Luzo: Reign of a Mafia Don (19 page)

“You are unable to speak, perhaps I should suggest to the owner of this establishment to find an immigrant on the street to supervise the employees.”

“I did not mean to insult you Mr. Palazzo. I apologize.”

“Vaffanculo. What is your nationality?”

“My family is Polish.”

“Immigrants from Poland, sí?”

“Yes.”

“Who are the native people of America, do you know?”

“The Native American Indians.”

“Bene, you know that much, then you are not as stupid as you speak. You are the son of immigrants cazzo.
Everyone in America unless a Native Indian are immigrants!” Luzo seethed, tempted to deck the idiot. “Apologize to the lady and then give her assistance in order that the work is done expeditiously and protective gloves to handle the soiled linen you fucking imbecile!”

The man jumped and hurried back inside the laundry room.

Luzo marched to the exit more determined than before.

Crazy Nicky stepped out first, scanned the street and then his boss stood on the sidewalk and met the
April sun. The anti-war protests were loud. Bullhorns and tambourines rattled the air. Cars honked as people leaned out windows brandishing peace signs in their hippie dress and long hair.

The chauffeured limousine idled.

Luzo walked to the car door held open by his bodyguard but he did not get in. A song played on the radio from a multicolored Volkswagen Beetle. His ears were in tune with the lyrics. The beautiful morning, had the pleas of American people screaming to those sitting in skyboxes. The people were shouting, joining in unity, they were taking a stand for the family of humanity.

Luzo ducked his head
and entered the limo to the sounds of Marvin Gaye. The electronic hum as the window descended allowed him to hear the words.

‘
Mother, mother

There's too many of you crying
,

Brother, brother, brother
,

There's far too many of you dying
,

You know we've got to find a way
,

To bring some lovin' here today
…

Father, father,

We don't need to escalate
,

You see, war is not the answer
,

For only love can conquer hate
,

You know we've got to find a way
,

To bring some lovin' here today
,

Picket lines and picket signs,

Don't punish me with brutality
,

Talk to me, so you can see
,

Oh, what's going on
…’

***

Booze lined the bureau. Stubbed out cigarettes, brown from moisture and heat littered the ashtray and the man lying naked atop the covers smirked without shame. Blue eyes so deep in color rivaled the Mediterranean Sea sparkled with humor at the maid’s shocked expression after entering midday unaware the guest had not gone.

“Lo siento Senor, lo siento!” she shrieked and hurried to the door.

Luzo chuckled. American women were sticklers for propriety. In Sicily and France, the ladies did not behave like children who might go blind from seeing a naked man’s arse as the British female he entertained to the wee hours of the morning called his firm ass. When the door closed he rolled on his back and reached for the telephone to place a long distance call. He spoke swiftly in English to the operator and gave the international number for immediate dispatch. There were several rings as he held the plastic spiral cord and lifted the base of the communication device to the bed. “Buongiorno.”

“Buongiorno,” the male voice on the other line bellowed although it was late in Sicily.

“Come stai?”

“Bene.”

Luzo sighed. The years of deception had become tiresome. To his brother, he spoke in code. “My business in America is done, finito. I have also secured your business with a contract here for waste removal.”

“I am pleased.
You continue to look after me, although you do not have to.”

“It is my duty, we are famiglia.
Buona notte.”

“Sí, buona notte.”

When Luzo hung up he sat forward, stared at the closed door and then dialed the front desk. “Return the maid with towels por favore; I believe she came when I was asleep. I am in need of a fresh one.”

“Of course…of course.”

“Also, make certain it is the helpful and efficient maid Maria.” He had seen her name tag. She was the same lady from yesterday the Assistant Manager offended. 

A tentative knock sounded. Luzo donned a robe and stood. “Entre, por favore.”

The sheepish young woman who earlier scurried out peeked in the room. “I am told you requested more towels.”

“Please come in,” he said, checking to ensure his private parts remained concealed. He noticed she avoided eye contact and he frowned. How chaste was she that she could not look a man in the eye? “Mi dispiace…I apologize for earlier.”

“No…no…senor it is my fault for not knocking first. Please forgive me,” she replied as she placed the towels on the divan and then turned to leave.

“Is this an American custom to turn the back to a person who has not finished speaking?”

Maria halted. Only the wealthy could afford to stay in the extravagant hotel. There were whispers among the women about the Italian businessman with blue eyes. They said he was extremely handsome and they had not lied. If not for her friend Isabella she would not have landed the position. It was imperative she did nothing to jeopardize Isabella’s job. “No senor, lo siento,” she said turning to face the guest.

Luzo slowly approached the young woman. Eh, she was afraid. Was he such a threatening presence that she appeared to wait at the guillotine for the executioner’s axe?

“Maria I have requested that you are entrusted to clean my rooms during my stay. Fresh flowers is something I enjoy each morning, can you ensure I am greeted with their beauty when I awake?”

“Sí senor, but I have a request as well.”

Luzo’s eyebrow lifted. “A request?”

“Sí.”

He wondered what she would ask. “Certainly, please go on.”

“I ask that you are covered or I will not enter the room. It is not proper.”

“Proper?”

“Sí senor.”

“That is your request?”

“Sí.”

“Then I will cover my ass.”

“Senor
,
p
or favor, abstenerse de malas palabras, no se justifica,” she said with wide eyes.

Luzo received a hearty laugh from the comment. The lovely young woman had chastised him for using bad language. He responded in Spanish, a language he knew well
. “
Voy a intentar, pero no puedo prometer mis palabras serán limpias. Son los pensamientos que importa, ¿no?”

Maria seemed surprised at his fluency. She had not expected the Italian to reply
in her tongue.

“Bene. That is all Maria. Grazie.”

Luzo prolonged his stay. He and Gina were cordial strangers, he was not in a rush to go home and see a wife in name only. Gina could not have children. Whether the miscarriage was the cause or not he simply did not care. He considered divorce again, but found the prospect only a formality. He had his freedom, he did as he pleased and Gina hosted extravagant parties. Oh, her soirees were the talk of Europe. Anyone with a name or fame were honored to receive an invitation. When socialites jockey for admittance, their husbands will do a lot of ass kissing for an opportunity to impress their wives, thus, Gina’s continued usefulness. But, the emptiness was always there.

Then this young woman Maria
Diaz, a hardworking donna with his mother’s doe eyes, his sisters’ unruly hair and ruby lips caused his chest to present with a strong cramping sensation. The vision of her glance, face shining from the heat of the room and fire of an innocent flame, sent a chill to his toes.

During the course of his stay, he thought of Alberti’s wisdom. Take the opportunity
he had once said, and he would, once he figured out a way.

The Marvin Gaye song stayed in his head. He learned her
address and everything about her life with a phone call. She was Puerto Rican, a legal and documented worker unlike what the cazzo Manager had implied. He rode around her Harlem neighborhood for days, saw the junkies mixed in with hard working people and anger rose. He decided to leave the American Don to his own devices; in fact, he ordered a hit from a payphone. The man had claimed not to know anything about a Sicilian named Monticelli and he saw the lie in the eyes.

He had the driver
stop at a Caribbean bakery for a bite and then directed him to head down toward the barrio on the upper east side of Spanish Harlem.

He chewed and listened to Crazy Nicky trying to sing something about a rose in Spanish Harlem
.

“
There is a rose in Spanish Harlem…A red rose up in Spanish Harlem…It is the special one, it's never seen the sun…It only comes out when the moon is on the run and all the stars are gleaming, it's growing in the street, right up through the concrete, But soft and sweet and dreaming…
”

Luzo let the nut sing as he watched the streets.

In the sea of trouble, men and women had found a drug to suppress their fear of dying in poverty or in war with other countries. This is where she lived with her brother. The siblings were the symbolism of those before who toiled in shops, perspired under the heat and who built bridges across seas and the skyscrapers he saw before he closed his eyes at night.

The limo reached the dreary brick building where Maria lived to wait
outside the public housing dwelling. This is the time the brother often arrived home. Like clockwork he appeared in his mechanic’s clothes, clutching his tool box, grease and grime on a proud man’s face.

His eyes were on the shiny limousine as he approached. The question in his mind
was possibly the same as other pedestrians who had passed, “Who is this in the ‘hood, some drug pusher showing off?”

That is what the hard-worker was thinking because the trajectory to riches
seemed to require pale skin. Honest labor was rarely respected and those of color who bust their ass night and day only made it to that ceiling below the feet where many Caucasian’s dwelled in their skybox, refusing to let others in. Selling drugs on street corners was a quick way to riches, if a dealer survived the competitor’s bullet. But Al would never take part in the genocide of his people. Needles pushed in the veins to numb the senses was not the answer, determination to succeed and bust open that ceiling is how he sought to proceed.

Crazy Nicky got out and intercepted the young man. Apprehension and then curiosity occurred. The mechanic walked to the door, Crazy Nicky gestured him in the backseat but he looked in first at Luzo in his polished shoes, costly suit and smooth skin. He saw a mob man, refined.

“Whatever the fuck you sellin’ I don’t want it, nada,” he said as he stuck his head inside.

Luzo
tapped the attaché case beside him and replied, “Take a seat, let us talk about the future. If you like I can converse in español if that will make you more comfortable.”

The mechanic, was undecided. He
drummed his fingers on the roof of the limo and thought, what the heck and slid inside to hear the mafia man out.

Pride was in the younger man’s
posture. Therefore, Luzo approached the topic of his sister with delicacy. “This life can be hard. There are times when sweat represents repetitive toil. I have seen men such as you work until age cripples their bones. They die poor but with their pride.” Blue eyes bore into the browns. “I am not a drug-dealer or degenerate. I have not made money defiling people, I renovate and reconstruct buildings while fattening others pockets. Many have pride but wisdom understands when to set pride aside and do what is best for famiglia. The pride of rich is luxury that the prideful poor will never know. You have a sister,” Luzo observed the subtleness of a vein protrude from the neck of the man. “She works at a fancy hotel, stripping dirty sheets and suffering humiliation from guests and management. Like you she has pride and tonight she will come home and tell you she has received a job offer abroad. Give her your blessing; encourage her to take it and allow her a life worth more than clearing grime from rich people’s beds and floors.”

Luzo unlocked the briefcase. Inside were rows of American currency. The intelligent brown eyes were aware of his dilemma. Did he take a stranger’s money and say good-bye to his sister or did he die poor with his pride intact?

Opportunity.