Who is Lou Sciortino? by Ottavio Cappellani Page B

you gotta do me a favor and go see Uncle Mimmo, he won’t know it was me who sent you, and that way we’re okay, because even if he squeals he don’t got nothing to squeal about.”
    Lou takes his feet off the desk, stands up, and paces the room, hands shoved in his pockets.
    â€œDon Scali,” he says, turning suddenly, “I’m honored that you thought of me for a delicate matter like this…”
    â€œI gotta tell your grandfather you’re a real good kid. I mean it … a good kid, real respectful. But the thing I don’t want,” Uncle Sal says, “the thing I don’t want is this Nick, who’s got a guilty conscience—though I don’t understand why he’s got a guilty conscience, seeing as how he was at the barbecue with us—deciding to take a powder. Minchia, he’s a junkie, and junkies are nervous people, they scare easy. Let’s say the bum takes off, how would I look with the police? He takes off, and everybody ends up thinking it really was him, and then the police get wise, and they come to me and say, ‘ Minchia, Don Scali, your nephew’s next-door neighbor kills a sergeant and, cock of the walk that you are, you don’t know nothing about it? You don’t know how to keep your own house in order?’ In other words, Lou, it’s all about keeping the dogs on the leash! Which is why it will help me if you keep an eye on this Nick, at least until we’ve made ourselves clear and persuaded him there’s no reason to take off.”
    â€œMy grandfather used to say that, too,” Lou says.
    â€œKeep the dogs on the leash?” Uncle Sal says. “My uncle used to say it … when he was loading his gun.”
    â€œNo … cock of the walk…” Lou says. “Don Scali, how do I get to know this Nick?”
    â€œTony’s throwing an engagement barbecue,” Uncle Sal says, “a barbecue everybody in the neighborhood will remember all their lives. Nick Palumbo’s invited, since he’s the one getting engaged. You’re invited, too. Tony’s managed to get hold of some quail! Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of gin!”

JASMINE JUST SPENT HALF AN HOUR IN THE RED ROOM
    Jasmine just spent half an hour in the red room of that pig Mr. Lewine’s Politics & Prose Bookstore, and has no desire to hear any of Frank’s bullshit.
    â€œJasmine,” Frank Erra’s saying, “when you read, you look just like Meadow Soprano. Whaddaya think, Chaz, is she or isn’t she just like Tony and Carmela’s daughter?”
    â€œMeadow Soprano, the spitting image,” Chaz says.
    Jasmine doesn’t bat an eyelid and carries on reading this fucking book, Sicily: Complete Guide to the Island, which had brought her into direct contact with that fat, circumcised bastard Lewine. When she asked him for a comprehensive guide to Sicily, the pig (the kind with a massive bald spot on top and long hair behind the ears, like two fucking brooms) pulled out half a dozen books: Midnight in Sicily, Ciao Sicily, Sweet Sicily, In Sicily, and other, similar crap. Then he told her there were others in the rare book section, known as the red room, ten feet by six and a half feet of paper and dust, rusty shelves, and a beat-up old desk. Lewine took out the books and handed them to her from behind, brushing against her, giving her what her mother, Ann Guardascione, used to call ’nu passaggio. But Jasmine did leave with two books under her arm: Ciao Sicily by Damian Mandola, a book that mentions pasta with squash, fava beans, olives, and capers—Ann would have loved it—and this Complete Guide she’s reading now to Frank.
    â€œâ€˜This square owes its baroque harmony to the buildings that surround it. In the middle, the fountain of the Elephant, symbol of the city, a contrast to the more discreet nineteenth-century Amenano fountain on the south side, set