Читать книгу Dinner With The Mafia - Armando Lazzari - Страница 10

Webster Hall at 125 East 11^th Street

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.

Totally revolted, he found the courage to turn around and actually look at the horror that he had come in contact with.

Pushing him from behind, was the belly, soft and deformed by alcohol, which belonged to a guy wearing a muscle shirt that was two sizes too small for his immense body, only covering his chest and part of his gigantic gut.

The man, heavily made-up with black eyeliner, wore a Marlon Brando cap, dozens of earrings and studded necklaces that served as an introduction to his collection of esoteric tattoos. From the shine of his skin, it was evident that he had slathered himself in some kind of oil.

Ben gagged and knew he had to get out of there, or he would vomit.

Trying to look casual, he surreptitiously cleaned his arm on the shirt of the unfortunate person standing next to him, then grabbed Susan by the waist and quickly tried to escort her away from the herd. She interpreted his attempt at escape as trying to feel at home, so she decided to accommodate him by yelling a request in his ear.

“Can I climb up on your shoulders?”

Ben didn't hear a word, but out of kindness, answered with a smile that said yes. He only figured out what she meant after she had climbed on his back, digging her heels into his ribs. He did his best to keep his balance, counting on the crowd surrounding him to keep him from falling over.

Then suddenly Susan jerked around. A guy standing right behind her put his whole hand on one half of her ass, his eyes fixed on the stage while he sipped his beer with the other hand.

That's when Susan lost it. “Hey, you creepy pig! Get your filthy hand off me!” But he just stood there with his hand firmly in place, squeezing her butt and sipping his beer.

“Are you an idiot, or what? Take your hands off me!” Furious, she lashed out, but as soon as she came close to his hand, he moved it, then put it right back on her ass.

Worn out, she smacked Ben in the head to get his attention. “Aren't you going to say anything to this jerk?”

When Ben realized what was going on, he turned around to face the cause of trouble. “Hey buddy, go molest somebody else!” The guy let out a resounding and sour burp that hit Ben and everyone around him.

Susan, more than pissed off, gave a swift kick in the face to the perpetrator. In his attempt to protect his head from the blow, he spilled most of his beer on the couple standing next to him. The beer-drenched guy wasn't particularly tall, but was ripped from hours lifting weights at the gym and he wasn't at all happy about being doused. He grabbed the culprit by the front of his t-shirt and started shaking him like a rag doll. “What the fuck! You ruined my clothes, you moron!”

Like some kind of crazed idiot, the ass-grabber started laughing uncontrollably, enraging the weightlifter with every chuckle. “If you don't shut up, I'm gonna break your face! Then we'll see if you're still laughing.”

Behind him, a guy, dressed in yellow from head to toe, tried to intervene in defense of the idiot. “C'mon, leave him alone. Can't you see there's something wrong with him?”

The bully didn't appreciate Mr. Yellow's intrusion and decided to show him who was boss. “Who are you? Now get outta here, go back to the discotheque… canary!”

Some words have the destructive potential of a firebomb released in an atomic nuclear reactor, but the gratuitous insult that triggered the inevitable fight was, unexpectedly: “canary”.

“Excuse me? What did you call me? A canary?” He blew a loud whistle that would have been lost in the music if it weren't combined with long arms reaching out to his friends. Four guys, all dressed similarly to the “canary” moved in threateningly close to the weightlifter. They looked like some kind of gang.

From Ben's shoulders, Susan watched the group closing in and in a panic, started hitting and prodding him with her heels, spurring him on before catastrophe hit. “Oh my God! It's the Yellow Brothers! Hurry up, let's get out of here fast!”

Her frantic movements caused Ben to lose his already precarious balance, staggering until the inevitable and abrupt fall, generating a disastrous domino effect.

Susan yelled as she fell on top of the weightlifter, who, desperately trying to get a handhold, violently catapulted himself into the canary's chest, causing him to windmill blows onto the two guys standing on the sidelines while he fell backward, in turn, forcing them into a flailing kind of moonwalk, while landing more blows to the back of the heads of other spectators. In just a few seconds, a tsunami of total destruction broke out, like a saloon brawl from Hell's 7^th circle.

Pushing and shoving their way through, Ben and Susan found themselves completely blocked in front of the stage. The musicians had stopped playing by then and just stood there looking around at the chaos of the nightclub, aware of the fact that the concert was ruined… or was possibly their best and most successful gig ever.

An announcement was made that the show was over and the emergency exits were now open, while security was doing their best to maintain a semblance of peace and order.

Miraculously, they surfed through the crush of people and, once outside, could hear police sirens, announcing the arrival of the authorities.

Shocked but safe, they started walking home, ruminating about the events of the evening.

“Why is it that our exits always have to end up in a bar fight?” asked Susan.

“As a matter of fact, it is pretty wild. It's almost as if you and I attract trouble. I'm sorry you didn't get to see the whole concert.”

She smiled at his kindness.

“I only wish I had told you what kind of concert we were going to see. I just assumed you would like them, too.”

He tried not to make her feel bad, telling her a little white lie. “No, don't worry about it. It was… fun. Too bad it ended the way it did. Actually, I was enjoying myself. The rhythm of the music was starting to get in my blood.” He added a little jig, but Susan wasn't falling for it and gave him a sideways look.

“Liar. I could tell from a mile away, that you couldn't wait to get out of there. But I appreciate your efforts. Let's do this: the next time we go to a movie or a concert, you get to choose.”

That meant that they had another chance to go out, which made Ben's face light up. “Fantastic! A new science fiction movie just came out…”

Susan threw up her hand, stopping him in his tracks. “No, no! Please, no science fiction.”

Back pedaling, Ben tried to change the description, “It's not exactly science fiction, it's more of a thriller-horror.” But she kept shaking her head, no.

“For heaven's sake, only a thriller or horror could be worse than science fiction!”

So he started listing kinds of movies at random, “Musical? Comedy?”

“No and no,” she said.

He finally decided to give up and throw in the towel. “Sorry, but what's left?”

“I'd love a romantic comedy.”

He agreed, even if the concept of “you get to choose” eluded him.

By the time they reached Susan's house, there was a moment of embarrassed glimpses. In Ben's mind, he had hoped to be invited up to her place, and decided to put her on the spot.

“Even though tonight was a little lively, it was fun. Gosh, it isn't even very late. I think when I get home, I'll read for awhile till I fall asleep.”

She appeared amused and intrigued. “What a great idea. What are you reading?”

Ben wasn't really very interested in books, so he had to think fast on his feet to sound intellectual. So he mentioned a book that he had already read about twenty years ago. “A really compelling story… Treasure Island.”

“Treasure Island? Isn't that a children's book?”

“Yes, of course. But I like to go back and reread it sometimes to revisit my adolescence,” said Ben, trying not to sound pathetic. He made a gesture sliding his right hand over his left like a plane taking off into the wild blue yonder, and left it at that. Susan didn't seem to grasp the concept of his gesture, but accepted his explanation.

“All right then, seeing as you already have plans for the evening, I won't invite you up for a drink.”

Ben almost fainted right there on the spot and had to force the lump in his throat not to explode into a hacking cough. “To tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind something to drink. As long as it wouldn't be any trouble.”

He tried to regroup and pull himself together with a mix of prayer and curses merging in his brain, while Susan blessed him with brilliant smile.

Bursting with energy, he felt like a toy bouncing up the stairs to her apartment.

Just before he was about to walk into her house, he heard a very familiar voice calling his name from faraway. “Ben! Hey Ben!”

He turned around and saw Esposito's big, red face, even more heated than usual from running.

“Esposito? What happened?”

He leaned on the railing, wheezing and gasping for air while trying not to fall on the ground. Ben carefully helped him sit down on one of the steps, waiting for him to catch his breath enough to speak.

When he was finally able to talk, Esposito had some worrisome news. “Your uncle … is sick.”

“What happened? Which uncle?”

As strange as it seemed, the question was legitimate, given that he worked for Carmine D'Abbate, as well as Joe Santini.