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

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.’”
    â€œShit,” Chaz says.
    â€œâ€˜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?’”
    â€œOkay, Frank,” Chaz says without nodding, “I’ll go tell Jasmine to book—”
    â€œWhere 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.”
    â€œYou’re right, Frank, I’m sorry…” Chaz says, nodding.
    â€œWe need an excuse.”
    â€œAn excuse, Frank?”
    â€œYes, I gotta find an excuse to go to Rome.”
    â€œTo Rome?!”
    â€œOf 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