Who is Lou Sciortino? by Ottavio Cappellani Read Free Book Online

worsted jacket. Tuccio thinks, Fuck, he’s pissed about something, otherwise he wouldn’t have his hands in his pockets … a guy like that doesn’t put his hands in his pockets if he isn’t pissed. Tuccio tries to approach Uncle Sal, looking as nonchalant as he can, but as he walks, his body and feet seem to be going in different directions.
    Uncle Sal stands there with his hands stuck in his pockets, while Tuccio, who’s quite a bit taller, bends to whisper something in his ear. The guy who was in his way, and who’s watching the scene now with feigned detachment, sees for a moment in his mind’s eye the grille of the confessional, an image that used to disturb his adolescence.
    Uncle Sal is listening, solemn and motionless, his lips curled in a bitter grimace.

MEANWHILE IN NEW YORK
    Meanwhile in New York, at the offices of Starship Pictures, in Lou Sciortino’s former office to be precise, Frank Erra is sitting at Lou’s former desk and rummaging nervously through the drawers.
    â€œChaz! Chaz!” he shouts out of the corner of his mouth, the other corner being entirely occupied by one of his usual Cohiba Coronas Especiales. “What kind of crummy office is this? They haven’t even got a fucking lighter!”
    *   *   *
    Frank Erra is in Lou Sciortino’s former office because, about a month ago, Lou’s grandfather, Don Lou Sciortino, summoned Pippino the Oleander, Tony Collura, Jack Bufalino, and Turi Messina to his house and, pointing to the phone with a grave, solemn gesture, said, “Turi, call John La Bruna for me, please!”
    Turi Messina turned white. The previous weekend, in one of the best tapas restaurants in New York, Turi Messina had met Angelo La Bruna together with two Puerto Rican girls with these breathtaking Spanish asses, and so he could flirt with those asses he’d thrown caution to the winds and started talking to Angelo, the nephew of John La Bruna, his boss’s rival.
    â€œDon Sciortino, you gotta believe me…” Turi stammered.
    â€œOkay, okay, son,” Don Lou said softly, “it’s all right … it’s all right. I owe you an explanation.”
    The explanation was that a couple of months had gone by since the bomb had exploded in their faces, and they still knew fuck all, but now they had to deal with whoever was responsible … “Like the Chinaman says … or was it somebody else? Who was it? Minchia! If the enemy won’t come to you, you gotta go to the enemy!” Don Lou had said, getting confused between Sun-tzu and the Prophet. “Anyway, Turi, call me that suckass John La Bruna!” And Turi had called.
    After the voices of a couple of secretaries, probably interrupted giving blow jobs, Turi heard the voice of John La Bruna in person and passed the receiver deferentially to Don Lou.
    â€œHow are you, John?” Don Lou said.
    â€œLou!” La Bruna replied. “Lou! What a nice surprise! I’m fine. How you doin’?”
    â€œFine!” Don Lou said.
    â€œ Cazzarola, Lou! What an unexpected pleasure!”
    â€œI got a problem, John.”
    â€œTell me, Lou,” La Bruna replied sympathetically.
    â€œI need somebody at Starship Pictures … Somebody who understands something about the fucking movie business.”
    â€œ Cazzarola, Lou! I should have called you before! How can you ever forgive me?… Shit! The world we live in these days. Bombs going off for no reason!”
    â€œNo problem, John, no problem…” Don Lou replied.
    â€œIf I understand you, Lou, you need somebody to take your grandson’s place.”
    â€œExactly, John! I guess you know I sent my grandson to Sicily. To get a bit of sun!”
    â€œYou did the right thing, Lou … absolutely! Hmm, let me think it over a little, eh, Lou?”
    â€œTake all the time you want, John—” Don Lou said, meaning days,