Trapped by the Mafia

5. The Deadly Secret

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead

--Benjamin Franklin

***

Despite the willies, I have to take a picture of that church. It's like a drug, okay? However, doing so under the two men's noses isn't just disrespectful, it's dangerous.

I can't qualify what tips me off that it's dangerous. It's one of those situations when you know what you know. So I snap my pictures like a spy, while toting the empty boxes in a gigantic garbage bag. Hopefully, the camera compensated for the shaking of my clammy hands. I can correct the weird angles later. I'm a pro.

Looking at the big picture via the view-finder of my phone, calms me down a bit. The light in St.Luke's is really low to start with. The stained glass windows add so many colorful dapples that it takes foreknowledge to notice my rude flower arrangement. It's practically invisible to anyone who's not looking for it.

As the thumping in my ears becomes quieter, the men's Italian conversation washes over me. I listen in, trying to understand, because of the drilled in habit. The Duo-lingo does that to you.

So what they're saying is, Questo figlio di puttana...

...something, something fastidio maybe? è un fastidio? 'son of a whore'?

Basically, something uncomplimentary about someone.

...liberarci di Trigger. Se rinuncia alla Gigliata, va bene.

They won't get rid of the Trigger if he gives up the Gigliata? It sounds like complete nonsense to me.

Lascialo grovel e fingere di essere un uomo fatto. È sporco e morirà come sporco.

I have no clue. Someone should grovel? Probably the same guy they were calling the son of a whore before?

Voglio che muoia.

Okay, I understood that one. 'I want him to die'.

Sono stufo delle sue cazzate. Non avrebbero dovuto dare a Matty la Gigliata.

Oh, bother. My head hurts. Now there's some Matty mixed into this. Maybe Matty is the same person as the Trigger?

Matty the Trigger?

What kind of a name is that?

Finally, I'm done with the clean-up and scurry out of the church on the steps outside. I stand for a moment, breathing in and out. My fears recede in the sunshine and from being surrounded by people. It's actually really busy now, with the mourners swarming the space. I weave through the crowd to Floribunda's van. Sheila is nowhere in sight, thank God, and I'm in no hurry to check if she's texted me.

There is still 23 minutes till the funeral, but it shouldn't matter any longer. The clock stopped ticking. This should be the end of my crappy Saturday. I should relax and stop squirming about Scali. It's dark in the church. He's not going to spot the carnations. Period. I should just leave it alone. If I left it alone to start with, I wouldn't be worried about the carnations. I'd be having coffee and checking my messages on my secret account, enjoying the sunny afternoon.

The same goes for the men's conversation about Matty and the Gigliata. I should put it out of my head, not drive myself bananas trying to recall each word. But I can't help it. My memory is in overdrive mode. Maybe it's because I'm obsessed with Matteo Scali, and the two gentlemen talked about Matty. Maybe it's the sinister atmosphere in the church. Maybe it's the adrenaline still pumping after my stupid prank.