Who is Lou Sciortino? (19 page)

*   *   *

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.”

“
Minchia,
Don Giorgino, I'll send for Nuccio right away.”

“Shut up and don't do anything else stupid. Phone Turi.”

Uncle Sal looks at him in terror. “Turi?”

“I said phone Turi.”

Uncle Sal feels a strong desire to cross himself. Maybe not so much, but Uncle Sal does have nieces, so he'd prefer not to have anything to do with Turi.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Okay, I'll do it now…”

Don Giorgino nods.

Uncle Sal takes the cell phone and, cursing with his eyes, dials Turi's number.

“But couldn't Nuccio take care— Turi?” Uncle Sal says, his voice shaking like a tulip ruffled by the wind.

“Yes?” a voice hisses.

Uncle Sal nods to Don Giorgino.

It's not clear if Don Giorgino is sleeping.

“This is Sal Scali…”

“Good evening…”

Making an effort, Uncle Sal says, “Listen, Turi, I need you to do something for me…”

“Yes?”

“Right now, at the Central Palace. An
americana
who arrived from Rome with a guy named Frank Erra…”

“Do you want me to do him, too?”

“No, he already got whacked … The woman's name is Greta, I don't know her last name…”

“I'm at your disposal, Don Sal…”

Uncle Sal hears a kind of sucking sound and is about to hang up when Don Giorgino says, “Pass me the phone.”

Uncle Sal takes the cell phone and gives it to Don Giorgino.

Don Giorgino looks right and left, takes the phone, and says in a low voice, “It's me. Did you get the things?”

Then Don Giorgino hangs up, passes the phone to Uncle Sal, leans on his cane again, and starts laughing, fuck him, this time making even the
picciotto
who got out of the car turn around, just as he was looking at a woman who, if she ever got hold of your dick, you'd have to send the marshal to her house to get it back.

THE TELEPHONE RINGS IN TONY'S HOUSE

The telephone rings in Tony's house.

“It can explode for all I care, I'm not answering,” Cettina says.

Cettina is feeling pretty nervous right now, because the day started with Tony showing up with a six-pack of beer in his hand and asking, “Did you iron my shirts?”

Tony has this thing that his shirts have to be ironed by his wife because if they're ironed by the maid it's obvious they haven't been ironed with love.

“Yes, Tony, they're upstairs in the basket with the ironing.”

“All of them?”

When there's a barbecue, Tony wears Indian silk shirts, which he has to change every fifteen minutes, because they get rings of sweat under his armpits.

“Yes, Tony, every single one.”

“I hope you didn't starch them.”