Who is Lou Sciortino? (22 page)

Nuccio looks at it out of the corner of his eye. It looks like one of those old cookie boxes, but it has the word
ARROWS
on it. Nuccio takes it out, puts it on the desk, and opens it.

“Nunzio Aliotro's got music playing,” Uncle Sal says.

Nuccio takes out an arrow and starts stroking the goose quills. “Huh?” he says.

“Music, on the phone,” Uncle Sal says.

Nuccio brings the tip of the arrow up close to his right eye, then blinks, moves the arrow farther away, puts it down next to the crossbow, and at last his thoughts come into focus. He smiles as he pulls on the string and turns the steel knob that holds back the string and the arrow.

“Where the fuck are you? This is Sal Scali!” Uncle Sal says into the phone, then gets up on tiptoe and, just as he's about to fall back on his heels, finds himself incomprehensibly, mysteriously, on the ground. Just before he stops seeing any fucking thing at all, Uncle Sal has time to see a bloodstain descending rapidly, from right to left, over his white shirt, obliterating the beautifully embroidered gothic SS on the left side of the shirt.

TONY PHONED THE CHINESE RESTAURANT ON VIA PACINI

Tony phoned the Chinese restaurant on Via Pacini. The bozo who answered didn't understand a fucking thing, then someone with more upstairs came on the phone and now, at the barbecue, along with the shooting stars, the colored balloons, the lanterns, some lighted and some of them not, there's a dragon about thirty feet long winding its way across the garden.

Tony's last big barbecue of the season is in honor of Senator Zappulla, who helped Tony get his hairdresser's license. Tony has invited people with money, from every milieu (that's the word he used to Cettina), so Senator Zappulla can come and give everybody a smile and a promise, because he knows it takes a lot of bricks to build a wall.

But because there are
americani
here, too, this time, Tony thought of something special, an evening of
chinoiserie et orientalisme
—those are the very words he used to Cettina—with a triad of aperitifs, Bellini, Rossini, and Tonini—prosecco, licorice, and coconut milk, white and black just like the cardinal, who for some reason Tony is convinced is Sicilian-American—Sicilian sushi, anchovies and raw octopus, and at the octopus buffet, of course, Nunzio and Agatino dressed as Yakuza: tight-fitting black leather jeans, patent leather moccasins with square tips and big silver buckles, tight vests, leather jackets, opaque sunglasses.

Looking contentedly at the dragon, Tony stops Nunzio as he passes and asks in a low voice, “Are there enough amaretti?”

Nunzio, who's short, looks him up and down. “If there aren't, you can always get more from Corso Italia,” he says irritably.

“Then hurry up and find some, asshole!” Tony says, reflected in Nunzio's sunglasses. Then he realizes that from that angle, his reflection looks twice the size, and he gives himself a manual face-lift, smoothing his neck several times very quickly with his hand to dismiss even the memory of skin that's starting to age.

*   *   *

Felice Romano, the mechanic, and Angelo Colombo, the dressmaker, are talking in a corner of the garden. Felice is wearing a caftan with Indian pants, Angelo a white linen suit like the one Truman Capote wore when he visited Taormina. They're talking but not really, because Felice doesn't give a shit what Angelo's saying, and vice versa. What they're really doing is vamping, and watching everyone else do the same.

Angelo's wife, who used to model for him before they were married, leans over to Felice's wife, who's wearing a blue medium-length skirt, white tights, and a blouse with an embroidered collar, and whispers in her ear, “Since he stopped fucking me, all he does is talk. Same with you?”

“Tell me about it, signora. Sometimes I really worry.”

*   *   *

“I'm telling you,” Uncle Mimmo is saying a few yards away, buttoning his woolen jacket over his checkered shirt, “you got to explain this democracy to me.”

Cosimo, Pietro, Turi, and Tano nod. They've been invited to a political barbecue, so it's normal to talk politics, like when you go to the theater it's normal to talk about Pirandello.

“
Minchia,
at least when there was a king, you knew who you had to shoot. The way things are now, who understands a fucking thing? You're telling me,” he continues, turning to Cosimo, even though Cosimo hasn't said a fucking thing, “in a democracy, the guy behaves badly, you stop voting for him.” Uncle Mimmo gives a bitter laugh. “But the guy doesn't give a shit, all he does is change sides, and you can't even shoot him because that's democracy.”

Cosimo nods.

“
Minchia,
in a democracy politicians run faster than rabbits.”

*   *   *

Signorina Niscemi has brought Raffaella, her best friend, who's a cleaning woman at the provincial assembly.

“Are you sure it was okay for me to come?” Raffaella asks, a tad embarrassed. “I wasn't invited.”

“Sure! You can bring anybody you like to a political barbecue. In fact, the more people you bring, the better.”

Signorina Niscemi isn't wearing a bra, and the daisies on her blouse look like they're being shaken by a tornado in California or Florida—someplace in America with palms.

Raffaella, on the other hand, is wearing a tight bra, which lifts her tits and makes them sway, so she's looking good, too.

“Okay, but I feel embarrassed all the same. I don't know anybody.”

“Just do what I do. When you haven't got anything to say or anybody to talk to, just make a snobby face, like this.” Signorina Niscemi sticks her nose in the air and pouts. “That way it looks like you don't want to talk to people because you think they're not quite your kind and you can't trust them.”

Raffaella also sticks her nose in the air and pouts, then laughs.

“I told you we'd have a good time if you came,” Signorina Niscemi says.

*   *   *

“I don't understand Signorina Niscemi,” Rosy says to Cinzia and Alessia, sitting on the wicker couch on the other side of the garden. “You can see a mile off all she wants is somebody to eat her tits, so I don't know why the fuck she has to make that face!”

*   *   *

Tony is still thinking about Nunzio's impertinent answer and the missing amaretti when he sees Lou Sciortino and Leonard Trent coming in and his head starts spinning. Tony watches them for a moment, then walks toward them, but doesn't know where to start. “Cettina!” he screams. When he doesn't know what the fuck to do, he always screams, “Cettina!”

Cettina appears, holding the train of her red dress in her left hand and a glass of prosecco in her right. As she can't hold out her hand, she's forced to smile and bow. Lou smiles, while Leonard bows in reply.

“And this is Tony!” Tony says, pointing to himself, and looking at Leonard with a forced smile.

“
Ciao,
Tony,” Leonard says, giving him his hand. “Nice party.”

“Thank you,” Tony says, holding out a hand as flabby as a fresh cuttlefish.

Then Tony falls silent, and so does Cettina. Lou is on the point of saying something stupid about how his jacket and Cettina's dress are both red, when Leonard looks straight in Agatino's direction.

“Marvelous!” he says.

“Who?” Tony asks in surprise.

“The octopus,” Leonard says.

“The octopus?” Tony asks, even more surprised, remembering that in Sicilian, “octopus” can mean “faggot.”

“Yes, the octopus … How do you say?” Leonard walks toward Agatino and, a few yards from the table where the aperitifs are, points to an octopus, made out of three feet of real pastry, with colored parasols stuck in its head and its tentacles used for holding glasses.

“Oh,” Tony says, relieved. “Nice, isn't it? Almond pastry, like Uncle Sal's amaretti. Amazing what they can do with almond pastry!” Then he signals to Agatino. “An aperitif?”

Agatino puffs out his chest, wiggles his shoulders, and blinks behind the sunglasses. “A Bellini, a Rossini, or a Tonini?”

“A Tonini, please,” Leonard says.

With the palm of his hand Tony indicates the anchovies and the raw octopus. “May I offer you some Sicilian sushi? Lou?”

“Thanks, Tony,” Lou says, looking around. “Maybe I'll have something later.”

“Mindy … is on her way,” Cettina says timidly.

“Any chance of having a little of this … this … almond pastry?” Leonard says.

Tony turns white, looks at Cettina, and clears his throat. “The amaretti are on their way…” he says. “I know it's a shame, but we can't eat the octopus, can we?”

“Don't worry,” Leonard says, smiling. “Sicilian sushi sounds perfect.”

Tony cheers up, looks at Cettina like a contented child, then puts a hand on Leonard's shoulder. “Baretta…” he says in a shrill voice. “Is it true Baretta killed his wife?”

“No, thanks, not this octopus … just the other one.” Leonard can't take his eyes off the octopus sculpture. “The lawyer says Marlon Brando's son Christian had an affair with his wife.”

“The lawyer's wife?” Tony asks in a worried tone.

“No, Baretta's wife.”

Tony jumps, like he's had a shock. “
Madre!”

Leonard nods, then looks left and right. “But the whole defense doesn't add up.”

Tony nods, too.

“Baretta and his wife were in a restaurant,” Leonard goes on, “and they go out to the parking lot. But then, according to Baretta, he goes back to the restaurant because he forgot his gun. He goes in, gets the gun, and when he gets back to the parking lot, his wife's already been shot. Can you see somebody forgetting his gun in a restaurant?”

Tony shakes his head. “
Minchia,
they set him up! In my opinion, it was Marlon Brando's son. He already killed his stepsister's lover ten years ago because he was beating her—and that isn't normal, because you can kill your sister's lover, all right, but your stepsister's? If you kill your stepsister's lover, it means you're doing it because you have the hots for her…”

“Don't forget Duffy Hambleton, Tony, the stuntman who first accused Baretta of hiring him to kill his wife…”

“What the hell does Baretta got to do with Duffy's wife?”

“No, when I say his wife, I mean Baretta's wife…”

“Oh, yes…”

“Now he's changed his story and he's accusing Brando's son … There's also Kevin London, the parking lot mugger, Baretta's lawyer says it could have been him…”

Tony and Leonard Trent walk away, leaving Lou and Cettina to themselves.

*   *   *

In her right hand, Signora Zappulla clutches the fan her husband bought her in Córdoba and taps it nervously on the palm of her left hand.
Minchia,
Tony hardly even said good evening to her!
Asshole! Turncoat!

A few yards away, Signora Falsaperla is reveling in the fact of Tony's treating the senator and his wife so badly. To Signora Falsaperla, who's arm in arm with her husband, his stomach barely contained by his red shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons and his face aflame with aftershave, it seems too good to be true, seeing Signora Zappulla with her horse face contorted in rage, and hair like Farrah Fawcett in a wind tunnel. So she decides to unburden herself. “Signora,” she says, approaching, “nice barbecue, isn't it? They've even got
americani
here.”

“Let them go back to Hollywood and be ballbusters there. Then they can come here and act all high and mighty. By the way”—Signora Zappulla turns to Signor Falsaperla—“your wife told me at Tony's that you'd like to go into politics.”

Signor Falsaperla's face gets even redder, because it's one thing to talk about having political ambitions when you're in your shop, wrapping sausages for your customers, and quite another in front of Senator Zappulla. But the senator tells him, “Excellent idea, excellent idea. The country needs entrepreneurs like you.”

Nobody's ever called Falsaperla an entrepreneur before. His face almost explodes with happiness, and even the tips of his ears turn bright red.

*   *   *

“That's democracy, look!” Uncle Mimmo says to Tano, nudging him in the elbow and indicating Lou with his eyes.

“
Minchia,
that's the guy who came to collect the protection!” Tano says.

“Who?” Cosimo screams.

“Why don't you say it a little louder, eh?” Uncle Mimmo says. “He hasn't heard you yet.”

*   *   *

During the afternoon Mindy called Valentina, took her into Tony and Cettina's bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and showed Valentina Tony's wife's clothes. Cettina had told her to choose something to wear and Mindy had thought,
Who better to decide than Valentina?
Among Cettina's things, Valentina immediately saw a simple seventies-style dress, white with blue polka dots, which seemed tailor-made for Mindy. Cettina's shorter, but just as big-breasted, and the dress fit her to a T, coming down to midthigh.

Valentina then rushed over to her own house and came back with a pair of stiletto-heeled sandals she bought on Via Etnea.

“When a woman's got beautiful feet like you do, Mindy, she oughta show them off,” Valentina said as Mindy gazed in the mirror.

Now Mindy is advancing across the lawn, a surly expression on her face. She sways in an ungainly way as she walks, her white breasts shaking above the low-cut neckline.

“Mindy!” Cettina says, waving.

Mindy turns and sees Cettina with the
americano,
who's wearing an open red jacket.

Lou gives her a long, studied look as she approaches.

“Good evening,” Mindy says when she's in front of Lou, keeping her knees together so she can plant her heels more firmly in the ground. Her voice is steady, and so are her eyes, which look straight into his.