Page 305 of Marcello

“Yeah,” Pasquale snarled, “but I’m not taking you to see him, so fuck off.”

Being in the Camorra was an extremely cash-heavy business, and I always had a lot on me. I took out everything I had in my wallet, around 2000 euros. “We just want to talk to him.”

The hunger came back into Pasquale’s eyes. He was practically salivating.

He hesitated for just a second… then took the money and looked guilty as he shoved it in his pocket. “Follow me.”

’O Munaciello was the only employee in the break room. Everybody else was running around getting ready for the first tour of the day, but not him. He was drinking his morning coffee, probably with some brandy mixed in.

Unlike Pasquale, the old guy looked practically unchanged: white hair, wrinkled face, and lots of stubble. He still wore his usual jeans and a flannel shirt.

“Hey, Giacomo,” Pasquale said, “you remember Marcello?”

The old guy looked at me in disgust and said in Neapolitan, “Me ricordo ca isso è nu piezzo ’e mmerda.”

I remember he’s a piece of shit.

Same old Munaciello.

I asked Pasquale, “You mind giving us a minute?”

He looked at me angrily. “The deal was you could talk to him. You didn’t say anything about doing it in private.”

Before I could reply, Lars put his hand inside his jacket.

I nearly had a panic attack. I thought the Swede might pull out a gun –

And from the look on Pasquale’s face, he must have feared the same thing.

But all Lars did was produce a wallet and pull out even more money. “For your troubles.”

Pasquale glanced at me fearfully, then took the cash and left the room.

When I spoke to ’o Munaciello, I used Italian rather than Neapolitan so Lars could understand. “This guy and some of his friends need a private tour through the tunnels.”

The old man sneered. “Pecché nun ’a fernisce ’e me piglià p’ ’o culo e me dice preciso che vuó?”

Why don’t you quit bullshitting me and tell me what you REALLY want?

“He doesn’t understand Neapolitan,” I said about Lars.

“E allora se ne jesse affanculo.”

Then he can go fuck himself.

Affanculo was the same in both languages, so I was fairly sure Lars got the gist.

There wasn’t much I could do, so I spoke in Neapolitan. “They need to get to a specific property from underground, and they’re willing to pay handsomely for it. Will you talk to them?”

’O Munaciello replied contemptuously in Neapolitan, “I’m not going to deal with the fucking Camorra.”

“He’s not Camorra.”

“YOU are. And that’s why you’re a piece of shit.”

I wanted to punch his fucking lights out –

But I reminded myself that something more important than my ego was on the line: