Page 61 of Marcello

As I approached the drug dealer, he looked at me warily and stood up straight.

Not only that, but his hand darted behind his back…

Like he was grabbing something in the waistband of his sweatpants.

Fuck.

I’ll bet he’s got a gun, too.

The smart move would be to fire through the pocket of my sweatshirt –

But I couldn’t.

I just couldn’t do it.

However, I was getting closer and closer by the second –

And he looked more and more like he was going to pull his gun.

What do I do?

WHAT DO I DO?

The answer came to me in Fausto’s voice:

Buy drugs.

That was it. That was the plan.

After my disastrous attempt with Lametta, I decided to avoid speaking Neapolitan.

“Hey,” I said in Italian as I stopped about ten feet away from him. I looked around furtively like I was afraid of being caught. “Do you have anything, uh, good?”

The guy squinted at me, but he relaxed.

My accent marked me as an out-of-towner – a student or a tourist.

And the hoodie and sunglasses now seemed logical, like it was a disguise to avoid being recognized.

“Where you from?” he asked in heavily accented Italian.

“Florence.”

“You here for school?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

He relaxed and pulled his hand out from behind his back. “What do you want?”

“Um… got any cocaine?” I whispered as I came closer.

“Do I have any cocaine,” he said derisively, like it was a stupid question. “How much you want?”

I had no idea.

I’d heard terms like ‘eight ball’ in American movies, but I had no clue what the equivalent was in Italian.

“Um… how much will 40 euros get me?”