wear.”
She fixed Natalia with an intent look, seemingly hesitant to ask her question. Then she did anyway.
“Tell me, Captain. Do you think he stripped her of her life before she could try on her next lover?”
----
5
----
Pino pedaled down Via Toledo in civilian clothes, dismounted, and walked his bicycle into an alley where a few men were flipping cards on an overturned box. Like most of the men around here, they would just as soon have cut his throat as met his eyes. Luckily, they were preoccupied with the cards they’d been dealt.
Naples awakened. Sinner and saved share the same streets. The old saying came to Pino: Il mare non bagnà Napoli. The sea does not cleanse Naples.
The alley was so cramped that there was hardly room to hang out laundry. A few women had set up drying racks in front of their doors. A baby’s underwear was arranged by color, socks in proper pairs. A woman in a housedress clanged a pot in her ground-floor kitchen visible from the street. Pino made an effort not to stare into her cramped rooms, though it was hard not to do.
He crossed Via Casarti, pushing past a group of boys playing football. One muttered something for Pino’s benefit. The youth’s gold chain and crucifix, prominent on his torn T-shirt, reminded Pino of Totò Riina, a teenaged thug who had kidnapped an eleven-year-old, the son of a rival gang. For two years they held the boy in the mountains. Neither the police nor the Carabinieri pursued the case in earnest. Finally, Totò strangled the child.
The little fly bumped into Pino and said something he couldn’t hear over the shouting footballers.
“What did you say?” Pino asked. “I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, remove yourself from our game or I’ll do it for you.” He grinned, a bandanna strapped to his dark shiny curls, greasy with styling gel and sweat from his exertions. He was maybe twelve. Employed most likely to deliver drugs. He turned to strut for his friends.
Pino could see the kid’s future as clearly as the Tiber cut through Rome. At fourteen, he’d drop out of school. Hook up with the Camorra proper to begin the tests of loyalty on low-stakes crimes they set out. The steps are as serious as entering the priesthood. He would start out among the picciotti , a novice for three years serving the Cause, until he had earned the title picciotto d’onore . Formal induction would follow. The novice opened a vein with a dagger, dipped his hand in the blood and swore to the assembled to keep their secrets and to do their bidding. Then he stuck the dagger into the table, picked up a pistol and cocked it. With the other hand, he lifted a glass of poisoned water to his lips—showing his readiness to die for the organization. He knelt in front of the dagger. A chief placed his right hand on the supplicant’s head, took the pistol in his left and fired it. Then smashed the poisoned glass and embraced their new member.
Pino ignored the fresh kid. At some point he would meet him again. In his office. In the morgue. The Camorra path was centuries old, older than the Mafia, stretching back to Spain’s ruthless rule of Naples that had inspired its rise. Talking to this boy would be a waste of time, much as he’d have liked to try. Besides, he was due at headquarters in an hour and needed to squeeze in a haircut before Colonel Donati could give him another lecture on appropriate appearance.
Pino continued walking his bicycle. The football grazed his calf, ricocheted off the wall and bounced back to him. He kicked it to the runt of the gang and was repaid for his trouble with catcalls. They gestured obscenely to his retreating back. He hopped aboard and pedaled off. A few blocks further along, young men on motorini lounged on the walk outside Salvatore’s barbershop. Some, no doubt, were more dangerous than the gang he just left behind. But these well-dressed gangsters in their twenties and thirties had at least adopted a civilized veneer. Gentlemen of
She fixed Natalia with an intent look, seemingly hesitant to ask her question. Then she did anyway.
“Tell me, Captain. Do you think he stripped her of her life before she could try on her next lover?”
----
5
----
Pino pedaled down Via Toledo in civilian clothes, dismounted, and walked his bicycle into an alley where a few men were flipping cards on an overturned box. Like most of the men around here, they would just as soon have cut his throat as met his eyes. Luckily, they were preoccupied with the cards they’d been dealt.
Naples awakened. Sinner and saved share the same streets. The old saying came to Pino: Il mare non bagnà Napoli. The sea does not cleanse Naples.
The alley was so cramped that there was hardly room to hang out laundry. A few women had set up drying racks in front of their doors. A baby’s underwear was arranged by color, socks in proper pairs. A woman in a housedress clanged a pot in her ground-floor kitchen visible from the street. Pino made an effort not to stare into her cramped rooms, though it was hard not to do.
He crossed Via Casarti, pushing past a group of boys playing football. One muttered something for Pino’s benefit. The youth’s gold chain and crucifix, prominent on his torn T-shirt, reminded Pino of Totò Riina, a teenaged thug who had kidnapped an eleven-year-old, the son of a rival gang. For two years they held the boy in the mountains. Neither the police nor the Carabinieri pursued the case in earnest. Finally, Totò strangled the child.
The little fly bumped into Pino and said something he couldn’t hear over the shouting footballers.
“What did you say?” Pino asked. “I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, remove yourself from our game or I’ll do it for you.” He grinned, a bandanna strapped to his dark shiny curls, greasy with styling gel and sweat from his exertions. He was maybe twelve. Employed most likely to deliver drugs. He turned to strut for his friends.
Pino could see the kid’s future as clearly as the Tiber cut through Rome. At fourteen, he’d drop out of school. Hook up with the Camorra proper to begin the tests of loyalty on low-stakes crimes they set out. The steps are as serious as entering the priesthood. He would start out among the picciotti , a novice for three years serving the Cause, until he had earned the title picciotto d’onore . Formal induction would follow. The novice opened a vein with a dagger, dipped his hand in the blood and swore to the assembled to keep their secrets and to do their bidding. Then he stuck the dagger into the table, picked up a pistol and cocked it. With the other hand, he lifted a glass of poisoned water to his lips—showing his readiness to die for the organization. He knelt in front of the dagger. A chief placed his right hand on the supplicant’s head, took the pistol in his left and fired it. Then smashed the poisoned glass and embraced their new member.
Pino ignored the fresh kid. At some point he would meet him again. In his office. In the morgue. The Camorra path was centuries old, older than the Mafia, stretching back to Spain’s ruthless rule of Naples that had inspired its rise. Talking to this boy would be a waste of time, much as he’d have liked to try. Besides, he was due at headquarters in an hour and needed to squeeze in a haircut before Colonel Donati could give him another lecture on appropriate appearance.
Pino continued walking his bicycle. The football grazed his calf, ricocheted off the wall and bounced back to him. He kicked it to the runt of the gang and was repaid for his trouble with catcalls. They gestured obscenely to his retreating back. He hopped aboard and pedaled off. A few blocks further along, young men on motorini lounged on the walk outside Salvatore’s barbershop. Some, no doubt, were more dangerous than the gang he just left behind. But these well-dressed gangsters in their twenties and thirties had at least adopted a civilized veneer. Gentlemen of
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