Page 53 of Marcello

A guy in the mob just called me a singer –

A canary?

“You think I’m a snitch?” I asked in Neapolitan. “I’m not a snitch.”

I was very calm as I said it.

This is all just part of the movie.

Ice water in the veins, baby.

“You’re an undercover policeman!” Track Suit barked.

’na guardia ’e sotto!

Literally, a cop from underneath.

I looked at Track Suit. “No, I’m not – I just wanted to buy drugs. Why do you think I’m a cop?”

“‘Cause you’re a fuckin’ dweeb who speaks Neapolitan with a shitty accent,” Buzzcut snapped.

Oh.

Yeah, that might do it.

“I just got here a couple of months ago from Florence,” I explained. “The woman I’m dating has been teaching me, but I guess I’m not very good at it yet.”

Buzzcut looked at me like I was a fucking idiot. “You came here from Florence, learned Neapolitan, and now you’re trying to buy drugs.”

“Yes.”

Buzzcut gave an ugly, derisive laugh. “You expect me to believe that bullshit? Why the fuck were you following Lametta?”

Buzzcut actually called him ’o Lametta. ‘The razor blade.’ I knew what it meant because I’d run out of razor blades recently, and had asked Federica what the word for them was.

I assumed ‘Lametta’ was Track Suit’s gangster nickname.

Whether it was or not, I could tell the conversation wasn’t going well.

If I kept trying to convince Buzzcut I just wanted drugs, he might force me to do them right then and there.

I had no idea how much to take, so I’d probably overdose –

Or it would be obvious that I knew absolutely nothing about drugs, and he’d shoot me for lying to him.

Or…

I could just come clean.

Relatively clean, anyway.

I decided to take the risk.

“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t want to buy drugs. I want a job.”

Buzzcut stared at me in shock –

Then burst out laughing.