leisure. Unlike Rome, where each would have a cell phone clamped to his ear, they actually talked to one another. Pino was almost certain that Salvatore paid something every month so his windows would remain intact.
The skinny thug in the red silk shirt who watched Pino, affecting an air of civility, had once been a cherub with wide eyes and fat cheeks, kissed and fussed over by adoring females—his nonna , mama, older sisters, aunts, and cousins. But there was a price. No weakness. No tears.
A lucky few escaped their families into the priesthood. Others cleaned streets or waited tables. Others hung out around seedy social clubs like casual laborers, looking to pick up the odd job—collection on an outstanding debt, or the beating of a rival gang member. Some ran errands for a boss—sauntered to the corner store for cigarettes and a lottery ticket. Lucky numbers appeared in dreams.
Walking into the shop, Pino caught his reflection in a mirror. Certainly he was not this weary-looking soul with hunched shoulders! He straightened and took a deep breath. The chair was open. Without conversation, Salvatore cut and styled and trimmed Pino’s sideburns, as he had done ever since Pino Loriano had turned twelve. Finishing in the shortest possible time, he shaved the hairline at the back of Pino’s head, sprinkled talcum powder on his neck, and then brushed the powder off with the soft brush—Pino’s favorite part of the process, though he would never voice it.
“Pino.” The barber looked worried.
“Yes.”
“There is talk,” he said, bending to Pino’s ear, “against you and Captain Monte.” He rested a hand on Pino’s shoulder. “I want you and Natalia should be careful.”
“Hungry?” Mariel asked Natalia as they sat down to breakfast outside their favorite café.
Eugenio brought the usual—a basket of bread—and retreated to order their coffees. Eugenio was a boyhood friend and looked after them accordingly.
A girl with a black ponytail walked by, her tiny underpants obvious through her filmy white skirt.
Mariel made a face. “What is it with these skirts you can see through? My mother would have killed me if I ever wore something like that.”
“Mine too.”
Two girls skipped by in short skirts, arms around one another.
“Cute,” Mariel said.
Natalia laughed. “Remember? The crochet stockings?”
“Of course.”
They’d worn them under their school uniforms in grade school. Natalia got caught. Mariel waited for her loyally while Natalia did her Hail Marys and scrubbed the rectory stoop. To celebrate their crime, Natalia and Mariel had spent the rest of the afternoon sipping cappuccino in a fancy café.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Natalia said, buttering a piece of the thick bread.
“What?” Mariel asked. She reached into the basket to tear off a wedge of the same.
“Teresa Steiner, the girl who was killed? She was a student at the University.”
“Yes.”
“Her thesis adviser…?”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God. Lattanza. Did he kill her?” Mariel asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if he did!”
Eugenio brought two coffees. Since they’d been there last, another one of his teeth had gone. A front tooth, unfortunately. No one mentioned it as he put the plates down. To be poor in Naples was to diminish, to grow used to one’s losses. Food was a necessity, dentists a luxury. They had tried to slip him the money for the dentist, but Eugenio was proud and always declined.
Two men seated together near the dessert cart stared at Mariel and Natalia. They were in their fifties and wore dark glasses.
“They think you’re cute,” Natalia teased her friend. Mariel kicked her under the table. Bruno, another waiter, danced by, singing a rhyme about the bruschetta he was delivering, the innocent bread and the tomato sauce like blood.
“Compliments of the gentlemen,” Eugenio winked, as he put a bottle of limoncello and two glasses
The skinny thug in the red silk shirt who watched Pino, affecting an air of civility, had once been a cherub with wide eyes and fat cheeks, kissed and fussed over by adoring females—his nonna , mama, older sisters, aunts, and cousins. But there was a price. No weakness. No tears.
A lucky few escaped their families into the priesthood. Others cleaned streets or waited tables. Others hung out around seedy social clubs like casual laborers, looking to pick up the odd job—collection on an outstanding debt, or the beating of a rival gang member. Some ran errands for a boss—sauntered to the corner store for cigarettes and a lottery ticket. Lucky numbers appeared in dreams.
Walking into the shop, Pino caught his reflection in a mirror. Certainly he was not this weary-looking soul with hunched shoulders! He straightened and took a deep breath. The chair was open. Without conversation, Salvatore cut and styled and trimmed Pino’s sideburns, as he had done ever since Pino Loriano had turned twelve. Finishing in the shortest possible time, he shaved the hairline at the back of Pino’s head, sprinkled talcum powder on his neck, and then brushed the powder off with the soft brush—Pino’s favorite part of the process, though he would never voice it.
“Pino.” The barber looked worried.
“Yes.”
“There is talk,” he said, bending to Pino’s ear, “against you and Captain Monte.” He rested a hand on Pino’s shoulder. “I want you and Natalia should be careful.”
“Hungry?” Mariel asked Natalia as they sat down to breakfast outside their favorite café.
Eugenio brought the usual—a basket of bread—and retreated to order their coffees. Eugenio was a boyhood friend and looked after them accordingly.
A girl with a black ponytail walked by, her tiny underpants obvious through her filmy white skirt.
Mariel made a face. “What is it with these skirts you can see through? My mother would have killed me if I ever wore something like that.”
“Mine too.”
Two girls skipped by in short skirts, arms around one another.
“Cute,” Mariel said.
Natalia laughed. “Remember? The crochet stockings?”
“Of course.”
They’d worn them under their school uniforms in grade school. Natalia got caught. Mariel waited for her loyally while Natalia did her Hail Marys and scrubbed the rectory stoop. To celebrate their crime, Natalia and Mariel had spent the rest of the afternoon sipping cappuccino in a fancy café.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Natalia said, buttering a piece of the thick bread.
“What?” Mariel asked. She reached into the basket to tear off a wedge of the same.
“Teresa Steiner, the girl who was killed? She was a student at the University.”
“Yes.”
“Her thesis adviser…?”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my God. Lattanza. Did he kill her?” Mariel asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if he did!”
Eugenio brought two coffees. Since they’d been there last, another one of his teeth had gone. A front tooth, unfortunately. No one mentioned it as he put the plates down. To be poor in Naples was to diminish, to grow used to one’s losses. Food was a necessity, dentists a luxury. They had tried to slip him the money for the dentist, but Eugenio was proud and always declined.
Two men seated together near the dessert cart stared at Mariel and Natalia. They were in their fifties and wore dark glasses.
“They think you’re cute,” Natalia teased her friend. Mariel kicked her under the table. Bruno, another waiter, danced by, singing a rhyme about the bruschetta he was delivering, the innocent bread and the tomato sauce like blood.
“Compliments of the gentlemen,” Eugenio winked, as he put a bottle of limoncello and two glasses
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