Sicilian Tragedee

by Cappellani, Ottavio

  “I want to die,” says Lambertini. “The show must go on.”

  Cagnotto looks at Lambertini.

  He had heard her say “I want to die” but probably he had heard her wrong.

  “Why are you looking at me like that, Cagnotto?”

  “No, it’s, um …”

  “All right, are we all in agreement?”

  Cosentino looks at Caporeale, gives him a wink, and says, “What do you think?”

  “No, no, I agree, Lambertini must die.”

  Lambertini nods her head, satisfied. At least somebody understands her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Look, Don’t Even Let Me Think About What Betty’s Thinking About Right Now!

  “Look, don’t even let me think about what Betty’s thinking about right now!”

  Pirrotta has moved on to the diplomatic Lei, he’s dropped the tu charged with intimate contempt.

  “In this moment Betty feels wounded, cheated, bitter.” Pirrotta makes a face with a bitter smirk. “She’s a woman who believes in feelings, know what I mean, Turrisi?”

  Turrisi nods compassionately.

  “She thinks we’re at war for oil, for business, that we’re insensible to the call of love.”

  “No, no. I’d do anything for Elisabetta!”

  “No, she’s called Bet—Call her Betty! Turrisi, just call her Betty! I can see, I can see your intentions are serious. Only now the problem is not just my daughter. Now we got two homicides.”

  Turrisi gestures with his chin, as if to say, I know how many there are.

  “But Turrisi, how did it ever cross your mind to take down Paino?”

  “As I told you—”

  “No, do me a favor. Don’t talk. Did you know that the magistrates have opened an inquest? Yeah? The prefect has put his nose in. They’re organizing something in Noto …”

  “Okay, but what can those fuckers—”

  “No, look, I asked you to shut up.”

  Turrisi nods, saying sorry with his eyes.

  “The national newspapers are even talking about it, they say La Voce della Sicilia got a call from a paper in London wanting to know if it was all true.”

  “From London?”

  “Turrisi, don’t start up with London now!”

  Turrisi nods, saying sorry once again with his eyes.

  “And that’s not the only problem. They’re getting nervous in Palermo.”

  “Scum,” says Turrisi.

  Pirrotta looks at him.

  Hadn’t he told him to shut up?

  Okay, but he was right, the guys from Palermo are scum, it’s true. “If it weren’t for Jacobbo Maretta, Virtude’s man of honor who’s got the situation in hand, things in Sicily would be worse than a mess right now. In Palermo, with Virtude in Ucciardone Prison, this bunch of jack-offs are out there fooling around. But hey, where did you ever get the idea of blowing away Paino?” Pirrotta can’t stop thinking about it.

  “But if I hadn’t done it, in Palermo they would have thought it was me who took down Falsaperla, and they would have gone after me for starting a gang war.”

  “Ah, yes, and now that they’re pissed off at both of us, things are much better, aren’t they?”

  Turrisi looks at Pirrotta.

  Pirrotta looks away. “And where did you get the idea of doing it that way, so theatrical? During the same play, during the same line! No wonder the newspapers in London are talking about it.”

  “Hey, what about that magistrate they blew up with the whole newsstand where he went to get his papers?”

  “Well, in that case it means they didn’t have any other way to get him,” says Pirrotta. Sounding none too sure of himself, to tell the truth.

  “I,” says Turrisi, “I had to show who Turrisi is. If it had to be war, it had to be war.”

  Pirrotta raises his eyes to the heavens.

  He sighs.

  Best to remain calm. “Okay, trivialities. Don’t worry.”

  “But how are we going to resolve the situation?” says Turrisi in a low voice.

  Pirrotta nods, removing his sunglasses.

  You never conclude a deal with sunglasses.

  Pirrotta looks around. “You still got Giacomo in hand?” he asks.

  “How do you know about Giacomo?”

  “Paino, like that—only Giacomo could do that. He was in the SAS, no?”

  “And when he turns on his cell phone, that dickhead, yes, sure, I’ve got him in hand.”

  Pirrotta insists on walking him to his car.

  “It was that garbage bin over there, see?”

  Pirrotta looks at the garbage bin as if it were slime. “They got to go and put these things in the middle of the street,” he says indignantly.

  “I was coming down that way, and what was I supposed to do?”

  “Madness. Not to mention extremely dangerous for anyone on a motorbike. Hey, it’s really a beautiful car, however,” says Pirrotta, turning to admire the Aston Martin.

  “I can’t look at it with the broken headlight, Signor Pirrotta.”

  Pirrotta looks at Turrisi.

  He nods.

  He lowers his head.

  He stares at his shoe.

  “Turi, call me Turi. You’re a good kid. Call me Turi.”

  Turrisi lifts a hand to his mouth.

  Then, not to let him see the emotion that’s gripping his throat, he embraces Pirrotta and whispers in his ear, “Papa, Papa!”

  Pirrotta raises his eyes to the heavens.

  Mother of God, how good it used to be in the days when he drove the cement-mixer, drank Fernet at the bar, and nobody busted his balls.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SS Really Exists, Nobody Knows About It, Even Though Everybody Knows

  SS really exists, nobody knows about it, even though everybody knows. Swim Shoot, it’s called in the business. Once upon a time they specialized in swimming pool deaths.

  It’s something nobody is supposed to know about.

  And in fact nobody does.

  Even though everybody knows.

  The swimming pool deaths were an invention of Don Vincenzino in New York, when the Cosa Nostra, between the sixties and the seventies, decided to take advantage of the crisis the studios were in and invest in the movies in order to launder some money—those were the days when indie film was born.

  The stars, the directors, and the producers all went around with bodyguards, everybody knew everybody, everybody was sleeping with everybody, and if you had something to do you couldn’t do it in the old-fashioned way because the FBI would get you immediately. It’s not like you could send a killer into a pool party full of movie stars. How would he even get in without an invitation?

  So Don Vincenzino began to get bit parts for his assistants, or he made them the dummy heads of the independent film companies, officially the producers, or sometimes he made them directors—in those days so much bullshit was being made that one more, one less, nobody noticed.

  The best of them all was——(redacted), his brain so wormeaten that he became really famous as a director of super-violent movies. (Not a fucking bad idea, he knew how certain details worked.)

  Anyway, if you have ever asked yourself how it is that there are so many pool deaths in Hollywood, now you know why and who.

  Ottone and Ernst are part of this tradition.

  Twin brothers, they are independent film producers with offices in New York, London, and Berlin. They make police procedurals that they sell to cable TV, and every year they rescue tons of ex-models who have hit age thirty (nobody wants models who have hit age thirty) and as a side business they’ve opened a plastic surgery clinic in Hamburg, and like so many businesses born as fronts, this has become a big moneymaker.

  Ottone and Ernst have just arrived in Catania.

  They’ve taken a suite at the Una Palace.

  They’re getting ready to immerse themselves in the Sicilian Baroque.

  They have an appointment with the film commissio
ner.

  It seems you can make movies cheap in Catania.

  They also have an appointment with a local handler, Rattalina. A guy who knows how to deal with the bureaucracy.

  “And fireworks, no?” the mayor of Noto asks the city council.

  The culture commissioner, Chartered Accountant Intelisano, gets to his feet. “Your Honor, my fellow commissioners, I think it’s a bad idea.”

  The mayor looks at the council.

  The councillors are looking at Intelisano the way they always look at him, as if he’s a total moron.

  “And why do you think it’s a bad idea?” asks the mayor.

  “Let’s not forget that this tragedy has been stalked by tragedy. There will be newspapers, TV, this is Noto, capital of the Sicilian Baroque. It doesn’t seem serious.”

  “No, we must have fireworks,” says the mayor.

  Intelisano sits down, looks around, and says, “No. Yes, I agree.”

  The commissioners and the mayor stand up. Average length of a special city council meeting in August, five minutes.

  The commissioner for city planning—highly respected in Noto because in the middle of the capital of the Baroque they have built two skycrapers and the commissioner still hasn’t had them demolished—approaches the mayor. “While they’re putting in the air-conditioning in the theater, couldn’t we get them to put air-conditioning in here too? The old system doesn’t work very well.”

  “I’ll ask, Commissioner, I’ll ask, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

  The bell is ringing in the Villa Wanda living room.

  “Mister ring?”

  “Bring me a glass of whiskey, a double gin, a vodka, and a Campari. And bring me a bucket of ice.”

  “Are you crazy?” yells Wanda.

  “Shhh, it’s not for me to drink. I’ll explain.”

  “Explain what? You’re driving me nuts!”

  “Listen, woman, I told you to zip it up!”

  “But—”

  “Zip it!”

  Oh, Holy Mary, when he says “zip it.” Sure, sure, I’ll zip it, I’ll shut up. Oh, Riddu! Oh, God.

  “Wanda.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Me?”

  The maid comes in with the tray full of drinks. She puts it down carefully in front of Pirrotta.

  “Wait,” says Pirrotta.

  He takes the glass of whiskey and pours it in the bucket of ice. He does the same with the vodka and the Campari.

  The double gin, first he looks at Wanda, then he downs it as if it were tap water.

  Zipped up, yes, I’m zipped up.

  “Wanda.”

  “Yes?”

  Pirrotta holds out the fingers of his right hand and waves them up and down, up and down. “Okay, now get out of here.”

  Wanda gets up and smooths her skirt. “I’ll wait for you … in the bedroom?”

  “Wanda, what’s the matter with you, the menopause? Get out of here and go wherever you want. Leave me alone because your daughter is on the way.”

  Betty is coming in the huge front door.

  She looks at the door.

  She puts her mini-bag on the floor and takes off the thong sandals with the heels.

  She grabs the door handle and slams it as hard as she can.

  Pirrotta hears the bang and nods.

  He takes off his jacket, loosens the knot of his tie, unbuttons his top shirt button, and lies back in the chair trying to look troubled.

  It isn’t that hard.

  Holy Mary, how sweet it was in the days of the cement-mixer. No worries, no responsibilities, once in a while a little poke with Wanda, and all was well.

  Betty puts her sandals back on because the nervous walk doesn’t work when she’s barefoot, picks up her mini-bag, and moves toward the living room.

  She stops when she sees her father.

  Her father is slumped in the chair with all those glasses lined up in front of him like he’s drowned himself in drink.

  He’s looking at her with lifeless eyes.

  “Asshole.”

  Her father doesn’t react.

  “I’m not a virgin anymore.”

  Nothing.

  Pirrotta mumbles, his voice blurred, “He’s a monster looking for blood and revenge.”

  What the fuck is her father trying to say?

  “What?”

  “A man of untold violence.”

  “What, your diabetes is acting up?”

  “A ruthless assassin capable of unbelievable cruelty.”

  “Papa, what the fuck is wrong?”

  “Your Turrisi.”

  “Your Turrisi.” Betty tosses her mini-bag against a chair.

  “I saw him …”

  “What the fuck did you do?”

  “He asked to see me. And he threatened me.”

  “Who?”

  “Turrisi.”

  “And why the fuck are you telling me?”

  “He’s … he’s … I don’t even know what he is. A kind of Orlando Furioso who’s lost touch with reality. He swore revenge against me and all my descendants down the centuries.”

  “Fine. Do what the fuck you want but don’t bust my balls.”

  Pirrotta, flailing around in the chair, sits up on the edge. “Okay, you really don’t get it, do you? You drove that guy insane. You got him to where he’s capable of who knows what shit.”

  “And what the fuck do I have to do with it?”

  “He’s out of his mind in love with you, he says he’s going to start blowing people away left and right.” Pirrotta begins to make agitated gestures with his hands. “His eyes were hanging out, his tongue was yellow, his hair was standing straight up, his ears were red, and his nose was enormous. He says he’s going to start a bloodbath.”

  “That’s your problem, I don’t have fuck-all to do with it.”

  “Oh, no. Yes, you do. Because I told him I was getting out of this business in Ispica. I said I could see he was merciless, that he didn’t even give a fuck about the cupola … about our friends the big bosses in Palermo.”

  “You told him you were getting out?”

  “I’m too old for this stuff. These young people are hotheads. I’ve got a family, I’ve got you, I’ve got Wanda, that guy is single and he’s crazy.”

  Betty crosses her arms. “And what did he say?”

  “He said he’s going to start a bloodbath anyway.”

  “Sure. I bet.” Betty twirls on her sandals and goes off toward her room.

  Pirrotta follows her with his gaze.

  He picks up the bell.

  Now he’s going to sit down with another nice big double gin, and let’s see if he can get two birds with one stone.

  Pirrotta smiles.

  “Mister ring?”

  Vaccalluzzo, in a nightclub at Acicastello that’s open all afternoon, a pair of mirror sunglasses on his face, is wiggling around the pole with a Romanian lap dancer while the boys keep time with their hands.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Giacomo Smiles, Looking Curiously at the Mortars

  Giacomo smiles, looking curiously at the mortars.

  He’s wearing the uniform of the firm that installs air-conditioning.

  The workers from Imposimato Brothers, the most famous fireworks artists in all of Sicily, are unloading their van.

  A worker comes over, says hello to Giacomo, opens the rear doors of the Fiat Ducato van, and asks, “Got a wheelbarrow?”

  Giacomo nods yes, pointing with his chin toward a brand-new wheelbarrow.

  “Fuck, it’s heavy. We made it like you said. Where you got to put this fucking mortar?”

  “Huh?”

  The worker is pulling out a cardboard box. “If you don’t help me, I can’t do this by myself. Hey, if it wasn’t for this van, fuck if there was a way to get explosives into Noto today. They have the town surrounded and they’re checking every car.”

  Giacomo nods. “Whe
re do you live?”

  “Catania.”

  “Which part?”

  “Via Messina, luckily, with this heat at least I’m right next to the sea,” says the worker, smiling.

  “Via Messina,” says Giacomo, who doesn’t like people who talk too much, especially when they talk too much about his business. And he doesn’t like people who call him tu.

  The Baroque historic center of Noto is behind police lines.

  Beyond the lines the crowd is piling up worse than if they were at the World Cup final.

  Carabinieri, police, commanders, prefects, park rangers—all the available agents are spread out along the Corso and the cross streets. Nobody gets in unless they have been patted down and have gone through the metal detector under Porta Reale where the Corso begins.

  Giacomo, with his wheelbarrow, heads toward the van of the company that’s installing the air-conditioning, opens the doors, puts the mortar inside, gets up inside himself, puts the mortar inside an empty air conditioner, puts the air conditioner in a box marked POLAR BEAR AIR CONDITIONERS, gets down from the van, puts the box in the wheelbarrow, turns on his iPod, and makes for the theater, keeping time with the music.

  “That club was fucking awful,” says Vaccalluzzo, getting out of the car. They had to park in the lot in front of the villa.

  Fine, that way he would walk all the way down the Corso and everyone would see that he had arrived in Noto.

  “Tonight we’ll try a different one, Don Melo.”

  Vaccalluzzo’s wearing torn Dolce & Gabbana jeans, gold sneakers with Velcro straps, a lacy shirt, and the jacket of a tux.

  As he walks down the street, the metallized fuchsia-pink sunset flashes off him, sparkling on the KISS ME spelled out in rhinestones on his rear end.