Page 54 of Marcello

Lametta started laughing, too.

“A JOB?!” Buzzcut howled. “You did all this shit to ask for a JOB?! Are you fucking retarded?!”

“You’re Camorra, right?” I asked.

Buzzcut stopped laughing and his expression went grim.

He cocked the hammer on his gun, stepped forward, and pressed the barrel against my forehead. I could feel the cold metal against my skin.

Okay, probably shouldn’t have come right out and asked if he was Camorra.

“Why do you wanna know?” Buzzcut snarled.

This is the part in the movie where the hero talks himself out of getting killed.

“Because I want to make a lot of money, and I heard guys in the Camorra make bank,” I said calmly. “Two weeks ago, I was washing dishes for nine euros an hour. Now I’m a tour guide for twice that. But I’m never going to get rich doing that shit – and I want to get rich.”

Buzzcut stared at me for a couple of seconds in silence, like he was pondering whether I was on the level or just a really terrible undercover cop.

Then he said, “Take off your glasses – I wanna see your eyes. And take off that fuckin’ hoodie, too. But no sudden moves or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

“Sure,” I said, “if you’ll just back up a couple of inches.”

Buzzcut peered at me like I was insane, but he backed away.

Once the gun wasn’t against my forehead, I had room to take off my shades and my hood.

Buzzcut squinted at me. “You’re pretty young for an undercover cop.”

“That’s because I’m not a cop.”

He laughed. “Well, cop or not, you got balls of steel, I’ll give you that. I’ve never seen a motherfucker as calm as you with a gun to his head.”

I shrugged. “I’ve always been like this. I just… things don’t feel quite real, that’s all.”

“Well, shit’s about to GET real,” Buzzcut said with a smirk. “You want a job, I’ll give you a job, but you gotta do a tryout first.”

“…okay,” I agreed warily. “What kind of a tryout?”

“We’ll get to that. Lametta, frisk him.”

Lametta came over and patted me down from behind. “He’s clean.”

Buzzcut undid the hammer on his revolver and shoved the gun into the right pocket of his leather biker jacket.

But he kept his hand in there, too.

It was like a little kid making a gun out of his finger underneath a shirt.

I’m a robber! Stick ‘em up!

Except there really was a gun in there…

And it was aimed right at my belly.

“We’re gonna take a little walk,” Buzzcut said. “You try anything, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“I’m not gonna try anything.”