“Good question,” Lou says. “Let’s just say I’m somebody who’s here to give you a piece of advice.”
“Let me see, maybe I know him…” Tano says.
“Shut up, you don’t know him, either,” Uncle Mimmo says.
Tano looks around.
“What … advice would that be?” Uncle Mimmo says.
“If anybody else asks you the same question, give the same answer. Do we understand each other?”
“Hmmm,” Uncle Mimmo says, screwing up his eyes. “But what if I suddenly realize I have seen this guy?”
“You’d be wrong.”
“Why?”
Lou thinks about it. Then he says, “Because at the time of the robbery this guy here was at Tony’s barbecue, so you didn’t see him.”
“Oh, right,” Uncle Mimmo says.
“Precisely,” Lou says.
“Precisely,” Tano says.
“Do we understand each other?” Lou says.
“Oh, yes, we understand each other,” Uncle Mimmo says, putting away the crossbow. “But that’s not the point.”
“No?” Lou says.
“No,” Uncle Mimmo says. Calmly, he sits down on the stool, folds his arms, and says, “Listen … how about we stop talking in code?”
Tano nods.
“In code?” Lou says.
“I mean, why don’t we talk clearly?” Uncle Mimmo says.
“Okay, let’s talk clearly.”
“Right. First,” Uncle Mimmo says, raising his thumb, “I don’t understand the way you guys work these days. In the old days, we all understood and we got along fine. Now everything’s fucked up. Minchia, first you don’t want to ask for protection, then you rob me, and now you come and threaten me! Look at me, I got white hair! I’m a quiet guy who minds his own business. Besides, excuse me, but don’t you still got your arrangement with the police? Minchia, you used to be better organized, and with all due respect you didn’t used to fuck up quite so much. Don’t you know that when the police guy wanted to do an Identi-Kit picture I made him draw a baking pan?”
“A baking pan?”
“Right, that’s what I told him. From all I could see, with a shovelful of the sergeant’s brains all over my face, the murderer was the spitting image of a baking pan. Apart from the fact that even if I did see him, do you people think I’d cough up the name of somebody who blows a sergeant’s face off?”
Tano shakes his head, Absolutely not.
“Secondly.” Uncle Mimmo raises his thumb again. And with the same thumb, he presses the button that opens the cash register, jumping at the TA-TANG as usual.
“Who the fuck makes these registers?” he says. “They give you a brain hemorrhage every time you wanna make change!” Then he sighs, calmly takes out a wad of banknotes, moistens his thumb and index finger with his tongue, and starts counting. One, two, three, four … fifteen.
“Here, here’s a hundred and fifty euros. Taking into consideration goodwill, position, neighborhood, clientele, and any other fucking thing you want to consider, I think the price is right. Now just do me the pleasure of taking these euros and giving them to whoever sent you. Then next month on the dot, come back and I’ll do what you want. And tell whoever sent you that Uncle Mimmo is perfectly happy to pay protection. As long as he’s left alone. Do we understand each other?”
Tano coughs.
“So, do we understand each other?”
Tano coughs.
Uncle Mimmo looks at him.
“Cosimo…” Tano says.
“Oh, yes, minchia, right.” He starts counting again, and puts down another fifteen ten-euro bills. “Same thing for the bar opposite, Cosimo, remember that, Co-si-mo. Next month you can go directly to him, I’ll warn him in advance.”
Lou looks at the money and nods. He takes the cash and the photo and the knife, and puts them all in his pocket.
“So, we done here or what?” Uncle Mimmo says.
Lou nods.
“Could you use a crossbow? I’ll give it to you, I don’t need it anymore.”
Lou looks at him and says, “Thanks a lot, just wrap it up for me.”
IN THE LOBBY OF THE HOTEL, DON GIORGINO IS SLURPING AN ORZATA
In the lobby of the hotel, Don Giorgino is slurping an orzata. From time to time he adjusts his round sunglasses. Every time he takes a slurp he leans on his cane, and when he puts down the glass his frail hand shakes. His two foot soldiers, his picciotti, make sure he doesn’t spill the orzata.
“Where’s Vicienzo?” he asks.
The two picciotti look at each other. “Don Giorgino, we found out Vicienzo was a rat, don’t you remember?”
Don Giorgino Favarotta nods. “Are we taking care of his family?”
The two picciotti look at each other. Vicienzo was known as Vicienzo Scannafamigghia, “Vicienzo Who Killed His Family,” because at the age of thirteen he stabbed his father, mother, and brother in the stomach. He never married and in later life was alone in the world. “Of course, Don Giorgino, don’t worry.”
Don Giorgino nods, picks up the orzata, and slurps it. His hand shakes as he puts down the glass.
The two picciotti lean forward, their eyes on the glass. It didn’t spill this time, either.
Don Giorgino leans with both his hands on the cane he’s holding tight between his legs.
* * *
’Nzino parks in front of the Central Palace Hotel on Via Etnea, near the Bellini Gardens. It’s a pedestrian zone, but Sal Scali’s Mercedes is allowed to park there. He gets out, goes the long way around the car, and opens the door for Uncle Sal.
Uncle Sal gets out, buttons up his jacket, puts on his sunglasses, and walks into the hotel.
When you’ve got an appointment with a big shot, it’s good manners to come alone, without your picciotti.
And Uncle Sal is indebted to Don Giorgino Favarotta.
* * *
It was Don Giorgino Favarotta, who was born in Trapani but moved to Catania when he was a child, who first suggested to Uncle Sal that he decapitate Alfio, and who subsequently supported him as a candidate when the Vaccalluzzos, whom Uncle Sal’s predecessor Mimmo Asciolla answered to, demanded an explanation. Don Giorgino intervened and the Vaccalluzzos had to back off. The fact was, Don Giorgino liked Sal Scali. A few years back, in a youthful fit of anger, Don Giorgino had had Natale Impellizzeri from Marzamemi killed because of a supposed slight, without taking into account the Impellizzeris’ connections with the Guarreras of Pozzallo, and the Guarreras’ connections with the Gullottas of San Vito lo Capo. For this reason, Carmine Gullotta had sentenced Giorgino Favarotta to death.
And it was Sal Scali, still very young at the time, who straightened things out.
In Naples, Uncle Sal had met Ciro La Bruna, who was really a top-class greaseball, being related to the americani. Ciro La Bruna sent a message to Carmine Gullotta that the La Brunas had “done away with” Natale Impellizzeri because he was fucking with the Secondigliano Alliance. Carmine Gullotta made inquiries and sent a message to Ciro La Bruna informing him that Natale Impellizzeri didn’t even know what the fuck the Secondigliano Alliance was. And Ciro La Bruna, being the top guy he was, sent a message to Carmine Gullotta saying, “Sorry, Don Carmine, we must have made a mistake.”
Carmine Gullotta was left speechless.
In return, every now and again Don Giorgino Favarotta has to cut the La Brunas in on a job being done by some crew up in the north, and every now and again he and Sal Scali have to perform a service for the La Brunas of Forcella and America.
* * *
In the hotel bar, Uncle Sal spots the three men and walks toward them deferentially. The meeting is taking place in a hotel because that’s what protocol requires. Don Giorgino has to reprimand Uncle Sal in public and tell him to straighten out this sergeant business. To do this, he can’t invite Uncle Sal to his house, he can’t threaten a guest who’s paying a social call, he has to go to Sal. And he can’t go to his house, because his family and k
ids are there.
“Don Giorgino,” Uncle Sal says, “you’re here.”
And he stands there, waiting for a sign.
Don Giorgino doesn’t move.
One of his picciotti goes up to Don Giorgino and whispers in his ear, “Sal Scali’s here.”
Don Giorgino jumps. “Turuzzeddu is here?”
“Here I am, Don Giorgino!”
“Here he is,” the picciotto says.
“So why don’t you tell him to sit down?” Don Giorgino says to the picciotto.
The picciotto signals to Uncle Sal that he can sit down.
Uncle Sal sits down and looks around him.
“Is it true Turuzzeddu fucked up?” Don Giorgino asks the picciotto on his right.
“It’s true, Don Giorgino, I fucked up!” Uncle Sal says.
“It’s true, he tells me,” Don Giorgino says. Then he turns to the picciotto on his left. “Is it true or not that I always say, when somebody fucks up they gotta put it right?”
“It’s true,” the picciotto confirms.
“It’s true!” Uncle Sal says.
Don Giorgino nods and turns to the picciotto on his right. “I know if Turuzzeddu fucks up, we gotta give him time to put it right. He’s a quick thinker, I’m sure he’ll straighten things out within a week, because I got some business to take care of in town next week, and I need everything to be clean. Minchia,” he says, laughing his toothless laugh, “it’s a good thing Turuzzeddu’s a quick thinker, otherwise I’d be in the shit!”
The picciotto turns to Uncle Sal and says, “Don Giorgino is sure you’ll straighten things out in a week.”
“Tell Don Giorgino that Sal Scali has already straightened things out.”
“Sal Scali says—”
“I heard him, what do you think I am, deaf?” Don Giorgino says. “Why don’t you two boys go for a walk? Did you hear? Turuzzeddu’s already straightened things out. Now sit here, and tell me about it.” He squeezes the arm of the picciotto on the left and says, “Turuzzeddu says he’s straightened things out, then he has. You think somebody’s going to say things are straightened out when they’re not?”
The picciotti look at each other, take off their dark glasses, and go out without a word.
Once they’re alone, Uncle Sal sits down on the chair next to Don Giorgino.
“Turuzzeddu, tell me about it!” Don Giorgino says.
“Everything’s fine,” Uncle Sal says, “just like you ordered. Tonight, that kid Sciortino meets the junkie. He already went to see Uncle Mimmo and threatened him … That way, like you ordered, we talk to the cops, tell them the americano is trying to fuck things up for Sal Scali, shifting the blame from that junkie dipshit onto two of my picciotti who just happened to be passing through Uncle Mimmo’s store! He’s trying to make the cops think I’m some nobody whose word’s for shit—that’s our line. But he who lives by the sword…”
“Takes it in the ass!” Don Giorgino says. “Please, I need everything in place for next week, the La Brunas are sending us that package from America, and we gotta get it delivered.”
LOU SCIORTINO SENIOR LIVED IN BROOKLYN UNTIL NOT SO LONG AGO
Lou Sciortino Senior lived in Brooklyn until not so long ago. Now he’s got a beautiful house in New Jersey, horses by de Chirico on the walls, a grand piano in the living room, and picciotti in the garden, all spruced up. But Don Lou hasn’t felt comfortable since he left Brooklyn. In Brooklyn, Catherine and Charles Scorsese were his neighbors, they were so proud of their boy. All his dreams are there, all his experiences. Fuck, Vincente Minnelli in person once knocked at his door. He was a bit too scented for Don Lou’s taste, Don Lou was just a boy then, an ambitious boy, but he already knew how to spot a limp wrist. He went with him to a party, Gambino’s orders, to make sure nobody insulted him. Fuck, what a party! Everybody was there! Marilyn, Joe, but above all the man himself, Frank, you just had to look at him to know he had three balls! Lou Sciortino Senior later told everybody what had happened. How he asked Frank Sinatra for a cigarette, and Frank said, “Sorry, kid, I haven’t got one,” and he said, “Don’t matter, Frank,” and Frank said, “Hey, kid, what’s your name?” and he said, “Lou Sciortino,” and Frank said, “Wait there, Lou,” and went out and came back with a huge silver tray full of cigarettes. Don Lou subsequently read the same story in a magazine, told by some fucking actor, and his first reaction was that the fucking actor was a son of a bitch who’d ripped off his story, but then he thought maybe the real son of a bitch was Frank, who must have scripted the entire scene.
But what Don Lou remembers most of all from Brooklyn and his youth is Saul Trento. Lou and Saul, everybody said in Brooklyn. Saul Trento was more than a friend, he was his brother, even though he wasn’t Sicilian, but was born in Bacoli, a little village near Naples. At a certain point, all the Trentos decided to move to Pennsylvania. Don Lou said to Saul, “What the fuck you going there for? There’s nothing there but cowboys!” Saul lasted only a couple of months in Pennsylvania, then came back to Brooklyn, worked a couple of jobs with Lou, and married Jenny Tagliacozzo. It wasn’t until the wedding, a nice Jewish wedding with all the usual complaining, that Lou even realized Saul was Jewish. Minchia, a Jew from Bacoli, near Naples! But Saul really loved Lou. He loved him so much that when he died very young, Lou secretly helped Jenny, and then Jenny’s children and Jenny’s children’s children, including Leonard, the degenerate grandson who’d seen fit to take the “o” off his name.
When Don Lou got the idea to launder a little money by making movies, he naturally thought of Leonard, who wanted to be like Catherine and Charles’s boy. The kid pissed him off at first, thought he was an artist after some idiot at The Village Voice called him one. Then he understood: movies and construction, brilliant!
“So, Leonard, how’s your old maid cousin in Pennsylvania?” Don Lou is sipping Amaretto Di Saronno, with two ice cubes, in the living room of his beautiful house in New Jersey. Leonard Trent has come to tell him about all the things that have been happening at Starship, the conversation with Erra, the premiere in Italy, shit like that.
“She’s getting married next week, Don Lou!” Leonard says. “She met a widowed dentist in a fucking half-empty movie theater in Pennsylvania, during a showing of Tenors.”
“Minchia, sometimes we do good deeds!” Don Lou says.
“Many times, Don Lou, many times! I can’t imagine Starship in the hands of a suckass like Frank Erra!”
“What kind of guy is he?”
“Five feet something of overdressed lard, Don Lou.”
“I mean, how is he … as a person? Conceited … modest?”
“In Neapolitan, my father would have said he’s a meza cazetta, a nobody, Don Lou!”
“He’s a buffer, Leonard! All buffers are meza cazettas! You can’t put somebody with too much brains between you and the picciotti, because somebody with too much brains, sooner or later he’s going to put you between the picciotti and him … John La Bruna’s nobody’s fool. He picked the right guy for the job!”
“What should I do, Don Lou?” Leonard asks timidly. “Should I go to Italy?”
“Mmmm…” Don Lou says, placing his glass on the little table next to the armchair. “Frank Erra doesn’t give orders, he carries them out … The only reason he wants to go to Italy is because John La Bruna’s told him to go to Italy … Because … because…”
Leonard Trent waits respectfully, saying nothing. Don Lou presses down on the armrests of his chair with his hands and gets to his feet with a groan.
“Because … You know what? I’m going to call my grandson in Catania right now. We’re going to Italy together!” he says. “While I still got some juice in me … I’d like to see Rome and Catania one last time.”
Faced with that old man, that white hair, those bright blue eyes staring right into his, and that incredibly straight back, Leonard finds it hard to contain his emotions. Fuck! he thinks. That’s how my grandpa must have been: tall, upright, with that loo
k that sends shivers down your spine! Men with balls, damn it, not backslappers like us!
Leonard doesn’t know his grandfather was short, with a slightly curved spine and a gentle face, because Jenny Tagliacozzo lost all the photographs of her beloved Saul in a fire.
NUNZIO AND AGATINO ARE DEEP IN THOUGHT
Nunzio and Agatino are deep in thought. They’re wearing their dress uniforms, which they always wear when there’s an important customer like Signora Zappulla in Tony’s salon. Tony had them made to exactly match the uniforms in a seventies sci-fi series, the main characters of which did in fact look like hairdressers.
Tony’s salon, on Via Umberto, is a cross between a seventies nightclub and an eighties Brazilian disco. The reason is that Uncle Sal, although he doesn’t play an active part in the business, thought he could take advantage of the opportunity to launder some cash. This is the way it goes: You buy all the building and decorating materials in one of those warehouses in northern Italy where you can find anything, from a leopardskin couch to a glitter ball, and pay with a postdated check. Then you resell everything to yourself or some figurehead at a markup. The more you buy, the more you launder. That’s why glitter balls are so expensive in Catania. “Tony, you want a marble floor?”
“Uncle, what can I say?… Every saint needs his chapel! That’d be fantastic!”
“Write it down, Tuccio, marble floor. Tony, you want Doric columns?” Tony’s eyes shone. “Write it down, Tuccio, Doric columns.”
Nunzio and Agatino also have the same muttonchop mustaches as the characters in that seventies series. Agatino, who lifts weights and is, as Signora Zappulla says, pointlessly tall, is wearing Japanese flip-flops that reveal little wisps of yellow hair on his big toes. Nunzio, on the other hand, who is short, is wearing platform shoes six inches high.
They’re deep in thought because Signora Zappulla has already been shampooed, and needs her hair done for the political dinner tonight, and Tony hasn’t yet appeared.
Who is Lou Sciortino? Page 8