Not to mention the ones who want a Mercedes.
For the hookers from the villages, this thing with the Mercedes is a real obsession.
“Why the fuck am I turning tricks if I can’t drive a Mercedes?” “But you’re not turning tricks anymore,” the picciotti try to explain, “you’re a regular worker now.” “What the fuck do I care? Everyone in my village knows I’m in the life, and at weekends I show up driving a Panda? Who’s going to find me a husband—you?”
Sonnino tried to keep them happy. He’d thought it’d be easy for reformed hookers with steady jobs to find husbands. It turned out that in this city of deadbeats, husbands liked their wives rich, and didn’t mind if they were whores.
So, to get them out of the fuckup, Sonnino became a Mercedes dealer. At least it was useful for laundering cash. But in return, they’ve got to behave like decent women.
And that’s the only other job the picciotti still have.
If it’s discovered the women are trying to turn tricks in the movie theaters, discos, or pubs, they get beaten up, just like in the old days. Even worse, in fact. “Tear ’em to shreds,” Sonnino says to his picciotti. “Now you’ve got morality on your side.”
The picciotti leap to their feet when they see Pippino arrive followed by the americani. Bowing and apologizing profusely, they frisk them, then open the door. “Please go in, Signor Sonnino’s waiting for you. Please, please, this way.”
Sonnino’s office is like an upmarket car dealership: lots of chrome, leather armchairs. On the table, a switched-on computer, bills, printed forms, a paperweight in the shape of a model Mercedes.
The walls are covered with photographs. One shows Sonnino, obviously drunk, surrounded by girls in bikinis like Hefner or whatever the fuck’s his name. In the photo Sonnino is wearing a loud suit and an orange tie. His right hand is over the shoulder of a topless girl, and there’s a piece of metal across four of his fingers, full of blue and red stones that shine in the light from the flash. Lou recognizes it for what it is: brass knuckles, a real collector’s item.
In another photo, Sonnino is in his underwear, which is wet and transparent, by the side of a swimming pool. He’s holding somebody underwater with his right hand and laughing. With his left hand, he’s smoking a cigarette. A man’s hand is holding out a drink to him.
Sonnino in the flesh is very different, his face a lot more sunken, its creases set off by his gray stubble. His round red sunglasses seem set into his eye sockets. He sits at his desk with the receiver stuck to his ear, not moving a muscle. He’s wearing a black dust coat over a black T-shirt; the dust coat looks like one of those stupid designer items that go for a thousand euros. The desk is too small for someone his height: from beneath it, his frayed jeans are sticking out above silver-studded boots. He looks like a maniac who’s occupied a nursery, negotiating the release of the little hostages from a school desk.
The picciotto who showed them in dusts down the leather armchairs with a handkerchief before letting the americani sit in them. Don Lou and Lou look at each other. Pippino has his usual expression, like everything’s completely normal.
“No!” Sonnino says into the receiver. Then he moves it away from his face and gives it a long, puzzled look, like he’s never seen anything like it in his life. He slams it down in disgust, crosses his hands on the desk, and regards his guests.
Then he stands up slowly, with difficulty, and bows. “Don Lou, it is an honor for me to meet you. You must forgive me, I was on the phone, and I couldn’t let you wait outside. Francesco’s making coffee.”
“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you,” Don Lou says, looking around.
Sonnino nods. “And this is the famous Pippino the Oleander, right?”
Pippino looks at him like he’s already got his death sentence in his pocket.
“Minchia, just the way they described him. You know something, Don Lou? When I was still young and handsome, like in these photos, I got sent a gift from Ucciardone, a pit bull puppy that the first thing he did when he was four months old was to bite Maria Annunziata Conception Marletta, a real ballbreaker from Calascibetta, who wanted to leave San Berillo and work the houses along the coast, not realizing her ass was totally fucked. The bitch needed thirty-eight stitches in her calf. And you got to believe this, you know what I called that puppy? I called him Pippino, because the things the Oleander did for you in America were just as famous here in Catania.”
Pippino’s expression hasn’t changed.
“And this,” Sonnino continues, indicating Lou, “is your honored grandson. I’ve heard a lot about him. And I’m really honored that a Hollywood producer trusts me enough to come to my office. I’ve been hearing a lot of things, and I thought it was really strange that somebody like Lou Sciortino Junior should start work as a picciotto for Sal Scali.”
“That’s precisely why we’re here,” Don Lou says.
“I know, I know, Don Lou. And I’m at your service. Though I still need to clear this thing up. There’s a split-up happening, and all of us are trying to figure out what’s going on. What we gotta figure out here is who’s still with Virtude, and who’s just a fake boss who’d turn his own grandmother. But till the split-up goes down, till they’ve fucked up, we gotta sit and wait. This is a big organization, and we gotta think about public opinion. These people keep moving the goalposts. Things aren’t the way they used to be, it’s not black and white anymore. We’re with Virtude. We can’t stoop to their level. I don’t know what the fuck it is, maybe it’s the Internet that drives them crazy, maybe it’s the modern world, maybe they were born dickheads and we just never noticed before. Oh, yes, I think about all these things, determinism, relativity, social theory, numbers, cardinal numbers, prime numbers, because even mathematics can help Virtude. You ever hear of Hobbes? He was a philosopher. He said, Homo homini lupus. In other words, if we can’t get along, we cut each other’s throats! You see, Don Lou, I think before I act. I also think a lot about Sal Scali, and that asshole Giorgino Favarotta. But they think a lot about me, too. I can kill them, and they can kill me. We have an understanding: I don’t bust your balls, you don’t bust mine. But now they’re going too far. And I don’t know how much longer this understanding is going to last. Now I got Don Lou in person here in my office, and I know Sal Scali’s been busting your grandson’s balls, and I know they’re planning a split-up. And I can’t find no peace. Peace, you understand me, Don Lou?”
Sonnino looks up and sighs.
* * *
“You just keep quiet and let me talk,” Tuccio is saying to Nunzio Aliotro. Only Nunzio Aliotro isn’t with him. “Where the fuck is he?”
Nunzio Aliotro is standing transfixed by the Jaguar parked in front of the steps of the Palace of Finance on Piazza Teatro Massimo.
“Minchia, what an idiot!” Tuccio says, turning back. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Huh?”
“Will you hurry up?”
“Huh?”
Tuccio looks at Nunzio’s reflection in the window of the Jaguar. With his face magnified by the reflection, Nunzio Aliotro looks stupider than ever.
* * *
Francesco arrives with the tray of coffee. He places it on the desk, looking curiously at the americani. “Sugar?” he asks.
“Don’t worry, Francesco. I’ll serve the gentlemen.”
Francesco bows to Sonnino and the americani, and withdraws without turning his back on them.
“Something’s gotta give, Don Lou,” Sonnino says. “We just need faith. In the meantime, let’s have coffee.”
* * *
On the stairs, Tuccio turns and sees Nunzio standing motionless, looking at the steps.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Huh? Climbing the stairs.”
“No,” Tuccio says, walking back down. “You’re not climbing the stairs, you’re just looking at them.” He mimes the action of climbing the stairs with the index finger and middle finger of his right hand.
“You got to give me time—”
“Time?” Tuccio yanks Nunzio up and makes him go first.
The picciotti hear a commotion on the stairs. They look at each other. No, they’re not expecting anybody. Artillery emerges from their Sunday suits, like trays of cannoli coming out of the ovens at Caprice on Via Etnea.
Nunzio finds himself staring down the silver-tipped barrel of a full-sized Beretta 96 Steel. From that angle it looks especially big.
“Stop right there!” Tuccio shouts, behind Nunzio’s back. “We’re here on an errand! We’re unarmed! Eh, Francesco, how’s your aunt?”
* * *
“They’ve forgotten about Virtude in America, my dear Don Lou,” Sonnino says, sipping noisily from his cup. “Minchia, Francesco makes some good coffee! That’s the reason everything’s fucked up. Too much money in circulation, you know, people go crazy. But if you’re going to shift the balance in America, you know, you gotta shift it in Sicily, too. Virtude may be in the can, but he’s still got papers in his possession that could bring down the U.S. Congress. Those assholes the La Brunas know it, and that twisted little cripple Giorgino Favarotta wants to become head of operations in Sicily. As for that other animal, Sal Scali … I don’t even want to think about him, Don Lou, or I’ll have to take another Prozac, and that’d be my third today! Do you think they go with cholesterol pills? My doctor says no, but I take them anyway! But Don Lou, what can I do right now? They gotta fuck up first. Your grandson, with all due respect, went all over Catania asking questions. Now you arrive, and already they know all about it. People are suspicious, if you ask too many questions, it’ll look like you started this whole mess. Did you like the coffee?”
“Excuse me.”
“What do you want, Francesco?”
“Tuccio Cramella and Nunzio Aliotro are here. They say Sal Scali sent them.”
“Pippino…” Don Lou says.
Pippino gets to his feet.
“Send them in. Pippino can stay where he is. They won’t recognize you and your grandson from the back.”
Pippino looks at Don Lou. Don Lou doesn’t nod. If Don Lou nodded, Sonnino would be the first to get his throat cut, followed by Francesco, who wouldn’t even have time to react.
“So now let’s try to figure out what this is all about,” Sonnino says. “Let’s bring it out into the open.”
* * *
“Go in,” Francesco says when the picciotti have finished frisking them.
Tuccio and Nunzio come into the office with a swagger. “Good evening.”
Sonnino doesn’t move. Hands folded. Sunglasses as red and round as an Australian sunset.
Which makes Tuccio’s smile fade a little. He looks at Pippino, then at the two men who are sitting with their backs to him, motionless.
“We got something to say to you,” Tuccio says, looking at the two men like he’s saying, What are you waiting for? Why don’t you throw them out?
Nobody moves.
Tuccio looks at Nunzio with an expression that says, What are they all, crazy?
Nunzio isn’t moving, either.
Tuccio is getting impatient. “Let’s get it over with,” he says.
The telephone rings.
Sonnino looks at the telephone. He must have a strange relationship with the telephone, it’s obvious from the way he looks at it. He picks up the receiver very slowly, presses it to his ear, and forgets to say hello.
Tuccio looks at Nunzio. Nunzio still isn’t moving. Legs wide apart. Hands at his sides. Leather overcoat two sizes too big. He looks up slightly. Fuck, what a bozo that Nunzio is!
Don Lou passes a hand over his face.
Lou crosses his legs.
Pippino looks at the photos.
Sonnino is as still as a mummy. He has a strange way of holding the receiver: with his elbow raised.
On the landing, the picciotti are dozing. After Sunday lunch, it’s nap time.
Sonnino looks at the receiver. Then, as slowly as before, he hangs up. He glances to his right and bends down, looking for something.
Tuccio looks at him.
Sonnino has disappeared.
Strange noises come from behind the desk. Sonnino seems to be unwrapping something. He comes back up again holding a special-issue PA8E military pump-action rifle, with a handle like a pistol.
Tuccio smiles, for some reason, before the shot, fired from a range of six feet, completely blows his face off.
Sonnino looks at the rifle, pleased with himself, and quietly reloads.
The picciotti have only just entered the room when they see Nunzio jerk backward five or six feet, as straight and tense as he’s always been.
“Peace has arrived, Don Lou. On Via Crociferi they just whacked the americano, Frank Erra. We’re not taking the blame for this fuck-up. Right now we got to do things like in the old days. Pippino, don’t feel so bad. I’m not as quick as you are, I gotta rely on the element of surprise, that’s why I use these fucking rifles even though they keep making them more and more complicated. I pull out a .22, I wouldn’t have time to explain, you’d have cut my head off already with a knife. Which would have been wrong. Because I respect Don Lou as much as you do.”
The picciotti who’ve come running into the room don’t know what the fuck to do.
“Clean this up, okay? They wanted a split-up, we’ll give them one. They try busting Sonnino’s balls, this is what happens!” He stands up. “Please, Don Lou, after you.”
UNCLE SAL AND DON GIORGINO ARE SITTING IN THE BACKSEAT OF THE MERCEDES
Uncle Sal and Don Giorgino are sitting in the backseat of the Mercedes, parked on what is officially Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele, but because it’s on Via Umberto everybody calls it Piazza Umberto.
The picciotto who’s working as Don Giorgino’s driver is standing on the sidewalk in front of Palazzo Cappellani, smoking a cigarette and watching the women go by.
Don Giorgino has suddenly fallen silent in the middle of talking. Uncle Sal looks at him, and can’t tell if he’s asleep or not.
Don Giorgino sometimes does this: dozes off in the middle of saying something. Uncle Sal doesn’t know what to do because Don Giorgino always wears sunglasses and you can never be sure if he’s asleep or just thinking.
Then Don Giorgino, leaning on his walking stick, starts falling to his left. Uncle Sal moves closer to the door, because it doesn’t seem right for Don Giorgino to doze off on his shoulder. Anybody passing sees that, God knows what they’re gonna think.
When Don Giorgino sent for Uncle Sal, he made it clear he wanted to see him immediately. And when Uncle Sal heard that Don Giorgino wanted to see him in the car, he wasted no time in getting to Piazza Umberto because you get summoned to meet in a car only when something really serious has happened, something that’s got to be dealt with quickly and you’re afraid of being bugged.
“But in your opinion…” Don Giorgino says, jerking awake, “in your opinion, does she like sperm?”
Don Giorgino bursts into a laugh that almost makes Uncle Sal jump. Then he looks at Uncle Sal, very serious all of a sudden. Uncle Sal is tense and alert now. Don Giorgino starts laughing again.
Uncle Sal half smiles, not understanding a fucking thing.
“Sperm…” Don Giorgino says, coughing now instead of laughing, “Spunk!” and clears his throat.
Uncle Sal still doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. What has sperm got to do with anything?
“Well … yes, I guess so…” he says, to be on the safe side.
Don Giorgino stops clearing his throat and looks at him very seriously. It’s obvious he’s very serious because, even though he’s wearing sunglasses and you can’t see his eyes, his mouth is just a thin line and a thread of foam is slithering down his chin.
Did I say something wrong? Uncle Sal thinks.
This time Don Giorgino laughs in a way where you can’t tell if he’s laughing, crying, shouting, swearing, or dying. There’s a bit of everything—coughing
, clearing his throat, swaying, spitting, sucking, whistling—before it stops abruptly.
Fuck! Uncle Sal thinks.
Don Giorgino opens the door and spits on the sidewalk.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” he says, his voice clear at last. “The whore’s still alive.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? What the fuck’s she called? The one with the German name! You said just now, the one who likes sperm…”
“Who? Greta? Frank Erra’s whore?”
“Nuccio’s a dickhead who should thank that good woman his mother he’s still alive … Did I ever tell you his mother came to us when we went to the mattresses and blew us all?”
“Yes, of course you told me, Don Giorgino. But what are you telling me, the whore’s still alive? That’s impossible!”
“You want me to slap you around or what? I’m telling you, she’s alive, alive!” Don Giorgino raises both hands, palms upturned toward heaven.
“Wait till I get my hands on Nuccio…” Uncle Sal says, his face turning red. “Wait till I get my hands on him…”
“Calm down or you’ll have a heart attack…” Don Giorgino says. “You don’t have to get your hands on him, because whores are like that, they never die, they’re worse than cockroaches! She wasn’t even hit, just grazed. She got a hole in her hair!”
“A hole in her hair?”
“Yes, they tell me she got a kind of…” Don Giorgino mimes a kind of hole through the woman’s hairdo. “Anyhow, they didn’t get her…”
“And where is she now?”
“They’re taking her to the Central Palace.”
“The Central Palace?”
“My picciotto at Garibaldi Hospital told me the doctors said she had to be kept under observation for twenty-four hours because she banged her head. When they told her they didn’t have a bed and she’d have to sleep on a gurney in the corridor, she started screaming … So they gave her Valium … they say she was having hysterics … so to get rid of her they brought her the register, made her sign, and told her to fuck off. Then the cops said they had to take her to police headquarters and interrogate her. But then the examining magistrate came to police headquarters, and the anti-Mafia squad, and the press and TV and every son of a bitch in the country, and she started screaming again. They gave her another dose of Valium and told her to fuck off from there, too. They told her if she stopped screaming they’d go with her to the hotel and then they’d see.”
Who is Lou Sciortino? Page 14