Evan Hunter - Streets of Gold

La morra is similar to choosing up sides by tossing fingers from a closed fist, except that it does not operate on the odds-or-evens principle. Not unlike a game played in France (the basis of a novel titled La Loi , which resonates with all sorts of Mediterranean undertones), the idea is to call out a number aloud while simultaneously showing anywhere from no fingers (a clenched fist) to five fingers. Your opponent similarly shouts a number and throws some fingers, and the winner of that round is the man who calls the number exactly matching the total number of fingers showing. “ Morra!” is what you shout if the number you’re calling is zero. If you shout “ Morra!” and both you and your opponent throw clenched fists, you are again a winner. After a number of elimination rounds, the two men who’ve won up to that point square off, shout their prognostications, toss their fingers or fists, and eventually there’s a single grand winner. This man is called bossa , an Italian bastardization of the word “boss.” He promptly appoints a partner, usually his closest friend, and the partner is called sotto bossa , or “underboss.” There is naturally a lot of yelling during the actual competition, which sometimes lasts for hours, but eventually there’s a boss, and he chooses his underboss, and then the real fun begins.

The fun involves a five-gallon jug of wine. The boss, by dint of his having eliminated all competition in fair and strenuous play, is boss of nothing but the wine. It is he who determines who will be allowed to drink the wine. If he wants to drink all the wine himself, that is his right and his privilege. If he wishes to share the jug only with his underboss, that too is his prerogative. If he wants to give the entire jug to some shlepper who is a perennial loser, and who will gratefully accept glass after glass of strong red wine until he’s consumed the full five gallons and fallen flat on his face, the boss can do that as well. The boss has absolute power concerning that jug of wine.

On the day of the catastrophe (when Francesco was twenty-four), he beat all the men at la morra and became bossa .

“Pino,” he said, “would you like to be sotto bossa ?”

“I would consider it a great honor,” Pino said, and grinned.

“In that case, Pino, we will need a pitcher of wine and some glasses, please.”

Pino went to where the five-gallon jug was standing on a chair near the kitchen table, and he poured a pitcher full to the brim and brought it back to the table together with four glasses. Francesco filled two of the glasses as the other men watched.

“Pino?” he said, and offered him one of the glasses. “I drink to our homeland,” he said, and raised his glass.

“Salute,” Pino said, and both men drank.

“Ahhh,” Francesco said. “Excellent wine.”

“Excellent,” Pino said.

The other men watched. They were very thirsty after nearly forty minutes of throwing fingers and fists and shouting numbers.

“I think our homeland deserves more than one toast,” Francesco said.

“I think so, too.”

“Should we have another drink, sotto bossa ?”

“Yes, bossa .”

“Do you think it is fitting that we should have another drink while these men, who I’m sure are thirsty, sit and watch us?”

“Whatever you wish, bossa. ”

“I think it is fitting,” Francesco said, and poured two more glassfuls of wine. “Pino?” He raised his glass. “I drink to the beautiful village of Fiormonte in the province of Potenza, and I drink to the good health of our families and friends there.”

“Salute,” Pino said, and both men again drank.

“Ahhh,” Francesco said. “Beautiful wine.”

“Splendid,” Pino said.

“But I feel we do a discourtesy to our homeland if you and I are the only ones drinking and toasting. We should have more than two drinkers, don’t you agree, Pino?”

“I agree,” Pino said. “If that is your wish, bossa .”

“That is my wish.” Francesco turned to the butcher. “Rafaelo,” he said, “would you care for a glass of wine?”

“Well, that is entirely up to you, Francesco. You are the bossa .” The butcher licked his lips. He could taste the wine, but he did not wish to appear overly eager, lest the boss change his mind.

“Pino?” Francesco said. “What do you think? A glass of wine for the butcher?”

Pino considered the question gravely and solemnly. At last, he said, “ Bossa , he has to work tomorrow.”

“That’s true,” Francesco said. “You’ll cut the meat badly, Rafaelo.”

“ Bossa , tomorrow’s tomorrow,” Rafaelo said quickly. “And today is Sunday.”

“I think he’s thirsty,” Francesco said, and winked at Pino.

“I think they’re both thirsty,” Pino said.

“So let’s you and me have another drink,” Francesco said. He poured the glasses full again, raised his in toast, and said, “To Victor Emmanuel.”

“Are you drinking to the king without us ?” Rafaelo said, appalled.

“To Victor Emmanuel,” Pino said, and drained his glass.

“Ahhh,” Francesco said. “Delicious.” He looked at the other men critically, as though estimating their capacity for alcohol, and measuring their thirst, and judging whether or not they were good and decent men, and hard workers, and religious besides. A smile broke on his face. He turned to Pino. “Now, please,” he said, “fill the glasses for our friends, and we will finish the wine together.”

Agnelli the iceman let out a sigh of relief. “I like it when you’re the bossa ,” he said.

“Ah? And why?” Francesco asked.

“Because you have a soft heart,” Agnelli said.

“A soft head , I think,” Francesco said, and lifted his glass. “This time we drink to Italy together.”

Solemnly, the other men raised their glasses. “To Italy,” they said.

“To home,” Francesco said.

“Francesco!” Teresa yelled, and came running into the kitchen, her white apron covered with what Francesco first thought to be blood.

“Oh, Madonna mia! ” he shouted, and leaped to his feet. “ Che successe?”

“The barrel!”

“What barrel?”

“One of the barrels!”

“What? What?”

“It’s broken!”

“What do you mean? What is she talking about?” he asked Pino, who was as bewildered as he.

“Of wine! ” Teresa said. “In the front room!”

“San Giacino di California!” Francesco shouted. “ Andiamo!” he yelled to the other men, and ran out of the kitchen with the three of them behind him. The woman from downstairs knocked on the kitchen door, and when Teresa let her in she frantically told her there was wine on her ceiling, and it was dripping all over her bed. Teresa sighed. Francesco ran back into the kitchen, barefooted, his trouser legs rolled up, his feet stained a bright purple. He went immediately to the table and yanked the tablecloth from it.

“My tablecloth!” Teresa shouted.

“There’s wine all over the house!” he shouted back gleefully, and was gone.

“It’s dripping on my bed,” the lady from downstairs said.

“Yes,” Teresa said, looking somewhat distracted.

“We’ll drown in wine,” the lady said.

“Francesco will take care of it,” Teresa said.

In the other rooms, the men were shouting, and laughing, and swearing. Teresa, her hand to her mouth, stood beside the lady from downstairs, and listened.

“Catch it there!”

“I got it!”

“Mannaggia!”