Who is Lou Sciortino? (9 page)

“You sure gave us a fright,” Uncle Sal says. “First you go all white, and then you faint in public.”

Lou takes off his jacket, rolls up the sleeves of his yellow shirt to the elbow, walks to his chair, sits down, and puts his feet up on the desk.

Uncle Sal looks at the black patent-leather shoes planted there in front of his eyes. Then he pulls up his pants in order not to ruin their immaculate crease, and sits down on one of the two chairs in front of the desk. He crosses his hands on his stomach and rocks a little, then says, “This chair ain't all that solid, Lou, better not rock.”

Lou opens a drawer in the desk and takes out a bottle of gin. “A drink?” he says.

“A drop, Lou, just a drop…” Uncle Sal says, looking at the glass with a disgusted expression. “You know the respect I got for your grandfather. It's a point of honor with me that you feel fine here, Lou!”

“I'm fine, Don Scali, don't worry.”

“Good!” Uncle Sal says. “Good!” Then he looks around. “But now there are some new eventualities…”

Lou makes a face, like he's saying,
Eventualities, what the fuck is that?

“I mean, something's happened…” Uncle Sal says, stroking the crease in his pants. “While you were unconscious in the hospital, it was like fucking Afghanistan here, flashing lights, sirens, TV news … What the fuck's going on? I asked Tuccio. Tuccio goes off to find out and when he comes back he's looking really grim like he's been to a funeral. You know what happened? A robbery at Uncle Mimmo's! They killed a sergeant!”

“Shit,” Lou says.

“It's worse than if somebody had slashed my face,” Uncle Sal says, “much worse! Because I know the boys in this neighborhood, every single one of them, and I know for sure that if they do a robbery they don't kill me any cops. So I asked around, made inquiries, and found out that right after the robbery some half-drugged bozo came out of Uncle Mimmo's store covered in blood.”

Lou sips his gin and says nothing.

“If it was down to me,” Uncle Sal says, “
first
I'd kill the son of a bitch with my own hands,
then
I'd ask him if it was him. But I gotta handle things differently here. Because you know who this junkie is? It's that guitarist who lives next door to Tony: Nick Palumbo!
Capito?
The one Tony's so crazy about. He treats him like one of the family! Sure, you think about it, you know sometimes it happens, a good kid goes off the rails. Like they give you a couple fixes in San Berillo, and you become an addict and then they don't give you a fucking thing. So whaddaya do? To get another fix, you go do a robbery and kill some asshole with a badge.

“Anyway, Lou, sometimes a man can't just do what he oughta do. Sometimes it's better to use your head. Right now I gotta straighten things out here, I can't just let it end badly. And there's something else I gotta tell you, Lou! I need to fix things up for Mindy! Which is why I say: Are we sure it was him? Tell me, are you sure? No, you can't be, Lou! Which is why I gotta tell you this, too. I saw this Nick at my nephew's barbecue at the time of the robbery.
Minchia,
everybody there saw him talking to Mindy. So then I ask myself: If Nick Palumbo was at my nephew's barbecue at the time of the robbery, what was he doing at Uncle Mimmo's store?”

“What was he doing, Don Scali?” Lou asks.

“He wasn't doing nothing! Nothing whatsoever! The son of a bitch wasn't there! Have I made myself clear?”

“Totally, Don Scali.”

“Good. And now we gotta make it clear to Uncle Mimmo, too,” Uncle Sal says.

“Excuse me, Don Scali,” Lou says, refilling his glass to the brim. “I don't want to be impolite, but I don't understand … What do you mean, ‘We gotta make it clear'?”

“Lou, Lou, I'm under pressure right now to straighten things out … This is a very delicate matter. I can't send one of my
picciotti
to see Uncle Mimmo. I got my connections at police headquarters, but so does that son of a bitch Sonnino. Uncle Mimmo's an innocent. Let's say the police or Sonnino put the scare into him and he squeals that one of my
picciotti
threatened him … I gotta cover my back then … That's why you gotta do me a favor and go see Uncle Mimmo, he won't know it was me who sent you, and that way we're okay, because even if he squeals he don't got nothing to squeal about.”

Lou takes his feet off the desk, stands up, and paces the room, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Don Scali,” he says, turning suddenly, “I'm honored that you thought of me for a delicate matter like this…”

“I gotta tell your grandfather you're a real good kid. I mean it … a good kid, real respectful. But the thing I don't want,” Uncle Sal says, “the thing I don't want is this Nick, who's got a guilty conscience—though I don't understand why he's got a guilty conscience, seeing as how he was at the barbecue with us—deciding to take a powder.
Minchia,
he's a junkie, and junkies are nervous people, they scare easy. Let's say the bum takes off, how would I look with the police? He takes off, and everybody ends up thinking it really was him, and then the police get wise, and they come to me and say, ‘
Minchia,
Don Scali, your nephew's next-door neighbor kills a sergeant and, cock of the walk that you are, you don't know nothing about it? You don't know how to keep your own house in order?' In other words, Lou, it's all about keeping the dogs on the leash! Which is why it will help me if you keep an eye on this Nick, at least until we've made ourselves clear and persuaded him there's no reason to take off.”

“My grandfather used to say that, too,” Lou says.

“Keep the dogs on the leash?” Uncle Sal says. “My uncle used to say it … when he was loading his gun.”

“No … cock of the walk…” Lou says. “Don Scali, how do I get to know this Nick?”

“Tony's throwing an engagement barbecue,” Uncle Sal says, “a barbecue everybody in the neighborhood will remember all their lives. Nick Palumbo's invited, since he's the one getting engaged. You're invited, too. Tony's managed to get hold of some quail! Don't worry, there'll be plenty of gin!”

JASMINE JUST SPENT HALF AN HOUR IN THE RED ROOM

Jasmine just spent half an hour in the red room of that pig Mr. Lewine's Politics & Prose Bookstore, and has no desire to hear any of Frank's bullshit.

“Jasmine,” Frank Erra's saying, “when you read, you look just like Meadow Soprano. Whaddaya think, Chaz, is she or isn't she just like Tony and Carmela's daughter?”

“Meadow Soprano, the spitting image,” Chaz says.

Jasmine doesn't bat an eyelid and carries on reading this fucking book,
Sicily: Complete Guide to the Island,
which had brought her into direct contact with that fat, circumcised bastard Lewine. When she asked him for a comprehensive guide to Sicily, the pig (the kind with a massive bald spot on top and long hair behind the ears, like two fucking brooms) pulled out half a dozen books:
Midnight in Sicily, Ciao Sicily, Sweet Sicily, In Sicily,
and other, similar crap. Then he told her there were others in the rare book section, known as the red room, ten feet by six and a half feet of paper and dust, rusty shelves, and a beat-up old desk. Lewine took out the books and handed them to her from behind, brushing against her, giving her what her mother, Ann Guardascione, used to call
'nu passaggio.
But Jasmine did leave with two books under her arm:
Ciao Sicily
by Damian Mandola, a book that mentions pasta with squash, fava beans, olives, and capers—Ann would have loved it—and this
Complete Guide
she's reading now to Frank.

“‘This square owes its baroque harmony to the buildings that surround it. In the middle, the fountain of the Elephant, symbol of the city, a contrast to the more discreet nineteenth-century Amenano fountain on the south side, set against the del Chierici and Pardo palaces…'”

“Jasmine,” Frank says, “you're not a college girl like Meadow!
Cazzarola!
Who gives a fuck about Sicilian baroque? Get on with it.”

Jasmine angrily licks the middle finger of her right hand, leafs through about twenty pages, and stops at random. Then she starts reading again. “‘One of its most famous citizens was Giovanni Verga, whose literary output, after his early commitment to patriotic themes, developed a predominantly sentimental and romantic vein…'”

Sentimental and romantic? A light goes on in Frank's mind.

“‘In 1871,'” Jasmine continues, “‘with the publication in Milan of
A Sparrow's Tale,
he achieved almost immediate success. The novel was first published in installments in the newspaper
La Ricamatrice
in 1870…'”

La Ricamatrice! A Sparrow's Tale!
Frank feels faint with happiness.

“Chaz,” he says, “you remember that Zeffirelli movie
Sparrow
?”

“Who's Zeffirelli, Frank?” Chaz says. “A friend of Trent's?”

“Yes, you could say that,” Frank says, very pleased with himself. “You could say that.”

*   *   *

Just one hour later, Greta is still going
hmmm
in her mind. Frank's request was really strange. To say she isn't startled—yes, startled is the word—would be a lie. Frank's never sounded so nice on the phone. And not just on the phone. The fact is, Frank isn't what you'd call a nice person. Who could possibly call him nice? He always looks so unhappy. Even his ma couldn't call him nice, that's for sure! But who knows what Frank's ma is like, maybe she looks unhappy all the time, too! Anyway, what's clear is that Greta is going to Italy. My God, for the premiere of a Leonard Trent movie! Hmmm … Anyway, Frank was really strange. It's obvious he wants something from her. And not just the usual blow job, Frank's never gotten a blow job by being nice. So what does he want? Hmmm. The fear is always there, the fear that somebody like Frank will suddenly decide he needs to get his act together. It's something that comes to all men: they reach a certain age and they want to get married.
To somebody else
 … Of course! Frank has fallen in love with some Carmela with a face like a lobster gone bad, and he wants to make her jealous by taking Greta to Italy. That's gotta be it. A man like Frank doesn't pull out the sweet talk unless he's got a guilty conscience. It's as plain as the nose on your face.

LOU IS ON VIA PACINI

Lou is on Via Pacini, a market street like a hundred others: the red varnished wooden pagoda of a Chinese restaurant, a greengrocer, a fish vendor, a bar, a butcher, an elegant perfume shop, a shop selling jackknives. Uncle Mimmo's store, though, is nowhere to be seen.

Lou glances again at the photo Uncle Sal gave him.

Tony, the hairdresser, is gazing at the guy called Nick with a sweet expression, too sweet for Lou, the same way that clotheshorse John Giuffré, the disgrace of the Giuffrés, looked at him at the last party Lou went to in New York.

Nick, on the other hand, looks like a bad copy of Tony. He's got an excessively sweet expression. He's imitating him.

Lou puts the photo back in his pocket and walks to the knife shop.

*   *   *

When Tano wakes up, in the afternoon, he goes to see Uncle Mimmo in his store, since there are no customers at Uncle Mimmo's in the afternoon. That's because Uncle Mimmo only stocks the kind of thing no one would ever buy in the afternoon, except, obviously, in an emergency, like Band-Aids or rubbing alcohol. So Tano goes there, sits on the stepladder, and at dusk he shakes an item or two off the shelves. This is because, as darkness falls, Uncle Mimmo also falls, slowly collapsing on the counter. Since Tano is reluctant to wake a man in the middle of his nap and risk giving offense, he knocks the Dash to the floor. At which Uncle Mimmo jumps, gets up, and turns on the light.

And Tano nods.

*   *   *

The knife shop is as brightly lit as an autopsy room. Lou nods casually to the salesclerk and starts looking in the display cases. Lined up neatly on the glass shelves, with the handwritten price tags, are dozens of jackknives. None of those big jagged knives you find in America, twenty inches long and with a first-aid kit in the handle, or those sophisticated brass knuckles tailor-made for schizos in Texas or Arkansas or some psychopath in New York. The knives here are small, with carefully inlaid handles, and the brass knuckles are discreet, practical, functional.

“Can I help you?” Lou turns and sees that the salesclerk isn't a salesclerk. He smells very strongly of aftershave, a fiftyish man dressed to the nines like a wiseguy, and is clearly the owner. A scar runs across his face, fittingly enough, it occurs to Lou, in a shop like this.

Lou looks around him, then looks straight at Scarface and says, “You got any grafting knives?”

*   *   *

Every time he turns on the light, Uncle Mimmo screws up his eyes and listens out for the noise. Because every time he turns on the light, Uncle Mimmo hears a buzzing. He's never been able to figure out if it's a lightbulb buzzing, the flies waking up, or something else. As always, he looks questioningly at Tano, and Tano also screws up his eyes and listens carefully, and then, being the honest person he is, shakes his head. In response, Uncle Mimmo looks at him like he's the biggest deadbeat on the face of the earth. Then he turns back to the counter and picks up his magazine, no point in talking to somebody who refuses to hear the buzzing. It's always the
same
magazine: one of the first illustrated magazines with color printing and lots of photographs. Uncle Mimmo likes those photographs, why he should buy another one?

*   *   *

Scarface is smiling slightly. “Follow me,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets and making the contents jangle. He goes behind the counter, bends, and comes back up with a velvet-lined drawer. Inside, grafting knives so stylish they wouldn't look out of place in a jeweler's window.