that?”
“Okay, Vin, but how about what?”
“How the hell do
I
know? Goldfarb’s boys should have come up with something,
anything
! Like maybe he slugged a couple of nuns in parochial school, or he skimmed the collection plates at mass so he could buy a Harley and join a motorcycle gang, whatever! I gotta think of
everything
? He’s got a weakness, he
has
to. All fat
paisans
do!”
“Meat’s kinda fat—”
“A lid, Fingers, a bean pole you’re not.”
“You can’t touch that
paisan
, Vin,” interjected the pinkshirted Meat. “He’s a real
erudito
, a man with so many big words he confuses the biggest brains and he’s as clean as the bleached Mick, no action at all except maybe he irritates people by singing opera a lot in not too good a voice. Goldfarb’s boys went after him first because, like most yarmulkes, they call themselves liberals and the heavyboy’s not. They were like politically motivated, you know?”
“What the
hell
has politics got to do with
any
of this? We got a problem, the biggest problem this country has ever faced, and we’re chewing ass over
politics
?”
“Hey, Vinnie,” pleaded Fingers, “you were the one who wanted the mud on these big judges, right?”
“Okay,
okay
!” said Mangecavallo, puffing on his cigar erratically and returning to his chair at the kitchen table. “I know when the bam-bams won’t work, all
right
? So where are we? We gotta protect the country we love, because without the country we love, we are out of
business
! Do I make my case?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Fingers. “I don’t wanna live nowhere else.”
“I couldn’t,” added Meat. “What with Angelina and the seven kids, where could I go? Palermo’s too hot, and I sweat, you know? Angie’s even worse than me—
boy
, does she sweat! She can really stink up a room.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Mangecavallo softly, his dark eyes leveled on his huge, pink-shirted associate. “I mean really disgusting. How can you talk about the mother of your children like that?”
“It’s not her fault, Vin. It’s her
glands
.”
“You take the whole mozzarella, you know that, Meat?…
Basta
, this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere.” The CIA director again rose from the chair and paced angrily about the kitchen, puffing on his cigar and pausing long enough to briefly lift the lid of a steaming pot on the stove, only to drop it because of the scorching metal. “What the hell is she cooking now? Looks like monkey brains.” He shook his hand in pain.
“Your maid, Vinnie?”
“Maid?
What
maid? You mean the
contessa
who sits around with Rosa knitting and talking, talking and knitting, like two old Sicilian broads trying to remember who humped who in Messina forty years ago! She don’t cook—she don’t cook and she don’t do windows or the cans and together she and Rosa waddle around the supermarkets buying crap I wouldn’t feed the cats.”
“Get rid of her, Vin.”
“Oh, funny
scungilli
, you! Rosa says she’s like one of her sisters, only nicer and not so ugly.… No, they can eat that
escremento
themselves,
we’re
goin’ out. National security emergency, you get my drift?”
“Got it, Vinnie,” affirmed Fingers, nodding his large head with the slightly irregular nose. “Like when they say the ‘natives are restless,’ right?”
“
Jeez
, what the hell have natives got to do with—hold it …
hold it
! Natives. ‘Native American.’ That’s
it
!… Maybe, like.”
“Like maybe what, Vin?”
“We can’t scrounge out the judges, right?”
“Right, Vinnie.”
“So the Supreme Court could maybe dump us all in the toilet, right?”
“Right, Vin.”
“Not necessarily.… Suppose, just
suppose
, this meatball Indian chief who could just maybe cause our biggest national security crisis in history is a very bad man, a screwed-up individual with no love in his heart, only evil intentions, you see what I mean? Suppose he don’t care crapola about his Wild
“Okay, Vin, but how about what?”
“How the hell do
I
know? Goldfarb’s boys should have come up with something,
anything
! Like maybe he slugged a couple of nuns in parochial school, or he skimmed the collection plates at mass so he could buy a Harley and join a motorcycle gang, whatever! I gotta think of
everything
? He’s got a weakness, he
has
to. All fat
paisans
do!”
“Meat’s kinda fat—”
“A lid, Fingers, a bean pole you’re not.”
“You can’t touch that
paisan
, Vin,” interjected the pinkshirted Meat. “He’s a real
erudito
, a man with so many big words he confuses the biggest brains and he’s as clean as the bleached Mick, no action at all except maybe he irritates people by singing opera a lot in not too good a voice. Goldfarb’s boys went after him first because, like most yarmulkes, they call themselves liberals and the heavyboy’s not. They were like politically motivated, you know?”
“What the
hell
has politics got to do with
any
of this? We got a problem, the biggest problem this country has ever faced, and we’re chewing ass over
politics
?”
“Hey, Vinnie,” pleaded Fingers, “you were the one who wanted the mud on these big judges, right?”
“Okay,
okay
!” said Mangecavallo, puffing on his cigar erratically and returning to his chair at the kitchen table. “I know when the bam-bams won’t work, all
right
? So where are we? We gotta protect the country we love, because without the country we love, we are out of
business
! Do I make my case?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Fingers. “I don’t wanna live nowhere else.”
“I couldn’t,” added Meat. “What with Angelina and the seven kids, where could I go? Palermo’s too hot, and I sweat, you know? Angie’s even worse than me—
boy
, does she sweat! She can really stink up a room.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Mangecavallo softly, his dark eyes leveled on his huge, pink-shirted associate. “I mean really disgusting. How can you talk about the mother of your children like that?”
“It’s not her fault, Vin. It’s her
glands
.”
“You take the whole mozzarella, you know that, Meat?…
Basta
, this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere.” The CIA director again rose from the chair and paced angrily about the kitchen, puffing on his cigar and pausing long enough to briefly lift the lid of a steaming pot on the stove, only to drop it because of the scorching metal. “What the hell is she cooking now? Looks like monkey brains.” He shook his hand in pain.
“Your maid, Vinnie?”
“Maid?
What
maid? You mean the
contessa
who sits around with Rosa knitting and talking, talking and knitting, like two old Sicilian broads trying to remember who humped who in Messina forty years ago! She don’t cook—she don’t cook and she don’t do windows or the cans and together she and Rosa waddle around the supermarkets buying crap I wouldn’t feed the cats.”
“Get rid of her, Vin.”
“Oh, funny
scungilli
, you! Rosa says she’s like one of her sisters, only nicer and not so ugly.… No, they can eat that
escremento
themselves,
we’re
goin’ out. National security emergency, you get my drift?”
“Got it, Vinnie,” affirmed Fingers, nodding his large head with the slightly irregular nose. “Like when they say the ‘natives are restless,’ right?”
“
Jeez
, what the hell have natives got to do with—hold it …
hold it
! Natives. ‘Native American.’ That’s
it
!… Maybe, like.”
“Like maybe what, Vin?”
“We can’t scrounge out the judges, right?”
“Right, Vinnie.”
“So the Supreme Court could maybe dump us all in the toilet, right?”
“Right, Vin.”
“Not necessarily.… Suppose, just
suppose
, this meatball Indian chief who could just maybe cause our biggest national security crisis in history is a very bad man, a screwed-up individual with no love in his heart, only evil intentions, you see what I mean? Suppose he don’t care crapola about his Wild
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