Snake in the Grass - Rewrite

Chapter 2

As soon as I was old enough, around 13, I began to help Papa at his fruit stall. My jobs included filling his stall and spending Sundays working the stall for about five or six hours.

I'd always be given time off to go and be with my mates, but he expected my help and I was happy to give it, because it meant spending time with him.

It was here that I began to be introduced to men Papa knew outside the family and our immediate neighbours - men who were members of what were referred to as L'Onorata Società (Honoured Society). Another word for them was the 'Ndrangheta.

These were the most respected people in the area; men would take off their hats and bow their heads when they passed, mumbling greetings under their breath.

When I asked Papa who they were, he would simply say, "Joe, these are men of respect, that is all I will tell you. Never ask about their business, and promise me you will never be involved in it either."

I promised, not really knowing what he meant, but accepting his word.

As I grew older, I learned more about these men, and started hearing the words L'Onerata Societa more and more often.

I learned that these men ran many different businesses in the area, most of which were not exactly legal, but most people accepted as harmless vices. These included gambling houses, the sale of cheap goods like liquor and cigarettes, etc.

The papers often contained stories about these people, referring to them as the mafia. Most of the articles accused them of standing over and hurting innocent people. This surprised me, as I had always seen them as just businessmen, and had never seen any evidence of this.

It was around this time that I told Papa I wanted to be a policeman. I had seen the way they were treated with respect by ordinary people and fear by criminals, and I wanted to experience that.

Papa assured me he would support me no matter what I did, though I could tell he was disappointed that I would not continue on working the stall when he retired.

One day when I was 16, one man, who I did not recognise, came into the stand, greeting my father like a brother in a squeezing embrace and slapping his back.

"Giuseppe Calabrese, you old bastard, it's been too long!" the man yelled in Italian, laughing along with the old man.

"Salvatore, my old friend, how are you?" Papa replied, shaking the man's hand.

The man called Salvatore looked past my father at me, a shocked look on his face.

"This is young Giuseppe? By the Holy Virgin, only 16 and he looks like a grown man!"

I was a bit apprehensive, but I still did the polite thing and shook his hand, looking him up and down as I did.

He was a large man, very broad like a bear; large, muscular arms and hands like baseball mitts; a sharp face with thick, prominent black eyebrows to match his curly hair.

He wore a dark suit with a purple tie; in the tie was a diamond-studded pin, and he wore a gold watch which I was sure was real gold.

"Joe, this is Salvatore Callipari; we grew up together in the old country. He is one of my oldest friends," Papa explained.

As I looked at Callipari, I began to recognise him from some childhood memories. When I was a boy, he had sometimes given me lollies and patted my cheek. I didn't remember much about him except his huge bulk reminded me of Luca Brasi in the movie The Godfather.

"Yes indeed," Callipari said, with a grin which didn't really diminish his intimidating personality. "But enough of past talk; Giuseppe, I was wondering if I could have a word in private?"

"Sure, old friend. Joe, go hang out with your friends, men are talking here. I'll see you at home," Papa dismissed me.

Glad of a chance to be with my friends, I headed off. Later that night, I took the tram home with a spring in my step: a girl I liked in the neighbourhood, Josie O'Reilly, had finally kissed me.

But the sight that greeted me not only knocked that happiness right out of me, but it would haunt me for the rest of my days.

Cat tried to tell me what had happened, but she was crying too hard. I pushed past her and walked into the kitchen - there was Mama, washing blood off Papa's face with a cloth.

Papa's nose was out of joint, definitely broken, and there were lacerations all over his face; with one hand he stemmed the bleeding from his nose, while the other held onto his ribs, which I could tell would also be broken.

Mama was also crying, rapidly speaking in Italian to him; it was so fast even I couldn't understand her. Suddenly, Papa held up a hand and yelled "ENOUGH, Maria! Not in front of the children!"

Mama went silent, and then went to wash the cloth; I stared at Papa, and couldn't believe that anyone could have done this. He had always been strong, able to handle himself in a fight.

"Papa, what happened?" I asked, sitting down at the table next to him.

"This is nothing to do with you, son. Do not ask," he replied firmly.

"Papa, someone has belted the shit out of you, and you tell me not to ask?" I yelled.

"Yes! And that is final!"

But I wasn't giving up. I stood my ground, my arms folded.

"Papa, you can tell me not to ask but you know that won't stop me.

Now tell me what happened, or I'll find out myself!"

Papa looked angry for a minute, but then the anger disappeared. He looked at me and sighed.

"All right, Joe. I won't tell you what happened tonight, but I will tell you a story. This will somewhat explain."

I took a seat, ready to listen. I had made up my mind about one thing - if I wasn't satisfied with Papa's story, I would find out for myself any details he left out.