Mazara was thinking about the last time he came here. Don Gennaro was studying a painting on one of the walls in his office, a room that had to be twenty meters one way and thirty the other way. The don turned and looked at him and said, "Do you know what this is?"
It did not seem complicated. It was a painting so that is what Mazara said, and the don looked at him like he was a moron.
"Do you know Bronzino?"
The man made him nervous. Who was this Bronzino? The name was vaguely familiar. "I think he played goalie for Lombardy. Is that right?"
Don Gennaro said, "He was the court painter for Cosimo de Medici."
Mazara said, "Who?" He stared at the painting on the wall, naked people running around. It looked like a fun party. "What are they doing?" It looked like an orgy.
"It is an allegory," Don Gennaro said. "Do you understand?"
Mazara had no idea what he was talking about and decided not to say anything else.
Don Gennaro said to Mauro, "Give him the money and get him out of here."
That time the don had hired him to steal a painting from a villa near Florence. The don saying the owner had stolen it from the Uffizi. The Uffizi? Did he mean the museum?
This time the don was having lunch on the veranda with someone he had never seen before. They were drinking wine and talking. He could see the bodyguards at the edge of the olive grove. They were alert, but keeping their distance, the grove extending behind them as far as he could see. The bodyguards wore berets and had shotguns on straps slung over their shoulders like Sicilian peasants.
Mauro, the don's secondo, had met him at the front door, searched him for weapons, and looked in the paper bag he was carrying that contained money, the don's share of the ransom. Mauro was a weird, quiet Sicilian, wiry, with dark skin, almost as dark as a Tunisian. Mazara had been escorted out to the veranda that was made of stone and built on two levels, wrapping around the back of the villa. There was a swimming pool at one end. There was a wicker couch and chairs and a low table with a glass top in the middle of the veranda and a long table at the far end under a wrought-iron pergola that was covered with vines. He admired the house and the grounds, thinking, this son of a peasant, who did not finish his fifth year of school, had done well for himself. Roberto stood only five feet from the man's table now, Don Gennaro ignoring him, making him stand there like a servant. They were eating roast chicken and fried potatoes, washing it down with a chilled bottle of Terre di Tufi. He recognized the tiny label. Seeing the food was making him hungry. When he finished here Mazara would drive back to Rome, pick up Angela and celebrate.
The don finally looked up at him and said, "Why are you here, interrupting my lunch?"
"I bring your share of the money," Roberto said. "The ransom."
The don said, "Oh, the ransom."
Of course, the ransom, what did he think it was?
The don said, "Do I have to count it?"
Roberto said, "If you prefer."
"No," the don said. "Do I have to count it?"
The man sitting at the table next to the don said, "Unk, want me to count it?" He was American.
The don ignored him, staring at Roberto, and Roberto froze. He did not know what to say, the don was 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?