Page 69 of Marcello

Something clicked in my memory. Federica had mentioned something similar –

“Are they part of Terzo Mondo?” I asked.

“See?!” Cesare said to Lametta, like he’d been too quick to judge. Then he turned back to me. “Exactly. They’re two of the neighborhoods in Terzo Mondo. Lots of business there, but it’s mostly controlled by other Camorra clans. We’re trying to get a bigger piece of the pie, but it’s easier to go where the other clans aren’t.”

“Why aren’t other clans in the tourist areas?”

“Cuz in Naples, tourism is where all the money’s at for anybody not in the Camorra. So there’s a shit-ton more cops around the tourist parts to keep everything safe.”

“…oh,” I muttered. “Great.”

“Lots more opportunity here, though.”

“I don’t know anything about drugs.”

“That’s alright – Lametta’ll teach you,” Cesare said as he glared at his underling.

Lametta must have been afraid of another smack to the head, because he remained civil as he gave me a crash course.

One by one, he took items out of his pockets and explained their prices.

Weed was the Camorra’s bread and butter: 1.5 grams for 10 euros.

Cocaine came in little baggies. Half a gram for 40 euros, or a full gram for 70.

A quarter gram of heroin cost 20 euros, which was enough for one hit.

Ecstasy was 10 euros for one pill, 40 euros for five.

Speed was 15 euros a gram. It was popular with truckers and anybody who needed to stay awake for long stretches.

There were ‘special orders’ for certain customers – LSD, shrooms, poppers – but I wouldn’t carry those with me since people rarely asked for them.

“You carry all that shit around with you?” I asked in amazement.

“I get refills when I need ‘em.”

“Buy some track suits like Lametta,” Cesare said. “Everything stretches, so you can stuff the pockets full of shit.”

I looked with distaste at Lametta’s outfit. Combined with his tats, the track suit was like a neon sign flashing ‘gangster.’

I thought of Fausto and his underlings. They had all worn tailored suits.

If I had to be a thug, I’d rather be a well-dressed one.

Or at least one that didn’t look like an idiot.

“Can I wear regular street clothes?” I asked. “If I dress like Lametta, it’ll make me more of a target for the cops.”

Cesare squinted at me in silence.

I wondered if he was about to backhand me for questioning an order.

“…yeah… okay,” he finally said. “You look like a regular vanilla motherfucker, so it’ll be easier for you to blend in and fly under the radar.”

“Cool,” I said, although I wasn’t too keen on being described as a regular vanilla motherfucker.

We went over the route and drug prices until I had it all down.