The Venetian Job (2 page)

The
Carabinieri
were still across the road and they
were looking over our way. I tore up my napkin into little bits
under the table and waited for the sound of gunshots.

***

Okay ... nothing happened at the restaurant. Maybe
Mom and Dad weren't that dumb. Although I reckon we were lucky.

Anyway, our hotel was nice. The entrance was
big and fancy with statues, marble floors and lots of glass. The
furniture was so posh you wouldn't want to sit on it and the guy on
the front desk was friendly and spoke posh English. His badge said
his name was Matteo. He called us by our names as though he'd
always known us.

When Dad handed our passports to Matteo,
Charlie whispered to me, "I bet they copy them and sell the details
to some crime gang."

"Yeah, sure. As if every hotel in Italy
would be doing that." Charlie could be dumb too. He might be smart
at school, but he always reckoned everyone in the world was sneaky.
Everyone but him.

When Matteo saw from our passports that we
were Australian, he asked us if we had a pet kangaroo. We laughed
until we realized he was serious.

We had to move out of the way because a
group of American tourists wanted to check in. One of the Americans
asked Matteo what day they should go to the top of Mount Etna.

"Any day it isn't cranky," he joked.

For no good reason, I glanced at the front
entrance. Charlie must've as well because a gasp escaped our mouths
at the same time. Mr. Mafia with his limp and his bodyguards had
come through the door like they owned the hotel. They went straight
to the front desk and for some strange reason Dad and the American
tourists stepped aside. It was weird, as though Mr. Mafia had cast
a spell over them.

Matteo bowed his head and greeted the little
old mafia guy like he was the King of Italy. Mr. Mafia insisted
Matteo speak to him in English. Matteo complimented him on his
excellent English and then he groveled a lot because Mr. Mafia's
usual room had a plumbing problem and wasn't available.

Everyone near the front desk stopped to
watch how Mr. Mafia was going to take his usual room being
unavailable.

One of the bodyguards stepped forward and
muttered something in Italian. I could tell he wasn't happy. He
wanted his boss to have his usual room. A long, excited discussion
in Italian followed between Matteo and the bodyguard. I could feel
everyone tense. Only the little old man seemed relaxed.

Mr. Mafia held up the palms of his hands and
in a strong Italian accent said, "The other room good for me." He
pointed to his chest. "The president's suite" - he held his hands
wide apart - "big ... too big. I'm good."

Matteo replied in Italian, but switched to
English. "Thank you, Sir. A bottle of your favorite wine is in your
room. Let me know if you would like another."

Mr. Mafia smiled, turned and strode to the
elevator. One bodyguard took the key cards from Matteo and both
bodyguards followed their boss.

I breathed again and it felt like everyone
else did too. None of us spoke while we went up to our rooms. Dad
and Mom pretended to check out the wallpaper inside the elevator as
though it was the most interesting thing they'd ever seen. Having a
mafia boss in the hotel seemed to make everyone uncomfortable.

For the first time our room wasn't next to
Mom and Dad's room. We were down the hallway. That was good. We
could have pillow fights without them hearing us. Charlie and me
ran into the room at the same time, but I managed to push in front.
I jumped onto the bed closest to the TV and claimed the remote.
Charlie threw his pillow at me.

The first station had a stupid show where
some guy had to try to convince a rich old man that he was his long
lost son. I flicked through the channels and found a wrestling
show. The Dark Magician and The Crazy Cannibal were wrestling.
Charlie yelled at me to leave it on that channel.

"I was going to!"

Charlie stacked up the pillows against his
bed head and leaned back. He said, "Actually, I reckon it'd be cool
to be in the mafia. You wouldn't have to think about what to wear
because you'd only own black suits. You get to wear cool black
sunglasses, drive everywhere in a black limo, have lots of money
and live in a big house. Let's face it, we're not going to inherit
much from Mom and Dad."

"You'd have to dye your hair black," I
said.

"Yeah and I'd slick it back."

"Yeah and make a will because you'd probably
be dead before you got old."

There was a loud knock on the door and we
both jumped up. Charlie looked scared and I felt scared.

I tried to make my voice real deep. "Who is
it?"

The voice on the other side of the door
said, "Mom. Let me in."

I slumped back on the bed and let Charlie
get the door.

She came in and looked straight at the TV.
"Wrestling!" She hit the off button. "You can both go for a swim.
There's a pool on the top floor."

Charlie and me groaned at the same time. Who
wanted to swim, when The Dark Magician was about to pulverize The
Crazy Cannibal?

S
haring a hotel with a
mafia boss - even if he was a little old man - didn't make me feel
safe and warm inside. I could feel my stomach doing somersaults
while we waited for the elevator. I wondered if Charlie was nervous
too. He wouldn't admit it, even if he were.

Eventually there was a ping and the doors of
the elevator opened. It was empty. That was good. Well, it was good
as long as no mafia guys got in before we got out.

"I think I'll do fifty laps," said Charlie,
after the elevator doors closed.

"What about Marco Polo? I want to say we
played Marco Polo in Italy."

He looked at me like I was stupid. "Marco
Polo came from Venice; Italy wasn't a country back then."

Trust him to turn something fun into a
history lesson. "Yeah, whatever."

The doors of the elevator opened and we
followed the signs to the pool. It was an indoor pool, there were
three lanes and it was probably about fifteen metres long - long
enough for races. I knew as soon as I saw it that Charlie would
want to race.

At first I didn't see anyone in the pool,
but then I noticed a figure push off from the edge. Geez, I wanted
to have the whole pool to ourselves. Then I saw two men in black
suits sitting at the side of the pool. The bad feeling in my gut
came back. At first I didn't recognize them because they weren't
wearing sunglasses. One of them got up and came over to us as
Charlie and me were stripping down to our swimmers. I could barely
take off my shorts, I was shaking so much.

The man in black was tall and he had big
shoulders. He said something to us in Italian.

Charlie said, "Parla inglese?"

I knew that meant, Do you speak English? I
hadn't worked out how Charlie could say four English words in only
two Italian words.

"Come back to swim later," ordered the man
in black.

"Sure," I said and began to put my shorts
back on. I wasn't stupid. I knew from school that if someone three
times bigger told me to do something, it was best to do it.

"We're staying at the hotel. We're allowed
to use the pool." Charlie folded his arms.

Was he crazy? "We can go back to our room
and watch the wrestling," I said to him. "Let's go."

The man in black leaned toward Charlie and
said very softly, "Mr. Petruzzelli owns hotel."

Mr. P must've been Mr. Mafia in the pool.
That was good enough for me. I was out of here. If Charlie wanted
to stay and get his head blown off, that was his business. Real
casual, I began to walk back toward the elevator.

I heard a voice behind me. "Boy! You
stop!"

Before I even turned round, I realized that
voice was coming from the pool. Mr. Mafia had called out to me. It
was one of those times I wished I could run so fast that I'd be no
more than a blur heading to the door. I held my breath, turned
round and looked at the little old wrinkly man in the pool. Be
cool, I told myself. But the mafia were probably like dogs and
could smell fear.

"You inglese?"

Why did everyone think we were English?
Except for Manchester United, what did England have going for
it?

"Australian," Charlie answered before I
could.

He laughed. "Good. Good."

Why was that good? Charlie and me seemed
unable to move. It was like we'd been hauled up in front of the
principal at school.

He waved us over. "Come."

Again, I thought about running. But that
would make me look like a full-on loser. Instead, I followed
Charlie. Since he knew so much about the mafia, he could do the
talking.

Mr. Mafia got out of the pool and the other
bodyguard handed him a big white towel. Mr. Mafia pointed to the
pool. "Holiday?" he asked.

For some reason, I blurted out, "Yeah, our
mom's grandparents are Italian and we're going to find their
family."

He laughed. "Too fast, too fast."

I realized he hadn't understood a word I'd
said. And Charlie was looking at me like I was stupid.

Real slow, he said to Mr. Mafia, "Yes, we
are on a holiday."

"You speak
italiano
?"

Charlie shook his head. "No."

Mr. Mafia held out his hand to Charlie. "My
name is Franco."

Charlie shook his hand. "Pleased to meet
you, I'm Charlie."

Then Mr. Mafia held out his hand to me. I
wished my friends at school could see this. I gave him a real firm
handshake. "Max."

"Good to meet you, Max."

We all laughed and suddenly I wasn't as
scared. If it weren't for the two bodyguards, he'd seem like an
ordinary, nice old man. Sort of like the guy who owned the grocery
store near home.

We soon realized he just wanted to practice
his English. He asked us what sports we played and when we told him
we were from Australia, he jumped around like a kangaroo. We
laughed like it was the funniest joke ever.

He told us he had two grandsons about the
same age as us and they loved football. "You like football?"

Charlie told him he followed AC Milan.

He'd only been following them for one week
before we came to Italy. Charlie was the biggest suck of all
time.

"You like stamps?" Franco asked us both.

"Stamps?"

He waved his hand about. "Il
francobollo."

"Rubber stamps?" asked Charlie. "Or for
letters?"

"Si. Letters. Yes," Franco replied.

I didn't want Charlie to say no, so I said,
"Our nanna has a stamp collection."

"Good. You send me ... Australian stamps. I
give you money." He turned round to one of the bodyguards.
"Giovanni!" Then he gave him an order in Italian.

Giovanni came over to us, pulled out his
wallet and handed Charlie a twenty-euro note. That was a lot of
money. How many stamps did he want?

Giovanni then took a little black book from
inside his jacket and wrote down something. Weird.

Franco said to us, "Send stamps to hotel."
He pointed to his chest. "I own hotel. Send to Franco Petruzzelli
at hotel. Si?"

Charlie nodded. "Si."

A bad feeling went right through me. He'd
only just met us and he was ordering us round like we were his
personal assistants specializing in all things Australian. What
sort of mafia boss collects stamps, anyway? It was hard to imagine
him soaking stamps off envelopes while his bodyguards watched
him.

W
e didn't say anything to
Mom and Dad about meeting Mr. Mafia. Charlie reckoned parents
should only be told what they need to know, so at dinner he told
them we did fifty laps and played Marco Polo. Actually, we only did
thirty-four laps. Charlie exaggerates sometimes. His excuse was
that we would've swum an extra sixteen laps if we hadn't talked to
Franco.

Later that night, after we'd turned the
light off to sleep, Charlie whispered, "Max."

"Yeah."

"I've got a theory."

"Yeah."

"I reckon that Franco Petruzzelli is our
great uncle."

"What?"

"I reckon he's Mom's uncle. I reckon they're
waiting to introduce us. Remember when Franco bowed to Mom when we
were at that restaurant?"

Of course I remembered, because I'd never
seen a total stranger bow to Mom. "Yeah."

"I reckon Franco arranged for us to stay at
this hotel. And I reckon Mom sent us to go for a swim, so we'd meet
him. I don't reckon it was a coincidence."

I breathed in and out real hard. "I don't
want to be related to a mafia boss."

"He might leave us some money when he
dies."

"Really?" I wasn't sure that getting money
from a bad guy would be a good idea. "We don't look like him."

"Yeah, I reckon you've got his nose."

My nose was the same shape as Mom's nose. I
looked a lot like Mom. Charlie didn't. He didn't even look a little
bit Italian. Actually, Charlie didn't look like Dad, either. Maybe
he was adopted. I felt my nose. I'd have to have a good look at
Franco's nose.

I said to Charlie, "Why wouldn't Mom just
introduce us to him?"

"She wants us to see that he's a nice old
man - before we find out he's a mafia boss."

"We'll see, I guess." I rolled over onto my
side, so my back was to Charlie. Most times he was right, but this
time I hoped he was wrong.

Getting to sleep was difficult. If I could
turn my ears off, it'd be easier. The sounds of the traffic in the
street below, the people down the hallway having a good time and
the ping of the elevator every now and again were getting on my
nerves. Charlie's noisy breathing didn't help either. I felt like
putting a pillow over his head. The alarm clock next to my bed said
it was 11.42pm. Charlie had been sound asleep for ages.