Page 71 of Marcello

We drove 20 minutes to a poor neighborhood far from the historic center. Gone were all the centuries-old monuments and beautiful churches. The business complexes were all modern and cheap-looking, and the residential buildings were post-WWII – squat, drab, and ugly.

Cesare pulled into a parking lot for a nail salon, a tattoo parlor, and a pizzeria. We got out of the Maserati and walked into the restaurant, which had dirty linoleum floors and plastic furniture. The place was deserted except for five guys holding court around a big table.

They had different builds – from buff to fat – and wore different clothes, from football jerseys to track suits. But they were all unmistakably Camorra. Lots of ugly tattoos, close-cropped hair, and over-the-top confidence. They acted like they owned the place as they sat around drinking beer and laughing at obscene jokes.

“What the fuck are you lazy assholes doing here?” Cesare barked as we walked in.

Everyone seemed panicked as they wheeled around in their chairs –

And then they broke into grins as Cesare laughed.

“Hey, boss,” the heaviest guy said, his chubby cheeks dimpling as he smiled.

“Alright, motherfuckers, listen up: this is Romeo, the newest guy in the crew. Romeo, this is Ciro, Cicciobello, Toro, Mignolino, and Pelato.”

Ciro was the most muscular of them. He wore a black leather bomber jacket like he was trying to ape Cesare’s style.

Cicciobello – fat boy – wore a jersey for SSC Napoli, the city’s soccer team. It did nothing to hide his man-boobs and massive gut.

Toro – bull – was as heavy and lumbering as his namesake.

Mignolino – pinky finger – was almost as buff as Ciro, but much shorter. He had a thick forehead and bushy brows like a Neanderthal.

Pelato – bald – had a shaved head, hence his name. He was fairly scrawny compared to the others.

“This the one who shot that Mallardo fucker in the ass?” Ciro asked, and the entire table erupted in laughter.

I had no idea if ‘Mallardo’ was the name of the drug dealer or the clan he worked for, but it didn’t matter. It was obvious who they were talking about – and that my reputation had preceded me.

“That’s him,” Cesare said, then yelled at the pizzeria owner behind the counter, “Hey – two Peronis!”

The owner, a middle-aged guy with a mustache and a hangdog expression, nodded once and began pouring two beers on tap.

“You shoulda named him ‘Nu Dulore ’e Culo’!” Cicciobello said.

That was Neapolitan for ‘pain in the ass.’

The entire table burst into laughter again.

“Too long a name,” Cesare said as he grabbed a chair. He sat in it backwards, his legs straddling the seat and his arms resting on top.

“Just ‘Culo,’ then,” Cicciobello suggested to more laughs.

“It’s Romeo,” Cesare snarled.

Everybody stopped laughing.

Then Cesare looked at me. “Sit the fuck down.”

I grabbed a chair and sat amongst the others.

“Hell of a first day,” Pelato said to me.

“È stato nu poco nu dulore ’e culo,” I replied in Neapolitan.

It was kind of a pain in the ass.

The entire table burst out laughing again. Even Cesare grinned.