“Do you like your party, Biscotti’, are you having fun?” Nicolas asked him, and he pinched his cheek.
“Yeah, great … but where were you all?” he asked him.
“We were telling each other our stories, about how we got our names…”
Biscottino interrupted him: “Eh, in fact, I’ve always wondered why the fuck it is that Drone has such a great name. Lo vulesse pure io accussì—I wish I had one like that—because Biscottino really makes me puke!”
Drago’, unrecognizable with his hair plastered down onto the top of his head by the spray jets, slapped Drone on the back: “Now this man earned his monicker. In all of Italy he’s the only one who bought all thousand weekly inserts at two euros and ninety-nine cents from the series Build Your Own Drone. Not only did he collect them all, he’s the only one who ever managed to actually build the damned drone. And it even flew!”
“No, are you for real?” asked Biscottino, staring at Drone in amazement.
“Ua’, not even Dan Bilzerian has a drone!”
“What are you talking about, he has dozens. I’m one of his followers on Instagram.”
“Me, too, and I’ve never seen a drone.”
The masseuse, a girl Pesce Moscio would have liked, came in to tell them that ’O Sole Mio was closing, and that they needed to get dressed and go. The party was over. It would start up again a few hours later at the New Maharaja.
* * *
The city wears a crown on its head, a crown of buildings standing two, three, at the very most four stories tall, always waiting for an amnesty for their violations of the building code—settlements that have swollen until they’ve become towns. And all around them lies the countryside, a reminder of what the past must have been like for townships now attacked and suffocated by cement. It always surprised everyone, even those who weren’t born there, that you need only take a couple of turns off the main road and you’d find yourself in the middle of farmland. And just a couple of miles in the opposite direction, Nicolas was bombarded by shafts of light as he bobbed his head to the beat of a song from the sixties, rearranged to a disco beat. Maraja was at the New Maharaja and he was pretending to enjoy himself at the graduation party for the son of the lawyer Caiazzo, legal talent for the Acanfora clan and the Strianos before they turned state’s witnesses, as well as for the Faellas, soccer players, and VIPs of all sorts. The boy had majored in political science. His father had handled the drug-dealing case that had sent Alvaro behind bars. An hour earlier they’d finished their party for Biscottino. They’d surrounded him, locking their arms in a chain, and then taken turns dousing him with champagne. They’d drunk toasts to the piazzas, because now that Roipnol was dead those piazzas were going to belong to them. And then they’d drunk another toast to the health of Briato’ and Pesce Moscio, both wounded in combat. Last of all, they’d ejected the guest of honor, Biscottino, right out of the club: his present was waiting outside. His new scooter. But Counselor Caiazzo had brought a special gift for the whole paranza: the news of the conditional suspension of the guilty sentence from Maraja’s old trial.
“Good work, Counselor,” said Dentino.
“Moët e Chandon to celebrate,” shouted Maraja, “two bottles … amm’ ’a festeggià! We’ve got to party!”
“Guagliu’, it’s a suspended sentence, it means that if you get sentenced again, they revoke the suspension, and you have to serve all those years.”
They hoisted their glasses, crying: “Counselor, we’re untouchable!”
* * *
Now Nicolas’s head was elsewhere. He wouldn’t be sitting down for more than two minutes at a time before he stood up, went into the private dining room, and then came back out, or he’d go and get an Acapulco—the lawyer’s son had demanded that the party have a tropical theme—and then he’d go out and take a turn around the dance floor, put his arms around Letizia, exchange a few words with someone or other. But the whole time he kept one eye on his smartphone. The little numbers over the names in the chats kept clicking upward, but he was interested in only one name—a name that stayed at the bottom of his list. The DJ turned off the music and light filled the club; the time had come for Counselor Caiazzo to make a speech. The capillaries on his face were particularly prominent, and he’d unbuttoned his shirt almost all the way down to his belly button. Pathetic, thought Nicolas, but then when the lawyer called for silence and, a moment later, for a round of applause for his son, Maraja put down the Acapulco and clapped loudly, with conviction. Counselor Caiazzo had dragged a little white armchair to the foot of the canvas that depicted the Indian king, an armchair chosen at random out of the great abundance of chairs in the club—chairs that Oscar had made a great point of having reupholstered in a white fabric because, he said, this was a baptism. Caiazzo climbed up onto it and, as he tried to find a comfortable point of balance, started stepping on the cushion with his pair of suede Santonis.
“Thanks to you all,” he said. “I see the faces of my friends, of my clients.”
And someone behind Nicolas said: “Other faces, Counselor, can’t be here, they’re on an extended holiday…”
“Yes, I did my best, but we’ll get them back here eventually! We’ll get them back here, because I only represent innocent men.”
Laughter.
“I’m so happy today to be celebrating the college degree of my son Filippo, now officially a graduate in Political Appliances.”
Laughter.
“My daughter, Carlotta, has a degree in Letters and Postcards; and my eldest son, Gian Paolo, just didn’t bother to get a degree, and now he runs a restaurant in Berlin. As you can see, they all decided to take their father as an object lesson: Don’t turn out like me!”
More laughter. Nicolas was laughing, too, and in the meanwhile he brushed one hand over Letizia’s ass while with the other, jammed in his pocket, he was waiting for his phone to vibrate.
“Anyway, Filippo, I have only the best wishes for you,” the lawyer continued. “Enjoy this day and this party, a gift from Papà, and don’t forget: You can always be unemployed tomorrow!”
A burst of laughter. The speech was over and the party could go on.
Letizia tried to drag Nicolas out onto the floor to dance because now the DJ had put on “Music Is the Power” and she couldn’t keep her feet still. Nicolas was about to tell her that he really didn’t feel like it that night, but Letizia was just so dreamy, wrapped tightly in that dress—and the way it left her whole back uncovered. Nicolas grabbed her from behind and gave her a lick on the back of the neck. She pretended to take offense and ran off, taking a few quick steps across the dance floor so her man would chase her, but just then Maraja’s smartphone vibrated and this time it was the message he was expecting. A picture of a star-spangled sky and the words “The sky over my home is always the most beautiful sky on earth.” Nicolas grabbed Letizia the same way he had before and, as she swayed her hips, rubbing up against him, he whispered in her ear: “If anyone asks about me, tell them that I’m in the private dining room. If they ask you in the private dining room, tell them I’m in the bathroom. If someone heads over to the bathroom, just say I’m out and about.”
“But why, what are you getting up to?” asked Letizia, still dancing the whole time.
“Nothing, just a little errand. ’Nu servizio. Però hann’ ’a sapé che sto ccà. But it’s important they think I’m still here. I’ll explain later.”
She watched him closely as he headed for the exit, in the alternating swaths of light and dark that made every motion isolated and unpredictable, confusing the bodies and making the faces overlap. And for an instant, as she danced with both arms high in the air, swinging her head from one side to the other, she thought she detected the flash of a stranger’s glance upon her. Renatino, with his baby face, identical to the last time she’d seen him, around the time of the beshitting, and with a man’s body in an army uniform. It was only an instant, then she lost sight of him, and on the opening notes of “Sin
gle Ladies” she ran to find Cecilia so they could imitate Beyoncé’s choreography, any and all thoughts of Renatino forgotten.
* * *
Outside, a car was waiting for Nicolas. A navy-blue Fiat Punto, just like hundreds of others that you see go by on any street in any city. Behind the wheel was Scignacane, who without so much as a word of greeting let Nicolas get in on the passenger side. They took the Asse Mediano bypass. They drove out of the city. The song from before kept echoing in Nicolas’s head. Only when he heard sheep bleating did he realize that he’d fetched up in another world. Scignacane parked the Punto on the side of the road and said: “Jamm’a vedé sta pecora…” Let’s go take a look at this sheep.
They walked along, cutting across the fields. Scignacane navigated perfectly, checking to make sure he was setting his feet carefully by the light of the phone. Then, without warning, he came to a halt, so that Nicolas almost slammed into him. “Here he is, the sheep,” said Scignacane.
He was sitting on a drystone wall that must once have served to mark off the land of a country home, now little more than a hovel, the walls half stoved in and with an improvised sheet-metal roof that downpours had folded in half. He was smoking calmly, and between one drag on his cigarette and the next, he was chatting with Drago’, who sat next to him, checking his cell phone—that slightly crooked nose projected against the dark of the night every time he turned on the phone. In front of them, you could just make out a ditch, and they were amusing themselves by tossing in the rocks they’d piled up on the low wall. They looked like a couple of elementary school kids, Nicolas thought to himself.
It was the guy sitting next to Drago’ who first noticed the presence of Nicolas and Scignacane. He turned his head and understood instantly. He turned back around to look for confirmation—if any were needed—in Drago’s eyes, but Scignacane was already standing next to him, body against body.
“Omm’ ’e mmerda,” he berated him. “Piece of shit, you ate at my house, behind my back.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything, anything at all, Scignaca’!”
Still sitting on the wall, he’d turned once again to confront Scignacane, who was now shouting into his face. Nicolas and Drago’ were barring any escape route on either side. Behind him, only the ditch.
“Really? Nothing? Look at this,” Scignacane went on, holding up a brightly glowing photo on his smartphone. “You recognize that? You recognize who this is?”
The guy tried to push his way through, shoving with his shoulders, but Nicolas and Drago’ held him in place, gripping his arms and twisting them behind his back. Scignacane jammed his phone into the back pocket of his trousers and waved for the two of them to release him. The evening’s weather had turned ugly and now the clouds were covering the moon, blocking even the faintest light from illuminating the scene. Even the sheep had stopped bleating. The only sound was the young men’s breathing, and the even faster respiration of their prisoner. He no longer even tried to defend himself; this wasn’t a situation that words could get him out of. Scignacane got a firm foothold on the uneven terrain and gave him a powerful shove that knocked him down into the ditch. He didn’t wait for the guy to get back on his feet, he pulled out his pistol and fired at him, aiming the first bullet where he’d already decided it should go. In his face. But he only caught him in the cheekbone. An injury that disfigures and makes you scream in pain, but not a fatal gunshot. The guy in the ditch started apologizing, begging for mercy. He was spitting out words mixed with blood, blood that drained down his throat every time he tried to catch his breath. Only now did Nicolas notice that Scignacane was wearing latex gloves, and instinctively he wiped his palms against the fabric of his trousers.
Meanwhile, the guy in the ditch was shouting: “You shot me in the face! What the fuck is the matter with you!” But Scignacane wasn’t done yet. In rapid succession, he fired, planting a bullet in his knee and another in his stomach. Nicolas couldn’t help but think of Tim Roth in Harvey Keitel’s arms, and just how long that agony could endure. How much blood is contained in a human body? He tried to reach back for a few glimmers of memory, but his thoughts were interrupted by Scignacane’s last shot, which went straight into the guy’s eye.
It took them an hour to fill the ditch back in, with shovels they’d found behind the hovel. The sheep had started bleating again.
* * *
Over the last few weeks, Dumbo and Christian had seen each other only a handful of times. And then nothing. Suddenly that friendship, which had entailed days at a time doing nothing, but doing it together, had evaporated. Christian hadn’t dared to ask Nicolas anything: about the paranza, the hash, the weapons … everything came to him from Nicolas’s lips, but it was Nicolas who decided when. It had always been that way between them, and anyway Christian knew that it wouldn’t be long now before he’d get an invitation from his brother, an invitation to climb up onto another rooftop, with other weapons, to riddle other dish antennas full of holes.
Christian was lying on the bed, texting Dumbo, when Nicolas walked into the bedroom. His friend hadn’t even read all those messages. The markers next to them continued to remain colorless. It was strange: Dumbo had never gone so long without checking his phone.
Nicolas had entered the bedroom the way he always did—shoving the door open with his shoulder, then kicking it shut behind him—and leaped into the air, landing on the bed. If they’d both extended their arms from each bed, they’d have been able to touch fingertips. Christian turned his head and saw the harsh profile of his brother’s face pointing toward the ceiling. Then Nicolas closed his eyes and Christian followed suit. They lay there for a while, listening to each other breathe. It was the elder brother’s prerogative to break that silence, and he did so by sliding his Air Jordans noisily off his feet, using his other foot each time. The shoes landed one atop the other. Christian opened his eyes, checked the color of the tabs on his smartphone one last time, and then clasped both hands behind his head. He was ready. He was listening.
“Adda murì mammà! Scignacane mi ha scassato ’o cazzo,” said Nicolas. I swear, Scignacane has fucking busted my balls but good. He’d uttered the obscenity cazzo as if exhaling excess air. He was getting something off his chest, and that oxygen projectile was mute testimony to the fact. Christian peeked over at his brother again. Nicolas was lying there motionless; only his lips were moving from time to time, in search of the right words. Christian turned back to stare at the ceiling, and he tried to focus on his own body. No, he didn’t know to lie there like a dead man.
Christian knew the story of Scignacane very well. He knew it as a story come from afar, a war story, a rivalry, a match, a game he couldn’t take part in, a battle in which his brother wore a helmet and a camo jumpsuit, and sometimes even carried a sword and wore a suit of armor. Christian had to stay there in the bedroom, maybe with his mother and father fighting within earshot, waiting for reports of what was happening at the barricades, on the borderline, in the citadel of vicoli. Everything had moved so quickly, lately. Nicolas’s paranza had evolved and now it was dealing in heroin directly with the Acanforas of San Giovanni a Teduccio. With Scignacane. On more than one occasion, he’d wanted to ask the reason for that nickname, but he never had, maybe to keep from ruining the image that he’d constructed of the new king of San Giovanni. A sort of pokémon, half monkey and half dog, a capable runner, an unbeatable climber. And after all, the contact with Scignacane had come about through a piece of dumb luck, and thanks to none other than Dumbo. Dumbo had served a year in Nisida—and he hadn’t talked, he hadn’t given up anyone’s name—and that’s where he’d met him. This story, too, Christian had heard a million times, and every time that Dumbo himself told it to him—while he was giving him a ride on his Aprilia Sportcity or when they were stretched out, smoking a joint—he’d add another piece.
“He really is a piece of shit,” Nicolas said again. And again Christian had turned to look at him lying on the bed in exactly
the same position, but then he regretted doing it and turned quickly away: he didn’t want his brother to catch him spying on him.
He’s a piece of shit, Dumbo, too, had told Christian when he had asked him what this Scignacane was like. A piece of shit. Period. And Dumbo wouldn’t say another word about him, which was strange for someone who liked to talk even when he shouldn’t have, and maybe that’s why Nicolas had chosen to keep him out of the paranza. In any case, Dumbo had wound up at the Nisida Reform School because, when he was thirteen years old, he’d helped his father loot a tile warehouse. Dentino and his father had taken part in the caper, too; they often worked on construction sites. But the two of them had managed to escape.
“Scignacane says that Dumbo fucked his mother, and that he’s going around saying he did it, and that he even sent a picture of his dick to his mother’s cell phone.”
Christian didn’t let his breath out, he didn’t so much as move on the rumpled sheets, and this time he didn’t even try to look over at Nicolas. This might be a trap. Perhaps right now Nicolas had turned his head and was waiting to meet his brother’s glance, look him in the eyes—the same color, identical, the one physical trait they had in common—to learn the truth about Dumbo.
Dumbo told the same story. He said that La Zarina—Scignacane’s mother—was crazy about him, and that he’d fucked that big old MILF, that’s what he called her, milfona, more than once. “She’s got a pair of tits on her that look like they were carved out of marble,” he’d told Christian one day, right there in that bedroom. Then he’d made a gesture with his hands, making it clear that the ears that had earned him his nickname actually had nothing to do with being a faggot—ricchione, or big ears, Italian slang for gay men—as some people assumed.
The Piranhas, The Boy Bosses of Naples Page 34