Armando Lazzari - Dinner With The Mafia

“A prostitute…” Carmine was reluctant. It wasn't a question of morals; he was first in line when he had the time and longing. But it was different for his nephew. Ben was young and handsome, and certainly didn't need a hooker.

The entire family agreed that Esposito's best quality was his ability to tune into the person to whom he was speaking, deducing even the smallest phrases and reading the slightest facial movements, already knowing what they were thinking and what they were going to say.

“With all due respect, sir, I doubt that a woman like Lola would be easy to win over, even for an attractive boy like your nephew. The fact that she is a professional would make everything easier for all of us. Give your nephew a few nights of passion with Lola, and Susan will be sweet history. This way, getting rid of her will be painless.”

Esposito's argument was pretty convincing.

“Let's give it a try. Make contact with this Lola and take her to a boutique and get her a nice wardrobe. I don't want her looking like a hooker. Explain the situation to her, then we'll invite her to dinner. We'll find a way to leave the two of them alone together.”

“It would be ideal if we invented a good story that Lola could act out during the evening. Something moving that touches the heart.”

Carmine decided to entrust the creative mind of Esposito. ”Why not… any ideas?”

“Well, for starters, she could play the part of an elementary school teacher.”

Esposito recalled with pleasure one of their evenings. To satisfy one of his fantasies, he had her interpret the role of a school teacher: a blonde babe wearing glasses, a tiny low-cut white blouse and a short plaid skirt.

“She's from Ukrain, so we can give her a tormented past; she was a young orphan and had to go out in the street in the snow to sell matchsticks.”

“Matchsticks? Isn't that a children's fairy tale? Esposito, are you firing on all cylinders? No, here's what we're gonna do. An orphan is good, but she was adopted and her foster father was violent. He beat and abused her. When she turned eighteen, she ran away from home, finding odd jobs that allowed her to study at night school and became the woman she is today. What do you think?”

Esposito was almost crying. “I think that's the most touching story that I've ever heard, Boss. My compliments. You have an incredible imagination.”

“What imagination? It's the story of a soap opera that my wife used to watch, may she rest in peace.”

“Anyway, we need to come up with an explanation for Ben as to why she'll be at dinner at our house,” said Carmine.

“Lola can just show up at dinnertime as a volunteer for some orphanage, asking for a donation that we had promised to give to charity for the poor orphans. Then she can pretend to have forgotten the right day. At that point, we can invite her to join us for dinner,” said Esposito.

The idea was full-proof and could work.

“You know something? You're a really good liar. I hope your wife is the only one who needs to be careful.”

Carmine grabbed the phone and got Joe Santini's number. “Joe? Hey, it's Carmine. I just want your opinion on a deal regarding Ben… no, don't worry, he's not in any trouble. Actually, I think we might have a solution for our problem…”

In other circumstances, he would have sent Esposito over to explain, but on this occasion, he wanted to tell him himself. Joe agreed with the plan and gave him carte blanche to go ahead.

In the dark about his uncles' behind-the-scenes plans to orchestrate his life, Ben was busy getting his material ready for the show, when an unexpected phone call filled him with joy.

“Susan! How nice to hear from you so soon?”

“I hope I'm not bothering you. I've just been given two tickets for a concert this evening at the Webster Hall Nightclub and I wanted to ask if you wanted to come with me. I'd like to pay you back a little for all your kindness. It's the least I can do.”

He couldn't have been happier if she had offered ten gold bricks, so he immediately accepted before some other invitation could ruin his evening. “It will be a pleasure. Thank you. I can't think of anything better than some good music to help me unwind.”

After they worked out a time and place to meet, Ben hung up and realized that he had no knowledge of the music that would be playing. It wasn't important, after all. The only thing that mattered was that he was going to spend the evening with Susan, wherever they ended up was fine with him.

Webster Hall at 125 East 11 thStreet

Judging by the long line of people waiting in front of the entrance, the event of the evening seemed to have attracted a lot of interest.

Susan gave off an almost tangibly exhilarated air, which contrasted with Ben's dark suspicion, as he kept looking around for something to reassure him. But the more he searched, the more his anxiety increased.

He figured that at least fifteen people, between those in front and those at the end of the line, could have very well spent the last two or three years behind bars. Not to mention their clothing, that appeared tenebrously sinister and bordered on something close to satanic. He found the courage to ask a question that might help him understand his surroundings a bit more.

“Susan, sorry but, what exactly are we going to see tonight?”

She looked at him like he had come from another planet. “What do you mean? Everybody knows Zoroaster from Atlanta!” Ignorance surrounded him, clearly revealed in his face.

“You really don't know who they are? I mean, don't you like Sludge Metal?”

He attempted a vague answer while clearing his voice, but Susan saw right through his posturing.

“I get it. You don't know and you need me to explain, right?” Despite his embarrassment, Ben had to confess that he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Sludge Metal, or rather, Sludge Doom Metal is a sub-genre of Heavy Metal music that's usually considered a fusion of Doom Metal, Stoner Metal, Southern Rock and Hardcore Punk.” She waited for Ben to wrap his head around all of it, then decided to change her tactic. “Don't worry. Let's do this, we'll listen to a few songs and if you can't stand it, just tell me and we'll go somewhere else. Does that sound all right?”

The skies cleared, the sun came out and Ben immediately felt better. He happily accepted Susan's offer, even if he would have rather been standing in line to see Shakira.

Inside the club, the music was a detonation that filled every corner, embellished by various strobe lights rotating wildly, shooting in every direction.

Everyone was moshing to heavily distorted bass sounds and rivers of oppressive riffs which appeared to try its best to smother the writhing mass of Metalheads. Ben felt like he was at the center of a spinning universe that was breaking apart with every violent beat of the drums, jolted right and left while the sea of people slam danced and shouted guttural hardcore punk language. He struggled to understand what Susan was trying to yell in his ear.

“Oh my God! This is the Ancient Ones from the Matador album.”

He nodded and gave a hint of a smile, hoping that this torture would soon be over. The only way he was able to stand the nightmare, was because it looked like Susan was having fun.

The worst came when the crowd slammed into him and he felt something soggy and slimy spread all over his forearm. He instinctively pulled his arm back, but was only partly able to, because another wave of pushing shoved him in total contact with the “thing”. His whole arm, including his hand, felt like it was covered in a mix of sweaty and oily gelatin that smelled like a toilet at a service station.