by Sally Gould
The Venetian Job
Bad guys and action - Max's Italian holiday
Sally Gould
Copyright © 2014 Sally Gould
All rights reserved.
Published by Orbis Media
Editing by Brooke Clark, Spring Agency
Cover design by www.ebooklaunch.com
"You can have the universe, but leave Italy for me."
from Attila, by Giuseppe Verdi
Table of Contents
Mafia Encounter
1. SICILY
2. MR. MAFIA
3. THE STAMP COLLECTOR
4. UNCLE FRANCO?
5. MOUNT ETNA
6. DEATH IN TAORMINA
7. THE BLACK-SHIRT GUYS
8. GOOD LUCK
The Venetian Job
1. MR. SCARFACE
2. SANTO
3. THE PERFECT CRIME
4. THE CURSED MANSION
5. SEVEN SILVER TUBES
6. A BAD FEELING
7. THE BAD GUYS
7. BOAT CHASE ON THE GRAND CANAL
9. THE MAX STORY
Other books by Sally Gould:
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mafia Encounter
1. SICILY
My friends would be doing math at this time of the day, but I wasn't because I was in Italy. Sicily, to be exact. We were driving along a four-lane highway where almost every car was speeding. Dad was biting his bottom lip, because he was concentrating hard.
Charlie had stuck his head outside the car window to record crazy drivers, so he could show his friends when he got home. Cars whizzed past us so fast it felt like we weren't moving. And the crazy drivers seemed to think no matter what they did, everyone else would get out of their way.
Mom stopped reading her murder mystery and stared out the front window at Mount Etna. Even though it was March, the top of it was covered in snow. Mom loved mountains. That was why we were in Sicily, because she'd always wanted to see Mount Etna.
Charlie sat back, put his phone down and leaned across the back seat of the car. Nudging me, he whispered, "I bet you we're related to Mr. Mafia."
"Who?" I hated when Charlie did that. When he says something as though I should know what he's talking about, but I don't know, so I've got to ask him what he means and then I sound dumb and he sounds smart.
"A mafia boss; an old guy who wears a black suit and black sunglasses and who has bodyguards. He'd live in an enormous house and be driven around in a big black car, and if anyone does the wrong thing to his family, they'd better watch out." Charlie gave me that smug look he gives when he's showing off how much he knows.
I nodded as though I knew exactly what he meant. And I sort of did. There were mafia guys at home. They were bad; I knew that. A bit bad was okay, but I wouldn't want to be related to anyone real bad.
Not that I believed Charlie. Mom wouldn't have brought us to Sicily if we were related to a mafia boss. I didn't think she would, anyway.
"It makes sense," whispered Charlie. "That's why we've started this holiday in Sicily. To meet Mr. Mafia and the rest of the family."
I swallowed. Real casual, I asked, "Mom, are you related to a mafia boss?"
She took her eyes off Mount Etna to turn round and glare at me. Then she glared at Charlie as if to say, Don't scare your younger brother!
He fiddled with his phone. "It seemed a reasonable deduction since we've come to Italy to meet your relatives and Sicily is the first place we've come to."
"We've come to Italy for a holiday, not just to meet my relatives. And most Sicilians aren't in the mafia."
I nodded as though she'd convinced me. When she turned round to the front, Charlie and me looked at each other. We each knew what the other was thinking. She was lying. We could tell because she didn't look into our eyes. That meant one thing. Her relatives lived in Sicily. Did that mean her grandfather or uncle or someone was Mr. Mafia? Maybe; maybe not.
Suddenly Tom Tom, our satellite navigator, got real excited. In his robotic-newsreader voice, he said, "Bear right, then go through the roundabout, second exit, then go straight ahead for two hundred metres, stay in the right lane, then turn right."
"WHAT?" yelled Dad. "That can't be right!"
Charlie sniggered and Mom quickly opened her book and began to read. I stated the obvious: "Tom Tom is always right." We'd been using him for less than a week and it was already like he was part of the family. He loved disagreeing with Dad.
Dad shook his head.
"Wow," yelled Charlie, "check out the Ferrari!"
I turned round to see a bright yellow Ferrari flash past us. A second later a car horn let out a long, loud, scary sound. Then brakes screeched. Dad, who had been following Tom Tom's instructions, yelled out something I'm not allowed to say before he did a massive swerve. Charlie and me got flung sideways. A moment later we realized we'd nearly been hit by a car coming toward us.
For a minute nobody said anything. I reckon it was still sinking in that some crazy Italian driver had nearly killed us.
Charlie patted his phone "Got the whole thing on video. Absolute proof all Italians are crazy."
Mom turned round and gave Charlie one of her looks. "That was one bad driver. Don't generalize."
Charlie nodded to her and then nudged me. "Yeah, and all Italians are saints too. Lucky we're half-Italian."
"Do you really think we're related to a mafia boss?"
"It'd be cool." He lowered his voice and added, "Except I read on the internet there's two mafia families in Sicily who are killing each other. One family reckons the other family is invading its territory."
"What?"
"Shh," whispered Charlie, but it was too late because Mom had already turned round.
"That's enough," she said, looking from me to Charlie and back to me. "I don't want to hear another word about the mafia or my relatives. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mom," we answered like a pair of robots.
When she turned her back to us again, we glanced at each other. We must be related to Mr. Mafia!
Suddenly I felt sick. It all made sense. Why Mom never mentioned exactly where her relatives lived or what they did. She was ashamed of them. She probably hadn't wanted to bring us here. I bet they ordered her to because the big mafia boss wanted to meet Charlie and me.
Maybe our whole lives were about to change. Maybe we'd be expected to leave school and learn the business. Far out, I didn't even know what they did. A cold shiver went up my spine. All of a sudden I didn't want to be in Italy; I wanted to be home.
2. MR. MAFIA
We reached the center of Taormina without being killed in a car accident. Getting a park in Italy wasn't easy. The streets were narrow and cars parked wherever they could. The only good thing about the four of us being squashed into a tiny car was that we could fit into a small car space. Dad had booked a family-size car to rent, but we'd been given a shoebox with four wheels.
Dad patted Tom Tom before we got out of the car; they were friends again because Tom Tom's directions had been right as usual. We found a restaurant and sat down for lunch. Mom was happy because we got a table outside the restaurant and she could gaze at Mount Etna and the sea at the same time. And Charlie was happy because he could check out every Maserati that drove past.
As usual, Dad studied the menu as though the waiter was going test him on it. I don't know why he needed to know what pizza or pasta you could have when he always ordered fish. Charlie and me didn't need to look at the menu. We always ordered the same thing. Even Mom had given up trying to get us eat something different.
It was when Charlie pointed to a blue Maserati driving past that I noticed four Carabinieri over the other side of the street. They were carrying machine guns because they were
military police. Their black uniforms, with the red stripe down the side of their trousers, looked cool.
Charlie and me glanced at each other. What were they doing in some tourist street full of restaurants? Not making sure everyone was obeying the road rules, because no one in Italy bothered with boring stuff like that. I'd already seen Carabinieri guys at the airport, but why would they be here? And there were four of them. Even at the airport in Rome they only strutted about in twos.
The waiter put my salami pizza in front of me. Eating pizza every day was one of my favorite things about Italy. At home, I'd be lucky to eat it once a week. When I bit into a slice, I almost screamed. Far out, the salami was hot! What was it with Sicily and hot salami?
"Max," Mom said, "I wouldn't mind that you eat pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner if you'd eat something green with it." She held out a bowl of salad.
I took one lettuce leaf and removed every piece of hot salami from my pizza.
Charlie gave me a sideways look. "You should order a Margherita pizza too."
"I like salami, just not real hot salami."
"Yeah—" He stopped and stared.
I followed his line of sight. At the front of the restaurant, a string of very long, very shiny black limos pulled up. There were five of them. Two men, wearing black suits and black sunglasses, got out of the back of each car. Then a little old man got out of the back seat of the middle car. He was wearing a black suit and black sunglasses too, and walked with a bit of a limp. I bet there was a story behind that limp.
From nowhere, two guys wearing blue jeans and black shirts appeared and began talking excitedly to the little old man. Two men in black grabbed the arms of the guys in black shirts. One of the black-shirt guys was carrying on like a pork chop, even though his arms were pinned behind his back. The little old man talked to them for a few minutes then waved them away. The bodyguards pushed the guys in black shirts away and the little old man strode into the restaurant. It seemed like something out of a movie. I looked round for a film crew, but the Carabinieri across the road seemed to be the only other people interested. Maybe that sort of thing happened every day in Sicily.
Charlie whispered to me, "They've got guns. They must be mafia."
"How'd you know they've got guns?"
"Stuck down the waist of their trousers. I saw one. I bet they have another one strapped to their leg."
I dropped my pizza. Another cold shiver went up my spine. I didn't like guns. "Can we go to the hotel now?"
Dad gave me a dirty look. "May we finish our lunch first?"
The little old man bowed to Mom before he sat down at the next table. She just smiled at him like mafia bosses bowed to her every day. I twisted my napkin until it wouldn't twist any more. Four of the men in black sat down around the little old man. The other six men in black stood around the joint like they were on guard.
This looked serious. I wanted to finish lunch and get out. Even Charlie was finishing his pizza real quick. But Mom and Dad kept chatting about what sights they wanted to visit as though nothing had changed. Were all parents dumb? Or were Charlie and me real unlucky?
The Carabinieri were still across the road and they were looking over our way. I tore up my napkin into little bits under the table and waited for the sound of gunshots.
***
Okay ... nothing happened at the restaurant. Maybe Mom and Dad weren't that dumb. Although I reckon we were lucky.
Anyway, our hotel was nice. The entrance was big and fancy with statues, marble floors and lots of glass. The furniture was so posh you wouldn't want to sit on it and the guy on the front desk was friendly and spoke posh English. His badge said his name was Matteo. He called us by our names as though he'd always known us.
When Dad handed our passports to Matteo, Charlie whispered to me, "I bet they copy them and sell the details to some crime gang."
"Yeah, sure. As if every hotel in Italy would be doing that." Charlie could be dumb too. He might be smart at school, but he always reckoned everyone in the world was sneaky. Everyone but him.
When Matteo saw from our passports that we were Australian, he asked us if we had a pet kangaroo. We laughed until we realized he was serious.
We had to move out of the way because a group of American tourists wanted to check in. One of the Americans asked Matteo what day they should go to the top of Mount Etna.
"Any day it isn't cranky," he joked.
For no good reason, I glanced at the front entrance. Charlie must've as well because a gasp escaped our mouths at the same time. Mr. Mafia with his limp and his bodyguards had come through the door like they owned the hotel. They went straight to the front desk and for some strange reason Dad and the American tourists stepped aside. It was weird, as though Mr. Mafia had cast a spell over them.
Matteo bowed his head and greeted the little old mafia guy like he was the King of Italy. Mr. Mafia insisted Matteo speak to him in English. Matteo complimented him on his excellent English and then he groveled a lot because Mr. Mafia's usual room had a plumbing problem and wasn't available.
Everyone near the front desk stopped to watch how Mr. Mafia was going to take his usual room being unavailable.
One of the bodyguards stepped forward and muttered something in Italian. I could tell he wasn't happy. He wanted his boss to have his usual room. A long, excited discussion in Italian followed between Matteo and the bodyguard. I could feel everyone tense. Only the little old man seemed relaxed.
Mr. Mafia held up the palms of his hands and in a strong Italian accent said, "The other room good for me." He pointed to his chest. "The president's suite" - he held his hands wide apart - "big ... too big. I'm good."
Matteo replied in Italian, but switched to English. "Thank you, Sir. A bottle of your favorite wine is in your room. Let me know if you would like another."
Mr. Mafia smiled, turned and strode to the elevator. One bodyguard took the key cards from Matteo and both bodyguards followed their boss.
I breathed again and it felt like everyone else did too. None of us spoke while we went up to our rooms. Dad and Mom pretended to check out the wallpaper inside the elevator as though it was the most interesting thing they'd ever seen. Having a mafia boss in the hotel seemed to make everyone uncomfortable.
For the first time our room wasn't next to Mom and Dad's room. We were down the hallway. That was good. We could have pillow fights without them hearing us. Charlie and me ran into the room at the same time, but I managed to push in front. I jumped onto the bed closest to the TV and claimed the remote. Charlie threw his pillow at me.
The first station had a stupid show where some guy had to try to convince a rich old man that he was his long lost son. I flicked through the channels and found a wrestling show. The Dark Magician and The Crazy Cannibal were wrestling. Charlie yelled at me to leave it on that channel.
"I was going to!"
Charlie stacked up the pillows against his bed head and leaned back. He said, "Actually, I reckon it'd be cool to be in the mafia. You wouldn't have to think about what to wear because you'd only own black suits. You get to wear cool black sunglasses, drive everywhere in a black limo, have lots of money and live in a big house. Let's face it, we're not going to inherit much from Mom and Dad."
"You'd have to dye your hair black," I said.
"Yeah and I'd slick it back."
"Yeah and make a will because you'd probably be dead before you got old."
There was a loud knock on the door and we both jumped up. Charlie looked scared and I felt scared.
I tried to make my voice real deep. "Who is it?"
The voice on the other side of the door said, "Mom. Let me in."
I slumped back on the bed and let Charlie get the door.
She came in and looked straight at the TV. "Wrestling!" She hit the off button. "You can both go for a swim. There's a pool on the top floor."
Charlie and me groaned at the same time. Who wanted to swim, when The Dark Magician was about to pulverize
The Crazy Cannibal?
3. THE STAMP COLLECTOR
Sharing a hotel with a mafia boss - even if he was a little old man - didn't make me feel safe and warm inside. I could feel my stomach doing somersaults while we waited for the elevator. I wondered if Charlie was nervous too. He wouldn't admit it, even if he were.
Eventually there was a ping and the doors of the elevator opened. It was empty. That was good. Well, it was good as long as no mafia guys got in before we got out.
"I think I'll do fifty laps," said Charlie, after the elevator doors closed.
"What about Marco Polo? I want to say we played Marco Polo in Italy."
He looked at me like I was stupid. "Marco Polo came from Venice; Italy wasn't a country back then."
Trust him to turn something fun into a history lesson. "Yeah, whatever."
The doors of the elevator opened and we followed the signs to the pool. It was an indoor pool, there were three lanes and it was probably about fifteen metres long - long enough for races. I knew as soon as I saw it that Charlie would want to race.
At first I didn't see anyone in the pool, but then I noticed a figure push off from the edge. Geez, I wanted to have the whole pool to ourselves. Then I saw two men in black suits sitting at the side of the pool. The bad feeling in my gut came back. At first I didn't recognize them because they weren't wearing sunglasses. One of them got up and came over to us as Charlie and me were stripping down to our swimmers. I could barely take off my shorts, I was shaking so much.
The man in black was tall and he had big shoulders. He said something to us in Italian.
Charlie said, "Parla inglese?"
I knew that meant, Do you speak English? I hadn't worked out how Charlie could say four English words in only two Italian words.
"Come back to swim later," ordered the man in black.
"Sure," I said and began to put my shorts back on. I wasn't stupid. I knew from school that if someone three times bigger told me to do something, it was best to do it.
