off the TV, takes out a Charlie Parker CD, opens the stereo, slips in the CD, presses play, and sits down in the armchair again. Charlieâs band starts up, hundreds of soloists playing as one. Then the band stops abruptly, waiting for Charlie and ⦠Nick hears the ringing. Fuck, thereâs somebody at the door! He runs to the bathroom. His clothes are hanging on the rack. How the fuck did I get them on the rack? Fuck it, they seem clean. The case! Whereâs the case? He runs back to the armchair, the guitar case is still propped against it. Near the handle, there are shiny stains of a more opaque, darker black. The doorbell rings again. He goes back to the kitchen, takes a paper towel, wets it, rushes to the armchair, grabs the guitar case, and wipes the handle with the paper towel. The stains are still blacker than the black of the handle. He slips the paper towel in the pocket of his jeans and, heart pounding like itâs part of Charlie Parkerâs rhythm section, reaches the door, looks through the peephole, and sees the serious, bored face of Uncle Sal. Nick opens, trying to appear normal.
Uncle Sal is looking at a point somewhere on the street that Nick canât see. He turns with a smile.
âHello, Nick, I hope Iâm not disturbing you.â He comes in without waiting for an answer. âJust got up, did you? Maybe you were having breakfastâ¦â
What the fuck is Tonyâs uncle doing here? Nick must have seen him dozens of times at Tonyâs barbecues. A few polite greetings, the feeling heâd met a Joe Pesci type, the real thing, not a fake like the American actor, who plays a man of honor in movies only, nothing more.
âIf itâs about last nightâs barbecue, Don Scali,â Nick says, âI was just thinking of going to Tony to apologizeâ¦â
âYouâre a good kid, Nick, a real good kid ⦠You can go later, Tonyâll still be home. At this hour, he sends his boys to the salon: you know, those two faggots from Caltagirone. But ⦠can I sit down?â Uncle Sal asks, and, again without waiting for a reply, takes out his handkerchief, dusts the armchair with a dramatic gesture, and sits. Nick hurriedly picks up the guitar case and props it against the wall where the stereo is.
âJazzâ¦â Uncle Sal says, indicating the stereo. âI once read an article about jazz by this guy in the Giornale di Sicilia  ⦠He said jazz is like ⦠how do they say?⦠like coitus interruptus. They start a tune and it never ends. But I donât agree. I like itâ¦â
âIâm sorry, Don Scali,â Nick says. âIâll turn down the volume.â
âTonyâs right, you know. He always talks fondly about you, says youâre a real good kid, nice manners.â
âTonyâs too good to me,â Nick says.
Uncle Sal opens his arms like heâs saying, Youâre right, too! Then he says, âSo, dâyou listen to the radio this morning, Nick?â
âThe radio? Iâm sorry, Don Scali, butââ
âI know,â Uncle Sal says. âOnly people who were born before the war listen to the radio in the morning â¦
âAnyway,â he adds, dusting his left elbow with the fingertips of his right hand, âlast night there was a murder right here ⦠in the neighborhood ⦠A sergeant of the carabinieri got whacked.â
Nickâs face turns red like heâs been slapped in the face.
âIt makes my blood boil, too,â Uncle Sal says, looking into his eyes. âI mean ⦠in my nephew Tonyâs neighborhood, a son of a bitch comes into Uncle Mimmoâs store, robs a poor old man, and mows down a sergeant. Itâs a slap in the face, Nick, see what Iâm saying?â
Trying hard to recover his composure, Nick nods.
âThis morning,â Uncle Sal continues, âI immediately phoned some friends of
Uncle Sal is looking at a point somewhere on the street that Nick canât see. He turns with a smile.
âHello, Nick, I hope Iâm not disturbing you.â He comes in without waiting for an answer. âJust got up, did you? Maybe you were having breakfastâ¦â
What the fuck is Tonyâs uncle doing here? Nick must have seen him dozens of times at Tonyâs barbecues. A few polite greetings, the feeling heâd met a Joe Pesci type, the real thing, not a fake like the American actor, who plays a man of honor in movies only, nothing more.
âIf itâs about last nightâs barbecue, Don Scali,â Nick says, âI was just thinking of going to Tony to apologizeâ¦â
âYouâre a good kid, Nick, a real good kid ⦠You can go later, Tonyâll still be home. At this hour, he sends his boys to the salon: you know, those two faggots from Caltagirone. But ⦠can I sit down?â Uncle Sal asks, and, again without waiting for a reply, takes out his handkerchief, dusts the armchair with a dramatic gesture, and sits. Nick hurriedly picks up the guitar case and props it against the wall where the stereo is.
âJazzâ¦â Uncle Sal says, indicating the stereo. âI once read an article about jazz by this guy in the Giornale di Sicilia  ⦠He said jazz is like ⦠how do they say?⦠like coitus interruptus. They start a tune and it never ends. But I donât agree. I like itâ¦â
âIâm sorry, Don Scali,â Nick says. âIâll turn down the volume.â
âTonyâs right, you know. He always talks fondly about you, says youâre a real good kid, nice manners.â
âTonyâs too good to me,â Nick says.
Uncle Sal opens his arms like heâs saying, Youâre right, too! Then he says, âSo, dâyou listen to the radio this morning, Nick?â
âThe radio? Iâm sorry, Don Scali, butââ
âI know,â Uncle Sal says. âOnly people who were born before the war listen to the radio in the morning â¦
âAnyway,â he adds, dusting his left elbow with the fingertips of his right hand, âlast night there was a murder right here ⦠in the neighborhood ⦠A sergeant of the carabinieri got whacked.â
Nickâs face turns red like heâs been slapped in the face.
âIt makes my blood boil, too,â Uncle Sal says, looking into his eyes. âI mean ⦠in my nephew Tonyâs neighborhood, a son of a bitch comes into Uncle Mimmoâs store, robs a poor old man, and mows down a sergeant. Itâs a slap in the face, Nick, see what Iâm saying?â
Trying hard to recover his composure, Nick nods.
âThis morning,â Uncle Sal continues, âI immediately phoned some friends of
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