had told him. Okay, Roipnol had replied, and he really couldn’t say anything else. Roipnol’s army was a scattered force. Loyal, powerful, but dispersed in all directions because it was required to control and contain, two contrasting movements that at times like these could conflict and create unexpected friction. Even cracks and fissures.

  What Biscottino saw—leaning against the same wall from which he had just a short time before witnessed the transfer of the Madonna of Pompeii—he might not necessarily call a crack, or even a fissure, but certainly a fuckup, a strunzata. How could it be that Roipnol, someone who thought he was a king, could allow his page boy, Carlito’s Way, to stay out on his rounds for two hours, when he was just going down to pick up the betting proceeds from the back room? Could someone who operated all those markets and took credit for murders he’d had nothing to do with rely on a chump like Pisciazziello to do his shopping and pay his bills? Perhaps, Biscottino concluded with a thought that filled him with pride, Roipnol deserved to die because he didn’t know how to command his men.

  * * *

  When he arrived in Forcella the next day, he leaned the motor scooter that Lollipop had let him borrow not far from the entrance to the Church of Santa Maria Egiziaca, the one that opened out onto Corso Umberto. He told himself church. He told himself saints. He told himself Madonna. He told himself Baby Jesus. He told himself why not. In there, people help themselves, in there people make promises, in there people seek confirmation, and with a shambling step he went in. It was a church he knew, but only in a manner of speaking. Like everyone, he was accustomed to the gold, the sumptuousness of the images, and the profusion of decorations: even to his friends from Scampia, Naples was the churches, the apartment buildings, the gray and the ashy flames of the piperno stone, all that beauty with no other purpose than to be beautiful. Beauty mixed with holiness, superstition, and hope. And it was hope that drove Biscottino into the church in search of saints, male and female, Madonnas, any interlocutor. He was overwhelmed by the images and colors, by the sweeping gestures of fleshy arms, the sky blues carved out of the gold, the faces of piety and martyrdom. He tried with the Madonna, or actually with the Madonnas, but not a word came out of his mouth, he didn’t know how to put himself in touch with Her. “Madonna of the Paranza…” he said, gazing at the sweet figure who perfumed the air from on high. He stopped, with nothing more to say. Or, rather, he postponed that prayer, as if he could only climb to those heights with patience, step by step. He searched for a saint, a recognizable saint, but to no effect. In the arms of Madonnas and saints, he saw the Christ Childs, the Baby Jesuses—those he could make out clearly. Without taking his eyes off the light that came pouring in through the cupola and the large windows along the aisles, he focused on a Christ Child, which actually sort of looked like him, though he’d never admit it to anyone. He straightened the collar of his T-shirt, adjusted the pistol stuck down his shorts, ran his hand over his head, and checked to make sure that the two little old ladies kneeling in their pews were paying him no attention. He let himself be inspired by the peace and quiet that magically settled him inside the church, as if it were a space protected from the outside world, even though that world could still be heard, its noise automobile traffic. “Jesus,” he tried saying, and then repeated it: “Jesus.” He remembered the gesture of prayer but couldn’t seem to put his hands together, they wouldn’t stay together, palm against palm, they just hung in the air. “Jesus, St. Cyrus, St. Dominic, St. Francis, let me go upstairs to see that asshole, and let the asshole come outside, let me tell him to go and let him go.” In truth, he had a hard time envisioning the scene in these exact terms, Roipnol leaving, La Culona following him, but his prayer could only reach the boundaries of what was possible, and if he’d gone into the church for anything, it was to ensure that he could keep the Desert Eagle tucked away in his pants where it sat now, and that words might be enough. The word that can move the earth, when it wishes, when it can. That’s why people pray, isn’t it? Wasn’t that why? And at that point another thought entered his mind. “Baby Jesus,” he went on, “someday let me have a paranza all my own.” He tried to add a promise since, he knew, if you ask for something, you have to give something in exchange. No words came to him, and so he ended his speech by repeating words that came to him in an ancient voice, a voice that was ancient even in him, even though he was a child. He said: “I’ll be good.” And that goodness presented itself to his eyes as a hero of the people, a Masaniello, someone with a sword, a superhero who took to the air from San Martino sopra Spaccanapoli and soared down over Sanità, swooping under the bridge. A bloody Christ, the rope that had lashed Him to the Column still hanging from His neck, seemed to look at him with understanding and pity. Luckily, He was confined in a glass display case. “I’ll be good,” he said again, and then left the church as quickly as he had entered it.

  He knew he’d have no difficulty finding Pisciazziello in the general area, because La Culona thought of him as a sort of adopted son—her husband had been in prison too long, and now it was too late for her to have one of her own—and she liked having him around, just so she could play at having a family. And you trust your own son, don’t you? Biscottino saw him just now, entering Roipnol’s apartment house, and he ran to catch him. He explained that he wanted to work with that crew, playing the part that Nicolas had told him to play. And he did it very well, singsonging the words as he had in church. Pisciazziello must have mistaken that tone of voice for true desperation, because he just kept saying: “Why, of course…” Of course, he’d take him up, he’d even do it right now. He was heading there himself.

  They galloped up the stairs and, in front of the armor-reinforced door, Pisciazziello looked up into the video camera.

  “Signo’, this is Biscottino, a friend of mine. He’s shitting his pants now that Roipnol took down ’o Mellone. He says he’s afraid that everyone who works with ’o Maraja’s paranza are going to wind up the same way.” Without realizing it, he’d used the same tone of voice that Biscottino had just used, and La Culona’s metallic voice replied: “And right he is to be afraid. Picciri’, come on in.”

  Pisciazziello turned the handle and the door swung ope
n. He took a step forward, but Biscottino grabbed him by the T-shirt and said, covering his mouth with one hand so the video camera couldn’t read his lips: “Tengo scuorno—I’m ashamed—of doing it in front of you, I’d rather go in by myself.” Pisciazziello stopped at the threshold. He seemed uncertain. What he was about to say would determine how that day went. If he’d insisted on going in with him, what would happen next? “Sweet Jesus…” Biscottino said to himself.

  “Okay,” Pisciazziello replied, “we’ll see you round,” and went downstairs.

  Biscottino remained in the doorway for a few seconds, the time it required to feel certain Pisciazziello hadn’t changed his mind, and then he entered the apartment, using the voices of Roipnol and his wife to guide him. He immediately recognized the furniture that he’d glimpsed from the street during the move-in and he could still smell fresh paint. La Culona was sitting comfortably on the Pompeiian red sofa, while Roipnol leaned over a dark hardwood desk. The half-closed shutters let a narrow shaft of light into the room and more light came from a standing lamp in the corner. In the interplay of shadows thus created, Roipnol’s face seemed to be cut in two, day and night. That man with slumping shoulders and the facial features of an asp—tiny, close-set eyes, thin lips curved in a feral smile, shiny flesh—now practically resembled a Viking. He seemed neither surprised nor frightened, and for that matter La Culona had maintained her composure. Biscottino recited his phrase: “We’re in charge now. You and La Culona need to clear out.”

  “Ah, that’s news to me,” said Roipnol, but speaking to his wife. Now the line of sight framed his ear, the back of his head, his freshly dyed hair. “You were still in your father’s balls when I was defending your quarter by gutting ’o Boa. I was the one who kept our Mangiafuoco, from Sanità.” Then he turned to look at Biscottino again. “Whoever sent you, you need to go back and tell them that Forcella is mine by right!”

  “No one sent me,” Biscottino replied. He’d taken a step forward, the slightest movement, to get better aim.

  “Muccusie’,” said Roipnol, calling him a little snotnose, and turning once again toward his wife, “how the hell do you dare?”

  “You’re going to get hurt, Roipnol.” Another short step.

  “Oh, oh, do you hear how this little muschillo”—the Neapolitan term for a child dope pusher—“roars. Do you think I’m afraid of a child like you?”

  “It took me ten years to become a child, but it’ll take me just a second to shoot you in the face.”

  The burst of flame from the Desert Eagle took a snapshot of the room. Roipnol openmouthed, both hands on his face as if he could do anything to protect it. La Culona, unexpectedly agile, throwing herself on her husband, she, too, laboring under the illusion that she could protect him. Then everything went back to shadow and light. Biscottino ran out of the living room, and that’s where he stopped, glued to the spot. He turned around and went back, lifted the gun again, and took a bead on La Culona’s ass cheeks. Would the air leak out of those two beach balls? he wondered. The bullet went straight into the right buttock, but no air came out. Disappointed, Biscottino finished off La Culona with a shot to the back of the head.

  He flew across the apartment and down the stairs with the headlong speed of his ten years, ramming into door frames and railings, but he felt nothing.

  There it was, the front entrance, a few steps, ten feet, maybe. He could already see the street, and then he couldn’t anymore, because just then Pisciazziello was coming back in with a krapfen—a doughnut—in his hand.

  The Desert Eagle was still hot, it was scorching Biscottino’s skin, and he thought for one insane second about pulling it out and eliminating this witness, too.

  “But what happened? Were those gunshots? What did you do?”

  Biscottino’s friend had stared at him, his face dusted with confectioner’s sugar. Biscottino kept running, tossing over his shoulder just “Magnat’ ’a kraffa.” Eat your doughnut.

  BROTHERS

  The ’O Sole Mio beauty salon had a very limited website. A couple of photographs and a cell phone number. The girl who’d answered Lollipop’s phone call had made him tell her twice that they were supposed to keep the beauty salon reserved until closing time—the whole place. “Amm’ ’a festeggià ’nu battesimo!” He’d repeated that they were celebrating a baptism. The girl seemed more and more baffled: “’Nu battesimo? At a beauty salon? Ma che stai pazziando? Is this a prank?”

  Lollipop had ended the call, and then he’d shown up ten minutes later, holding out two thousand euros to the girl, all in hundred-euro notes. Then he’d sent out the message over the chat:

  Lollipop

  Guagliù, this afternoon everyone comes to celebrate Biscottì’s baptism. Let’s all go get a suntan!

  The message reached the paranza loud and clear:

  Maraja

  Uà, way too cool!!

  Biscottino

  Hai scassato i ciessi!!!

  Stavodicendo

  Wow, I’m going to get a full-body waxing!!

  At three on the dot, when the shop was scheduled to reopen, the girl saw Tucano and Stavodicendo, first through the door, carrying in their crossed forearms the guest of honor. All three of them had their hair cut like Genny Savastano, and behind them appeared Nicolas with a red inflatable crown on his head that made him look really tall. Lollipop and Drone had popped it onto his head just outside the door. Right after him came Drago’ and Dentino, covered with gold bracelets and necklaces that made them resemble nothing so much as the Madonna of Loreto, shouting: “Happy birthday, Biscotti’, you’re a big boy now!”

  They all took a turn under the tanning lamps, then came a pedicure, a face wax, and a body wax, and finally they rolled a couple of joints in the relaxation room, all buddy-buddy. For Biscottino’s baptism of fire, they’d brought a little baggie of pink cocaine they wanted the birthday boy, the guest of honor, to try. Nicolas pulled the baggie out of his bathrobe pocket and laid out a line on the teak bench, inviting Biscottino to enjoy the first dance: “We scratched the back of the Pink Panther, and look what a nice baggie of sfuoglio came out!” Sfuoglio: top-quality coke.

  Biscottino took his first snort; to start with, he was handling it well, but before five minutes were up, he started jumping around, doing handstands and cartwheels all over the room, until the others couldn’t take anymore of that activity and sent him off to take a nice long sensory shower.

  While they were swinging in the hammocks, without a hair left on their bodies, except for Dentino, who’d insisted on keeping the hairs on his chest where a gold medallion swung on a chain, big enough to extend from nipple to nipple, Lollipop asked: “But why don’t you take some of this money and fix your teeth, instead of wasting it all on these gold chains?”

  “This way the girls like me better. I have a window in my mouth and they can see what I have inside me.”

  “We can all see the disgusting mess you have inside you clear as day,” Lollipop retorted.

  “What the fuck did you do to your teeth in the first place?” asked Drone.

  It was a story Dentino never told. But since he’d started to be feared, to have a little money and a steady girlfriend, he didn’t mind the defect anymore, it had become his distinguishing feature.

  “I was playing basketball, right? And then I got in a fight with some asshole, and at a certain point he hit me in the face with the ball. Do you know how much a basketball weighs? It broke my two front teeth, one on top and one on the bottom.”

  “No, what the fuck, there’s no way you were playing basketball! Who’d believe that! You’re only a yard and change tall in the first place!”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself,” Dentino retorted. Then he turned around to look at Tucano, and he decided to ask a question he’d been wondering about for some time: “What about you, Tuca’, why do they call you that?”

  Tucano didn’t look even a little like a toucan: his nose was small, his beard apostolic. It’s just that one day,
while he was riding on his scooter with Briato’ behind him, an insect flew into his mouth. He started spitting, in the throes of retching, then he pulled over, jammed two fingers down his throat, trying to find the bug that kept fluttering and struggling against his palate and his tongue. Once he finally managed to get rid of the insect, he came out with this phrase: “Ua’! M’era finito ’nu tucano in bocca!” Wow, a toucan flew into my mouth.

  Briato’ had laughed till the tears streamed down his cheeks over that mispronounced “tucano” for tafano, or horsefly, and so the name Massimo Rea had been deleted from the collective consciousness of all those who knew him, and he had instead simply become Tucano.

  “What about Briato’, why do we call him that…?”

  Nicolas got out of the hammock and Lollipop said: “Silence, everyone, the king is about to speak.”

  Maraja, arranging the crown on his head, explained: “I was there. It was the last day of eighth grade and our science teacher asked everyone in the class to take turns saying what we wanted to be when we grew up. Everyone’s reeling off lawyer, chef, soccer player, city commissioner … And all Briato’ said was: ‘Flavio Briatore.’”

  Then Nicolas nodded his head and the others stood up. They went to join Biscottino in the sensory showers. He was lying belly down, under the jet of jasmine-scented water; every so often he’d open his mouth and take a drink. As soon as he saw them, he got up: “Ué, what the hell happened to you all?!” He kept touching his nose, as if he, too, had a horsefly up a nostril, and he looked at them in bewilderment.

  They all got undressed together and suddenly found themselves naked, pressed up close. “Now let’s measure ourselves,” said Drone, waggling his big old dick and forcing all the others to look at it and look at the dicks of the other paranzini. They all automatically got in line, imitating Drone, dicks in hand and bellies outthrust. “Let’s raise the flag!” and they all bent backward. “Break ranks!” Nicolas ordered, vanishing into the mist of steam emerging from the colorful shower stalls. Drago’ grabbed Biscottino by the dick and dragged him around the room: “This’ll make it get longer,” he said, and the others all burst out laughing and then hurried into the showers, often in pairs, often moving from one shower stall to the next to try different colors or else to sample the sequence of aromas. Pesce Moscio concentrated and cut a fart, whereupon Drone pretended to die under a bright blue gush of beneficent waters.