Who is Lou Sciortino? (6 page)

*   *   *

Frank gets up from the desk and waddles to the door, the seat of his pants caught between his buttocks. “Chaz!” he calls again. “CHAZ! Come here!”

Chaz is his bodyguard. But he's also his confidant. Chaz listens to his stories and nods. When Chaz nods, it means his stories are okay. A good kid, Chaz. Doesn't say much, just nods.

“Come on in, Chaz. I got something to tell you.”

Chaz comes in, sits down on the other side of the desk, rummages in his pockets, takes out the lighter, lights Frank's Cohiba, then nods and listens in silence.

“He
phoned
me!” Frank says. “In person,
capish,
Chaz? ‘Frank,' he said, ‘we've never spoken on the phone, but I know you're a smart kid, Frank, because that's what they all tell me.' I was shitting my pants, Chaz, so I stammered, ‘But … who is this?' And he said, ‘Who is this?' and started laughing, an affectionate laugh,
capish,
Chaz? ‘Who is this? he asks me,' and he laughed happily. ‘You want to know who this is, Frank?' he said. ‘This is John La Bruna.'”

“Shit,” Chaz says.

“‘Book a flight to Sicily, kid,' he told me. ‘Go to Catania, a friend of ours wants to meet you.' ‘Please, Don La Bruna,' I said, still shitting my pants. ‘May I know … the name of this friend?' ‘You gotta know, Frank,' he said. ‘His name is Sal Scali … he's a well-dressed guy like you, and just like you, he handles business for us.
Capito,
kid?'”

“Okay, Frank,” Chaz says without nodding, “I'll go tell Jasmine to book—”

“Where the fuck are you going, Chaz?” Frank cries, nervous because Chaz hasn't nodded. “You think I can land in Catania, just like that?”

He stands up and, after a couple of attempts to unjam his pants from between his buttocks, continues, “If Jasmine makes that fucking call, I'll find myself at Catania Airport with those FBI pigs all over me!
Cazzarola!
Frank Erra plus Sicily equals disaster.”

“You're right, Frank, I'm sorry…” Chaz says, nodding.

“We need an excuse.”

“An excuse, Frank?”

“Yes, I gotta find an excuse to go to Rome.”

“To Rome?!”

“Of course, Chaz, I can't go directly to Sicily, not even with an excuse, because, excuse or no excuse, the FBI will be suspicious … I gotta find an excuse to go to Rome, and then
from there
I gotta find an excuse to go to Sicily.”

Chaz doesn't understand shit, but he nods repeatedly. And Frank, seized by a sudden wave of affection, has to restrain himself from giving him a big, passionate hug.

IT'S ELEVEN O'CLOCK WHEN NICK GETS UP WITH A START

It's eleven o'clock when Nick gets up with a start from the armchair where he's spent the night. The TV is still on, with the volume turned down. There's a cooking show on. There's a huge turkey and a guy, who's also huge, in a white chef's jacket, talking to a blonde who seems to find what he's saying very funny. The turkey is covered in aspic, and it's so shiny, and so obscene with its hacked-off legs and naked skin, that Nick runs to the bathroom. In the bathroom he shivers from the cold, but still he turns on the cold water, puts his head under the faucet, looks at himself in the mirror, and groans.

Out of the same compulsive need that makes us go to the toilet before we enter an operating room or after a doctor has told us we're done for, Nick picks up the shaving foam and shakes the can. The can slips from his hand, he bends down to pick it up, feels dizzy, leans on the sink, looks up, fills his hand with shaving foam, smears it on his face, shaves, and tries to whistle.

In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and is lost in wonder at the big cartons of milk.
Why do I buy all this fucking milk? Why?
One day he told Tony about his craving for cartons of milk. Tony nodded sympathetically. “Of course, Nick! There was that kid from that family, what was his name, the one where the father had a knot in his tie as big as an apple, and the kid with that fucking cap who seemed like the only grown-up in that crazy house, every time the family pissed him off he went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out this carton that was bigger than he was, poured himself a big glass, and started reflecting on life with a big milk mustache. Of course, Nick, I know all about those cartons.”

Christ,
Nick thinks as he pours the milk into a glass that's yellow with lime,
the fucking things that come into Tony's mind …

Meanwhile the doorbell rings, three or four times, the fucking bell Nick never hears. Nick comes out of the kitchen, with the glass in his hand, turns off the TV, takes out a Charlie Parker CD, opens the stereo, slips in the CD, presses play, and sits down in the armchair again. Charlie's band starts up, hundreds of soloists playing as one. Then the band stops abruptly, waiting for Charlie and … Nick hears the ringing.
Fuck, there's somebody at the door!
He runs to the bathroom. His clothes are hanging on the rack.
How the fuck did I get them on the rack? Fuck it, they seem clean. The case! Where's the case?
He runs back to the armchair, the guitar case is still propped against it. Near the handle, there are shiny stains of a more opaque, darker black. The doorbell rings again. He goes back to the kitchen, takes a paper towel, wets it, rushes to the armchair, grabs the guitar case, and wipes the handle with the paper towel. The stains are still blacker than the black of the handle. He slips the paper towel in the pocket of his jeans and, heart pounding like it's part of Charlie Parker's rhythm section, reaches the door, looks through the peephole, and sees the serious, bored face of Uncle Sal. Nick opens, trying to appear normal.

Uncle Sal is looking at a point somewhere on the street that Nick can't see. He turns with a smile.

“Hello, Nick, I hope I'm not disturbing you.” He comes in without waiting for an answer. “Just got up, did you? Maybe you were having breakfast…”

What the fuck is Tony's uncle doing here?
Nick must have seen him dozens of times at Tony's barbecues. A few polite greetings, the feeling he'd met a Joe Pesci type, the real thing, not a fake like the American actor, who plays a man of honor in movies only, nothing more.

“If it's about last night's barbecue, Don Scali,” Nick says, “I was just thinking of going to Tony to apologize…”

“You're a good kid, Nick, a real good kid … You can go later, Tony'll still be home. At this hour, he sends his boys to the salon: you know, those two faggots from Caltagirone. But … can I sit down?” Uncle Sal asks, and, again without waiting for a reply, takes out his handkerchief, dusts the armchair with a dramatic gesture, and sits. Nick hurriedly picks up the guitar case and props it against the wall where the stereo is.

“Jazz…” Uncle Sal says, indicating the stereo. “I once read an article about jazz by this guy in the
Giornale di Sicilia
 … He said jazz is like … how do they say?… like coitus interruptus. They start a tune and it never ends. But I don't agree. I like it…”

“I'm sorry, Don Scali,” Nick says. “I'll turn down the volume.”

“Tony's right, you know. He always talks fondly about you, says you're a real good kid, nice manners.”

“Tony's too good to me,” Nick says.

Uncle Sal opens his arms like he's saying,
You're right, too!
Then he says, “So, d'you listen to the radio this morning, Nick?”

“The radio? I'm sorry, Don Scali, but—”

“I know,” Uncle Sal says. “Only people who were born before the war listen to the radio in the morning …

“Anyway,” he adds, dusting his left elbow with the fingertips of his right hand, “last night there was a murder right here … in the neighborhood … A sergeant of the
carabinieri
got whacked.”

Nick's face turns red like he's been slapped in the face.

“It makes my blood boil, too,” Uncle Sal says, looking into his eyes. “I mean … in my nephew Tony's neighborhood, a son of a bitch comes into Uncle Mimmo's store, robs a poor old man, and mows down a sergeant. It's a slap in the face, Nick, see what I'm saying?”

Trying hard to recover his composure, Nick nods.

“This morning,” Uncle Sal continues, “I immediately phoned some friends of mine,
capish?
To find out more. I mean, you gotta know what happens in your own neighborhood, am I wrong? Apparently, the sergeant was shot in the mouth, in the mouth,
capish?
I mean: it's not like they know exactly what happened, because of the condition of the face, but on the shelves behind him, along with his brain they found these really tiny pieces of teeth, and from that the forensic people worked out the bullet hit him in the mouth … The things forensics can do these days!”

Nick squeezes the paper towel in his pocket, and realizes it's even wetter than before.

“Who's playing?” Uncle Sal says, frowning. “Duke Ellington?”

“No, Don Scali,” Nick says in a thin voice. “It's … Charlie Parker.”

“You know, Nick, I'm an old man now…” Uncle Sal says. “I can remember the fifties, goombahs coming over from America, talking about the Duke.
Minchia,
I thought he was a boss of bosses, but he was a musician!

“Anyway”—he looks at his watch, gets up very slowly, and just as slowly heads for the door—“it's getting late.”

A few steps from the door, he stops and slaps Nick on the back. “It was a pleasure talking to you, Nick.” Then, lifting the flap of his jacket near the buttons, “Tony, Tony, all these barbecues of his aren't so good for the figure…”

At the door, he suddenly stops. “Oh, Nick, I almost forgot, you need to be careful … Apparently the son of a bitch who did the robbery is someone who lives in this neighborhood … in this neighborhood,
capish?
It's an outrage!”

With one foot almost out the door, he stops again. “I almost forgot something else,
minchia,
I'm really getting old … Mindy asked me to say hello.”

“Mi-Mindy?”

“Look at him, he's got a stutter!” Uncle Sal says, squeezing Nick's right cheek hard between the index finger and middle finger of his left hand. “You're pretending you don't remember, huh? Tony's right, you're a real good kid. And like all good kids, you're shy. Mindy, yes, Mindy … Look, we see these things, we know how these things are between you young people … We talk about other things, it seems like we don't notice, but we got our eyes on you! All you did last night was talk, I know … But you and Mindy were really hitting it off!”

“Last night?”

“Sure, last night, at the barbecue. We all saw it … you know what I'm saying? It's obvious you're a smart kid, like Tony says … Last night at the barbecue, we all saw the way you and Mindy were looking at each other … all of us … And you know what? I'm telling you this in confidence, man to man: Mindy told her mother she thinks you got a pretty face …
Capish,
Nick?”

Outside the door, Uncle Sal looks quickly at the street, then strokes Nick's cheek and says in conclusion, “Make sure you don't miss the next barbecue, eh, Nicky?”

“MISTER CECCAROLI FOR YOU”

“Mister Ceccaroli for you.”

Jasmine's shrill little voice interrupts Frank's fantasizing. He's been thinking about his meeting with Sal Scali and wondering why John La Bruna said, “He's a well-dressed guy, just like you.” For the first time, the words seem off-key, out of place; it hurts his feelings. “He's a well-dressed guy, just like you.”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
“Who's he?” he replies absently.

“Mister Ce-cca-ro-li from Rome,” Jasmine repeats irritably.

Frank hasn't even had time to say okay when Ceccaroli's Italianized English rings out at the other end of the line. “
Nice-a to ear you!
”

“Ceccarò,” Frank says. “Let's talk Italian, huh?”

Marco Ceccaroli owns a private TV station in Rome, buys and sells almost all the TV movies made by Erra Productions, and phones Frank every week with his latest
gret ideeas
for unlikely miniseries to export to America. Frank, who doesn't give a fuck about miniseries, or maxi-series for that matter, listens to him because he buys his TV movies, but mainly because he can't say to him, “Look, it's got nothing to do with me, I'm just a name on the office door.”

Until now, Ceccaroli has always talked to Frank in English, and Frank's unexpected request to talk in Italian paralyzes him.
How should I talk to him? What should I say?
he's thinking.

“Whatever … whatever you like, Frank,” Ceccaroli stammers, trusting in Providence.

“Ceccarò,” Frank says, “you know that guy in Florence who picked up Italian rights in Leonard Trent's
Tenors?
”

“I seen him a few times, Frank,” Ceccaroli says, though he doesn't know him at all.

“The movie's crap,” Frank continues. “It's about a tenor who nobody knows but, according to that asshole Trent, he's got ‘the highest singing voice' that ever existed.”

“As a director, Trent's a little eccentric,” Ceccaroli says. He's a fan of Trent, and likes nothing better than talking about movies. Christ! Movies! The kind that, when you show them on TV, you know they're real movies because they don't fill the whole screen!

“I say he's an asshole,” Frank says. “But anyhow … you know that movie was made by Starship Pictures, right, Ceccarò?”

“Sure … sure, Frank.”

“And you know I'm in charge of Starship Pictures now…”