The Venetian Job (5 page)

I got my Manchester United shirt and Charlie
got an AC Milan shirt. He'd probably only wear it if they won the
Champions League.

After that we reached a square. There were
buskers and guys painting and food stalls. You could see the ocean
and a view of Taormina. Mom and Dad were sighing and carrying on
about how they'd miss the lovely view.

A girl was singing and playing a guitar
right near us. She sounded good enough to be on the radio, even
though I couldn't understand a word. Her guitar case had lots of
coins in it, which gave me a real good idea.

"Charlie, give me Franco's twenty
euros."

"What for?" Then he saw me glance at the
busker. He looked at me like I was crazy. "No way. We'll exchange
it when we get home and split it."

"That money has brought us bad luck. Just
think about what has happened since Franco gave it to us. There was
the fire alarm, Franco was murdered, Mount Etna erupted and those
guys in black shirts could've killed us."

"They wouldn't have! They wanted us to steal
his black book, that's all." He rolled his eyes like I was a total
idiot. "And you reckon Mount Etna erupted yesterday because a mafia
boss gave us money to buy a few stamps?"

It was impossible to win an argument with
Charlie. "I'll pay you back your share when we get home." The
busker began a new song.

"Do you want to pass the bad luck on to
her?"

"I won't. It'll only bring good luck if we
give it away."

He huffed and took the twenty-euro note out
of his pocket. "You owe me."

I grabbed the money, went over, carefully
placed the note in her guitar case and tried not to think about how
much twenty euros was worth in Australian dollars. The girl saw the
note, gave me a nod and kept singing like a professional.

I felt real good. I knew I'd turned our bad
luck into good luck, even if Charlie didn't know it.

***

That afternoon, we all strode back into the hotel
and were stopped by a
Carabiniere
again. Very politely, he took us all into the same office where
we'd been questioned before.

I whispered to him, "Today, two guys with
black shirts wanted Charlie and me to steal Franco Petruzzelli's
black book. Do you know them?"

His eyes widened. "Si. Yes. Grazie. Those
boys look tough, but ... how you say ... harmless."

"Oh." I let out a deep breath. I sort of
felt let down. Maybe Charlie and me hadn't been in danger after
all. I wanted to ask him a million questions about Franco's black
book.

The
Carabiniere
must've seen my disappointment because
he said, "Mr. Petruzzelli used to write everything down in his
black book. Who owed him money and who he owed money. The
black-shirt boys think Mr. Petruzzelli owe him money, that's
all."

"Oh."

The
Carabiniere
stood at attention and said to all of
us, "We would like to inform that Franco Petruzzelli died ... how
you say ... of natural causes."

We all sighed at the same time.

"Coincidence that at the time another family
wanted him dead, he died by himself." He nodded. "Good for us.
Maybe no more killing."

I whispered to Charlie, "Told you giving
away that money was good luck."

***

The airport reopened the next morning so we could
fly to Rome. We put our bags in the back of the taxi and Charlie
said, "So we really aren't related to anyone in Sicily?"

"No." Mom shook her head like she couldn't
believe her oldest son was so dumb.

The driver shut the trunk and we all got in
the car. He said to Mom, "You have relatives in
Italia
?"

"Yes," she smiled, "they're from the
north."

Charlie and me looked at each other and
realized we'd been mega-stupid. And all that time I'd been worrying
about being related to a mafia boss for nothing. I slid down in my
seat.

Charlie called out to Mom, "Why won't you
tell us who they are? They're descendants of Michelangelo, aren't
they?"

Mom laughed. "No."

"Leonardo di Vinci?"

She turned round to face Charlie and rolled
her eyes.

"The Pope?" I asked.

Charlie clicked his tongue at me. "Max, the
Pope isn't Italian."

"Enough guessing," she said. 'Our relatives
are a wonderful, normal family and like us, they aren't famous at
all."

"That's okay with me," I said.

1. MR.
SCARFACE

I
n the distance, I could
see towers, church domes, a palace, lots of boats and moving specks
that must've been people. It was though we were about to arrive in
a strange city in a fairy-tale land. The whole city floated on top
of the water. "Wow," I called out from the back of the water taxi
as Venice appeared in front of us.

Mom turned round. "Max, Charlie." She
pointed. "There's Piazza San Marco, the Bell Tower, the Winged Lion
on top of the column and the Doge's Palace." I could tell by the
way her eyes lit up that it was her favorite place in the world.
The last time she'd been here was before Charlie and me were
born.

As we got closer, we got a better view of
the gondolas, ferries and all the people. Artists sat at easels
painting. Heaps of people were wandering and checking everything
out - even our water taxi. Ferries were coming and going and there
were shiny black gondolas parked at the dock.

The driver steered our water taxi into a
canal. It felt like the beginning of a water ride at a theme park.
A ride where the boat cruises along all slow and safe and then you
realize you are actually at the top of a waterfall and you and your
boat are about to go over the top. But our ride didn't happen like
that. We went under a bridge and it was like we had entered a
magical place with three and four-storey buildings all squashed
together and where the front doors took you to a boat instead of to
a garden.

I expected our water taxi to go real fast,
but it didn't. There were so many other boats using the canal, no
one could go fast. It'd be cool to go fast. There were boats making
deliveries, there were gondolas with passengers being shown the
sites, there were other water taxis and there was even a boat full
of Italian military police, the
Carabinieri
, each one with a black machine gun.

"When will we meet Santo?" I asked Mom.
Santo was married to Mom's cousin, Caterina.

"Tonight for dinner. You'll like him; he has
a great sense of humor."

Santo was a policeman and Charlie and me had
lined up this Venice job. We were going to hang out with him while
he was on duty, instead of checking out boring paintings with Mom
and Dad.

I said to Charlie, "I can't wait to catch
some bad guys."

"Max," Charlie said in his superior voice,
"Venice is full of tourists. The most exciting thing Santo probably
does is give directions to lost foreigners."

"Nah, something big and bad will
happen."

"Yeah, right. The only big thing that might
happen is a boat that's full of people could sink." He peered over
the side of the boat and screwed up his face. "And we'd have to
jump in this cold, murky water and save them."

I shook my head. "I need a good story to
tell my class when I get home." Before the school holidays, my
teacher had said when we got back to school we all had to have a
good story to tell. The story could be true or false and the class
would guess if the story was true or not. I needed the best, most
unbelievable story. What was the point of helping a Venetian
policeman do his job if I didn't end up with a good story to tell?
"Saving a billionaire from a kidnapper would do." If we rescued a
billionaire, we'd probably get a reward. Then I'd get a story and
lots of money.

Charlie rolled his eyes. "You can always
make up a story, like discovering that you're related to a mafia
boss."

Typical Charlie - he was so negative. A good
feeling told me something exciting would happen. It didn't tell me
exactly what, but it wouldn't be as exciting if I knew already.

The water taxi pulled up at a door and, like
magic, the door opened. The taxi driver and the man at the door
spoke in Italian before we stepped from the boat and in through the
door. It took me a few minutes to realize that we'd arrived at our
hotel. Where else do guests arrive at their hotels by climbing
through the back door?

A tall man in a dark suit greeted us. He had
a thin black mustache and he was way too serious. On his right
cheek there was a long scar - it might've been made by a knife. He
told us he was at our service and shook our hands in turn. He kept
calling Mom and Dad Mr. and Mrs. McLean as he took them upstairs to
their room while Charlie and me waited. The hotel seemed small, but
it was real posh. The furniture looked antique and the paintings
looked expensive. The place was so quiet, it seemed as though we
were the only people in the hotel. There didn't even seem to be
anybody else working at the hotel. It felt strange.

The man with the scar appeared and bowed.
"I'll show you to your room. May I call you Charlie and Max?"

"Sure," replied Charlie.

Why hadn't we checked in? Didn't they need
our passports?

He took our suitcase up the stairs and we
followed. The room he showed us was as posh as. Pictures were
painted on the walls, like in Pompeii before it got buried. Our
window overlooked the canal, so we could see boats and gondolas
passing. The strange thing was that the beds were unmade. The
sheets were folded at the end of the bed.

The door closed behind him as he put our
suitcase down. "You have arrived at a very difficult time. Every
member of the hotel staff, except for me, has fallen ill."

"The flu?" I asked.

He shook his head. "A rare illness. They
have a rash and sores on their bodies." His voice sounded cold.
"Very unpleasant."

"We can go to another hotel," I said. There
was no way I was going to get sores all over my body.

He stepped closer to us. "No, no, no. Venice
has no other accommodation at the moment. You will be fine.
However, I need your help."

Charlie and me didn't answer. I didn't like
the sound of this.

Mr. Scarface pointed to the beds. "If you
could make your own beds and ..." He bent down and pulled out a
feather duster from under the bed. "If you wouldn't mind ... the
room hasn't been dusted for a while."

We didn't say anything at first. Then
Charlie blurted out, "Sure. We'll make our beds and dust."

Mr. Scarface bowed again. "
Grazie
. Thank you. I'll see how your parents are
getting along." He slipped out and silently closed the door behind
him.

We stared at each other. I said, "I'm not
staying here for a million bucks."

"Me either. We'll have to find somewhere
else to stay."

"What's the point of staying at a hotel if
you have to make your own bed?" I grabbed the TV remote, got up on
the bed and began to jump up and down. I flicked through the
channels. "At least we've got cable TV."

"We'll pretend we're staying until we've got
somewhere else to go." Charlie began to make his bed. "The last one
to make his bed has to dust."

As fast as I could, I jumped off the bed and
put the sheets on. Once I'd got the top sheet on, I looked up and I
could see Charlie was going to win. I threw the blanket down and
lay down on the bed with my hands behind my head. "I win."

Charlie smiled sneakily. He did that when he
knew something I didn't know. Then he copied me by lying down and
putting his hands behind his head. "You haven't put your pillowcase
on."

Far out! I got up and realized it'd fallen
on the floor. "I don't like them," I said.

"You need a pillowcase. With all those
people getting sick, the pillows might be contaminated."

I jumped off the bed and put the pillowcase
on. "Okay, I'll dust." After two minutes of flicking the feather
duster over some of the furniture, I announced, "That'll do."

The door opened and Mr. Scarface appeared.
He didn't even knock! "Your mother is resting. Can you cook? I need
help in the kitchen."

"Why's she resting? She's not sick!" She'd
been okay when we were on the boat. Deep in my gut, I had a bad
feeling.

"She's fine. Don't worry." He smiled down at
us as though we were four years old. "The kitchen is this way."

As we followed him down the stairs, I
suggested we go to the shop and buy our food.

He turned to me. "That's very kind of you,
but we must think of our staff. They need to eat."

"WHAT?" Charlie said too loud. "Where are
they?"

Mr. Scarface put his finger up to his lips
to tell us to be quiet. He whispered, "They're staying in the
basement. We've turned it into a hospital for the time being."

"WHAT!" I slapped my hand over my mouth. I
whispered, "But they might be contagious."

He nodded. "The hospital is full. Do not
concern yourself, a doctor visits them every day."

Is that
allowed?
I wondered as he opened the swinging doors of
the kitchen.

At least the benches and the floor looked
clean. I sniffed. And there wasn't a bad smell.

He gave us both an apron. "I understand your
mother is Italian, so I assume you know how to make pasta?"

"Yeah, yeah," lied Charlie. Toast was about
the only thing Charlie could cook.

As Mr. Scarface got out flour from a
cupboard, Charlie whispered to me, "As soon as he leaves the
kitchen, we'll run."

"Yeah, good idea." Mr. Scarface was lying.
He was up to something bad. I reckoned Mr. Scarface was poisoning
the staff and that was why they were all sick in bed. The hospital
wasn't full at all. He was definitely lying about that. Why would
he want to poison them? I didn't know, but I could find out. We'd
been in Venice for less than an hour and I might've already got my
story.