Who is Lou Sciortino? by Ottavio Cappellani

crossbow.
    Uncle Mimmo looks at him. Then, without putting down the crossbow, he glances at the photo. “Sure, it’s Tony, the hairdresser.”
    â€œOh, yes, Tony, the hairdresser, I know him, too,” Tano says.
    Uncle Mimmo gives him a dirty look.
    â€œTony…” Tano says, and then doesn’t know what else to say, so he looks around.
    â€œNot him, the other one,” Lou says.
    Uncle Mimmo raises his eyebrows. He permits himself another glance. “No,” he says, “I don’t know that one. But who the fuck are you?”
    â€œGood question,” Lou says. “Let’s just say I’m somebody who’s here to give you a piece of advice.”
    â€œLet me see, maybe I know him…” Tano says.
    â€œShut up, you don’t know him, either,” Uncle Mimmo says.
    Tano looks around.
    â€œWhat … advice would that be?” Uncle Mimmo says.
    â€œIf anybody else asks you the same question, give the same answer. Do we understand each other?”
    â€œHmmm,” Uncle Mimmo says, screwing up his eyes. “But what if I suddenly realize I have seen this guy?”
    â€œYou’d be wrong.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Lou thinks about it. Then he says, “Because at the time of the robbery this guy here was at Tony’s barbecue, so you didn’t see him.”
    â€œOh, right,” Uncle Mimmo says.
    â€œPrecisely,” Lou says.
    â€œPrecisely,” Tano says.
    â€œDo we understand each other?” Lou says.
    â€œOh, yes, we understand each other,” Uncle Mimmo says, putting away the crossbow. “But that’s not the point.”
    â€œNo?” Lou says.
    â€œNo,” Uncle Mimmo says. Calmly, he sits down on the stool, folds his arms, and says, “Listen … how about we stop talking in code?”
    Tano nods.
    â€œIn code?” Lou says.
    â€œI mean, why don’t we talk clearly?” Uncle Mimmo says.
    â€œOkay, let’s talk clearly.”
    â€œRight. First,” Uncle Mimmo says, raising his thumb, “I don’t understand the way you guys work these days. In the old days, we all understood and we got along fine. Now everything’s fucked up. Minchia, first you don’t want to ask for protection, then you rob me, and now you come and threaten me! Look at me, I got white hair! I’m a quiet guy who minds his own business. Besides, excuse me, but don’t you still got your arrangement with the police? Minchia, you used to be better organized, and with all due respect you didn’t used to fuck up quite so much. Don’t you know that when the police guy wanted to do an Identi-Kit picture I made him draw a baking pan?”
    â€œA baking pan?”
    â€œRight, that’s what I told him. From all I could see, with a shovelful of the sergeant’s brains all over my face, the murderer was the spitting image of a baking pan. Apart from the fact that even if I did see him, do you people think I’d cough up the name of somebody who blows a sergeant’s face off?”
    Tano shakes his head, Absolutely not.
    â€œSecondly.” Uncle Mimmo raises his thumb again. And with the same thumb, he presses the button that opens the cash register, jumping at the TA-TANG as usual.
    â€œWho the fuck makes these registers?” he says. “They give you a brain hemorrhage every time you wanna make change!” Then he sighs, calmly takes out a wad of banknotes, moistens his thumb and index finger with his tongue, and starts counting. One, two, three, four … fifteen.
    â€œHere, here’s a hundred and fifty euros. Taking into consideration goodwill, position, neighborhood, clientele, and any other fucking thing you want to consider, I think the price is right. Now just do me the pleasure of taking these euros and giving them to whoever sent you. Then next month on the dot, come back and I’ll do what you want. And tell whoever sent you that Uncle