The Taming of Frankie Carrozza

Prologue

'Would you like to hear a dream?'

'If it's one of yours, then I very much doubt it.'

'I just dreamed that I slathered myself in honey,' the boy carried on relentlessly, 'and Francesco Carrozza licked it off me like I was an envelope. Do you think dreams really can come true?'

With a well-deserved response of 'Good grief', Charlie Chance set the telephone on his lap and tucked the handset under his chin. He was in for a long one, no doubt, so he straddled the warm stone balustrade and settled comfortably against the wall. 'Iggy,' he muttered. 'Think of the bees, Iggy.'

'Cor!' Iggy sighed longingly down the line. 'I wouldn't give a rat's arse—not when his is concerned!'

'You might end up with more stingers than you bargained for,' Charlie snorted. He scratched his heel against the concreted. 'After weeks of nothing but a postcard from Mykonos, this is what you rang to tell me? What's that racket? What are you doing?'

'Oh, I'm dressing up as Ava Gardner for the day,' he drawled. 'Was it the heels? Good Lord, I'm stomping, aren't I?'

Ignatius Iggy Perkins was the unexpected theatrical child of an archaeologist and a naturalist. The bright often referred to him as effeminate, whereas the dim constantly yelled that he was "as camp as Christmas" from their car windows. That being said, it was difficult for Iggy Perkins not to be one of the first things you noticed upon entering the room; not only was he as flamboyant and as fair as a nymph, but he was also as thin and gangly as a hairy javelin. And right now, it was very likely that he was draped dramatically over his chaise lounge, as though posed for a painting.

'What was I saying?' Iggy asked.

'Something about Carrozza, of course.'

'Oh! Yes, have you heard—'

'What's so great about Frankie Carrozza, anyway?' Charlie asked him suddenly. 'The school newsletter called him "Eton's Trident" last year, and I thought that was a right load of old codswallop. Can you believe it?'

'Wholeheartedly, Charlie,' Iggy replied sharply. 'Especially since, you know, they were quoting me. Not my fault if it caught on like wildfire. Besides, it's the truth! His skills in rugby and cricket and rowing do make him a triple threat.'

'I once seen Henry Snodgrass sneeze out snot, vomit up his lunch, and soil his shorts all at once,' Charlie said casually into the phone. 'Now that was a triple threat.'

'That was the most disgusting thing I've heard.' Iggy cackled gleefully down the line. 'I don't know whether if I loved it or hated it.'

'All anyone talks about these days is Frankie bloody Carrozza. I'm sick to death of it! Surely there are other more fascinating things we can discuss? Is he more interesting than ... than—' A helpless Charlie looked inside through the glass doors, through the smoke of his father's cigar, and settled his navy eyes on the front page of Byron Chance's newspaper. 'Is he really more interesting than, say, the news of those twenty-two Provisional IRA members being sentenced to a total of four thousand years at a Belfast court today?'

'Don't be silly, Charlie,' Iggy answered firmly. 'A skeleton can't do time.'

'You would say that,' he scoffed back, 'you sniper's nightmare.'

'Could you imagine a world without Frankies? Or worse, one in which we no longer cared they existed?' Iggy began to pace, according to the elephantine clomps of high-heels. 'The world would become a very dreary, very unliveable place if we no longer appreciated the great spiritual beauty in aesthetic pleasures. And frankly, I think that thing about Belfast is just yet another bloody Irish tragedy for Seamus Quigley to kick up a stink about.'