The Hiding Place by Trezza Azzopardi Page B

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weather would be like now in St Paul’s Bay; about Carlotta. It would be nice to go on holiday – they could go home for the Summer Festa if he can save enough money.
    He tips a spoonful of brown sugar into the cup; it sits on the froth for a second, turns, sinks softly to the bottom. He feels safe these days; Frankie is steady, and The Moonlight is doing
well: not many fights, no police, no sign of Joe. It’s almost like old times. Salvatore stirs his coffee.
    He can’t see the door from the dark corner of his booth, but he hears the yawn of the hinge, a flash of street noise, and the slow shush of footsteps on carpet. Salvatore puts his head
over the leatherette, stands up when he sees the other man; he’s not a regular.
    Mr Capanone. How do you do?
    Salvatore skirts the low table to shake the outstretched hand. He doesn’t catch the name; the man talks rapidly, his words curling like butter:
    Stay, my friend. Stay, he says, waving Salvatore back into the booth,
    I’m look for Frank Gauci. He not here? Well, shame! I need a Talk with him!
    Salvatore watches as the man turns on his heel, moves around the counter, peers into the kitchen.
    Nice place! Good business. Mr Gauci is a Good Business Man.
    Salvatore wants to remind this man that he’s the partner, not Frankie, but the formal sound of Frankie’s name and the way this big fellow limps around the
cafe makes him nervous. Salvatore sidles past him, cradling the coffee cup against his chest. The man bends down under the counter and hauls up a flagon of soda.
    Ah! ‘Low’s Soda’, he reads, and waving the bottle at Salvatore, How much they charge you for this? Salvatore makes to answer, but is drowned out.
    ‘Low’s Lemonade’, ‘Low’s Ginger Beer’, ‘Low’s Tonic’ . . . My Friend – he carefully places the bottle on the floor at
Salvatore’s feet – It’s all Low’s here! But the price, that’s not Low,
    and laughs loudly at his own joke.
    Frankie deals with bar stock, says Salvatore, bending to pick up the bottle, If you have some business – Who shall I say call?
    The man stares into the distance. He’s thinking of something else.
    You know Celesta? The daughter?
    Salvatore nods.
    She beautiful girl! says the man, Very beautiful.
    The man moves around the counter, patting it twice with the flat of his hand.
    Ah! I go find him, he says, with a quick smile. He makes to leave, then turns back, searches in the pocket of his jacket. He produces a small white card which he points at Salvatore:
    If you see Frank, tell him call on me. This evening is Convenient,
    and places the card with a snap on the counter. He saunters back along the carpet and out through the door. Salvatore stares at the lettering on the card:
    P. S EGUNA Esq.
Manufacturer of Finest Family Provisions
    Now he knows him: Pippo Seguna, drinks merchant, factory owner, restaurateur – and recently widowed.
    ~  ~  ~
    This is the way. Take this first, and put it like that – no! – Like that, that’s right. Now another load on top, uh, there. This one’s a bit too . . . not dry enough,
y’see? S’gotta be dry. Put this one here, yeah. Now you strike this . . . See! And hold it. S’goin. Easy. Watch it, watchit now. There!
    Talking to no one, Fran lights her fires.
    ~  ~  ~
    It must be lunchtime – Pippo Seguna’s stomach gurgles as he passes the food shops and cafes that run the length of Bute Street. He pauses at Usman’s
Delicatessen, tempted by the thick scent of salt beef, and puts his face up to the window. There’s a small seating area at the back, but Pippo would have to negotiate the angled tables and
the group of young men cluttering the sandwich rail at the front of the shop. This is not Pippo’s territory, even though his factory is almost on the dock. He wonders if these men might be
his workers. The thought makes him even more reluctant to go inside: they would know him , but he wouldn’t be able to recognize a single one of them. Pippo