This morning, Robert had been roused from his sleep by the sound of another explosion in Palermo. No-one knew exactly what was going on in the streets of Sicily’s capital. Another settling of scores, no doubt; another conflict with the Cosa Nostra, or perhaps payback from the Corleones. The year was still young and not warm yet, but no stiff breeze would stop Roberto from wearing his shirt unbuttoned, his chest on display. After all, was he not a man now, aged all of thirteen? Was he not ready to work for a boss? He was strong, motivated and ambitious. He too would own a Fiat one day. He rose from his bed and pulled on his bell-bottom jeans. This was the fashion, and all the girls liked these blue jeans. He put on his sandals, and some cologne. This was the style, after all, and the girls loved it. Now he just had to comb his hair. After a quick brush, he would head down to the offices of the Giornale di Sicilia newspaper to pick up his copies to sell in the streets of Palermo. Roberto had started the job after Christmas, and earned three lira for each paper he sold.
He arrived now outside the newspaper office. The boss wasn’t there. He was late, probably stuck in traffic. The boys waited, sitting around outside and smoking Marlboros. The boss’ Fiat finally appeared at the end of the street. They rose in a mark of respect, and threw their cigarettes into the gutter. The driver got out of the car and opened the warehouse. The boys descended upon the piles of papers. Roberto took a dozen to sell. He had strong arms now. He read the headline and the start of an article: “General dalla Chiesa, one of Sicily’s most senior magistrates and greatest enemy of the mafia, has been killed in a car ambush.” That would give Roberto more than enough to work with as he called out to passers-by. Moreover, the big headline would make people want to buy the paper. He looked at the photo on the front page. The car was riddled with bullet holes, its windshield shattered, its tires blown out, and the chassis burned to ash.
Now he took to the streets of Palermo, crying out: “Dalla Chiesa assassinated, car ambush!” Another half-hour’s work and Roberto would go and buy himself half an olive ciabatta to sate his hunger. He was tired, and had sold only five copies since this morning. But he was proud. A man came up to him with a crooked grin. It was Paolo the Fixer, known to everyone in Palermo. He always wore a three-piece suit and a montecristi. Paolo the Fixer examined the front page. He did not seem shocked at the news. He bought a copy, then went to collect the pizzo from the local shop owners on behalf of Uncle Gaetano, one of Palermo’s mafia dons. The pizzo was what citizens paid for the mafia’s protection. It was their moral duty to pay. For Roberto, it was time to eat. He balanced the papers on his head, and made his way to the bakery. He’d been dreaming of that ciabatta for a good long while.
Alan Alfredo Geday