keeping him off balance, making him nervous. What was this about?
The don picked up his glass and sipped the white. He leveled his gaze on Mazara and said, 'Is it all there?'
'Yes, of course.' He could feel beads of sweat sliding down his face. He raised his arm and wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve.
The don said, 'Are you sure?'
Mazara's mouth was dry. He wished he had a glass of cold white wine. 'Yes, I am sure.' The man was acting strange.
The don handed the bag of money to Mauro and Mauro went back into the villa. He told him to wait, to go sit until he finished his lunch and Mauro had counted the money.
He walked over and sat on the stone wall that separated the upper and lower levels of the veranda, sun beating down on him. He did not expect to be treated this way. He thought the don would accept the money and thank him. He watched a woman in a bikini rise from the lounge chair where she was laying in the sun, move to the pool, and dip her t- in the water. She had long dark hair and a beautiful body. If you had the don's money you would have a girl like her around to look at, maybe several.
Mazara watched her step down into the shallow end of the pool and disappear. It was hot for October and the water looked cool and refreshing, better now with the woman in it. He wondered what the don would say if he stood up and jumped in. That was what he wanted to do. Take off his clothes and swim under water, looking at the girl.
Mazara sat on the wall, and fifteen minutes later Mauro came out of the villa with the paper bag. Why did it take so long to count?60,000? He handed it to the don, whispering something to him and the don saying something back.
Now Mauro called to him. He got up and walked back to the table. They were finished with their meal, Mazara looking at chicken bones on their plates.
Don Gennaro said, 'What is this?'
Mazara was confused. 'Your share.'
'I don't think so,' he said. His face was serious as always.
Mazara was nervous. 'I do not understand.'
The don stared at him.
'It is from the money we collected.' He could feel his stomach churning, all of them watching him.
'Why do you insult me?' the don said. His eyes stabbing him like daggers.
'What do you mean?' Mazara said.
'It is not enough,' the don said.
'It is what we agreed — thirty per cent.' Mazara resented that he had to pay this Sicilian anything at all and refused to give him the full amount.
The don said, 'Of what?'
'The money.' Roberto could feel sweat running down his face.
'Either you don't know how to calculate percentages,' the don said, 'or you are trying to cheat me. Tell me, which one is it?'
Was he bluffing? Did he know how much the ransom was, how much they collected? How could he possibly know?
The don said, 'How much is in the bag?'
Trying to confuse him again. He knew how much was in the bag. Mazara said, 'Sixty thousand.'
'How much was the ransom?' he said, raising his voice. If you saw him on the street, you would think he was a quiet, easy-going old man, but he was nothing like that.
Now Mazara was in trouble. Trying to get his brain to figure out what?60,000 was thirty per cent of. He had failed algebra and dropped out the Lyceum at the beginning of his second year. He did not try to figure it out earlier because he believed the man would accept the money,?60,000 and thank him, Jesus, shake his hand. He had no idea how to figure it out. He said, 'What do you think it should be?'
The don said, 'I think it should be thirty per cent.' He pointed to the bag. 'I am going to keep this, I want you to come back with the rest of the money you owe me.'
Mazara was thinking, no wonder this old man controlled eighty per cent of the crime in Rome. He was smart and he was tough.
'I give you two days to bring the money,' the don said. 'And if you do not come back, we will be looking for you. '
The American turned to the don and said, 'Want me to go with him, Unk?'
'I want you to stay out of it,' the don said. 'This does not concern you.' His voice measured, even.
The American said, 'Show you how you how we do it in the Motor City.'
Don Gennaro ignored him.
The American looked at him and said, 'Hey, what's your name:
'Roberto Mazara.'
'Roberto Mazara, huh? Listen, you're not back here day after tomorrow, I'm coming after you myself.'
Mazara grinned. It slipped out. He knew it was the wrong thing to do and regretted it. But couldn't help himself. It just happened.
The American got up. He was a big man. Forty pounds heavier than him, at least.
He said, 'You think this is funny?'
He seemed like he was acting, overdoing the part like an amateur. Mazara said, 'I don't know what you mean.'
'You're giving me that little smartass grin,' the American said. 'Aren't you? Fucking with me.'
'I think you are mistaken,' Mazara said. He fixed his attention on Don Gennaro now. 'I will bring you the money.' What else was he going to say?
Chapter Fourteen
Uncle Carlo had hugged Joey when he got there, the man sitting in the main room of the villa he used as an office, wood beams in the ceiling, real ones, holding up the roof, nothing like the fake, distressed beams in his house, built in 2005 by Pulte. His uncle had statues and sculptures, too, and paintings on walls that were stucco, the real thing.
Uncle Carlo, who Joey had called Unk since he was a little kid when he couldn't pronounce uncle, told him the villa was built in the fifteenth century by an Italian nobleman. Fifteenth century was the 1600s, right? Joey said to himself. He didn't want to look like a dumbass. The villa was so famous, it even had a name: Santa Maria.
Uncle Carlo, based on what Joey saw, didn't look like the tough guy in charge of the Roman Mafia. He was listening to opera when Joey came in the room, his Unk leaning back in a chair behind his desk, eyes closed, the fruitcake moving his arms and hands like he was conducting the orchestra, really getting into it.
After hugging Joey and saying hello and asking about his sister, Joey's mother, and his flight over, his uncle said, 'Listen.'
He extended his arms, index fingers pointing at opposite side of the room where the sound was coming from.
'You know this?' he said.
Joey's parents listened to this shit too. 'It's an opera.' He was sure of that, but no idea which one.
'Rigoletto,' his Unk said. 'Act two. The Duke has returned to find Rigoletto's house empty, and is angry that his newest love is taken away from him, but the courtiers gleefully tell him of their trick.'
His uncle was talking like he believed it, like it was a true story. Joey wanted to say, are you fucking kidding me? He wished the old boy would put Sinatra on and offer him a Grey Goose Martini straight up, with four queen- size olives, let him relax after ten hours in coach, back of the fucking plane, packed in a tight row like being on a slave ship.
'And the Duke,' Carlo said, 'learning they bring Gilda to the palace, rushes to be with her.'
