The Last Days of Il Duce by Domenic Stansberry

interrupt the card game but to wait for the bartender who stood above them, watching the cards go round.
    After a while he came to me, though not in any particular hurry, and it was clear that another two bucks in the register didn’t matter to him either way. He spoke in Italian. “ Private club. ”
    â€œChianti,” I said. “A glass of Chianti.”
    He went on speaking in his own tongue. “ Sorry, but it is not possible for me to serve you a drink, only people who have membership in the Italian club. ”
    Though I had a pretty good idea what he was saying, I didn’t want to be given the stiff, so I played stupid. Or maybe Marie had got to me, and I decided to show some nerve.
    â€œNo, no. I want Chianti. A glass of red wine.”
    Meanwhile the old men at the table kept their noses in their cards, their faces hidden beneath the wide brims of their decaying fedoras.
    â€œI’m looking for my brother,” I said and slid Joe’s picture once again across the bar.
    â€œHow am I supposed to know your brother?”
    He spoke English now and his big brown eyes glimmered at me from behind the bar. He’d known the language all the time, of course, but had been playing the same game with me he played with the tourists, just to keep me out of this hair.
    â€œHe was in here about a week ago,” I said. “A few days before he died.”
    The man took Joe’s picture and studied it more curiously now, his mouth open, his eyes intent. He had on his face that troubled, rapturous look people get when they study the faces of the dead.
    â€œHe looks like you.”
    â€œDo you remember seeing him?”
    â€œI am not here everyday.”
    â€œAsk your friends. Maybe they remember.”
    The bartender shrugged his shoulders, exaggerating his gestures, and tried to hand the picture back to me. “Please. These are old men, this is their place, do not drag such business into here.”
    â€œMy mother was Rose Abruzzi. We lived on Vallejo Street. Surely one of these men knew her.”
    â€œYou from the neighborhood?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI never seen you.”
    â€œI never seen you either. Maybe it’s the age difference.”
    â€œYou’re not so young,” he said.
    â€œGo ask them, will ya?”
    The bartender relented and took the picture to the old men. They were stubborn and did not want to look up from their cards, but eventually they did, making a big deal about it, leaning back in their chairs and passing the picture around. I could hear my mother’s name muttered about the table, and my father’s. At length one of the old men came over to me. His face was as old as the fucking wars.
    â€œYou do not recognize me. But I recognize you. The instant you walk in this place, I recognize you.”
    I peered into the old man’s face but all I could see was his age.
    â€œI knew your mother, your father, I knew all these men on all these streets. Now you young people, you know nothing.”
    â€œI agree. It’s a sin, the way we are.”
    â€œNo. Sin is for people who know God. No God, no sin. And life is meaningless without sin.”
    â€œI’ll commit one soon,” I said. “Tell me your name.”
    â€œI am no one. Only Sammy Lucca the butcher. I sold your mother meat for twenty years. And I watched you and your brother steal hot dogs from my shelf.”
    I nodded and peered into his face.
    â€œI remember now,” I said, but it was a lie. I didn’t remember Sammy Lucca or his hot dogs.
    â€œI knew you would.”
    â€œHave you seen my brother around this place?”
    â€œA couple weeks back, he was sitting over at a table here, with John Bruno. You know Johnny? Il Buffone? Il Facsisto? ” The old man smiled a sad smile. Johnny Bruno, with his Black Shirt still hanging in the closet, was a joke around Little Italy.
    â€œ Si, ” I said.
    â€œYour brother was talking