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We buried Nonno Gino today. Gave him one helluva sendoff. Mourners came from thirteen states. Others flew in from Italy. Even New York’s August weather, out of respect for the old man, showed up in perfect summer attire: sunny and warm; low humidity; and a gentle breeze to whisper him farewell.
The procession to the cemetery tied up traffic for miles. On the drive home in the undertaker’s limo, my dad said over and again, “Oh, if Papa could’ve seen this.” “Oh, he’s looking down on us, smiling that sweet smile of his,” my mom said. I stared out the limo window, thinking how Nonno Gino’s final destination—the eternal one, not the hole in the ground with the massive headstone waiting to cover it—might be cause for debate. Most everybody knew, or thought they knew, what Grandpa did for a living, and I don’t mean running a construction company. Others wouldn’t suspect, ‘cause Grandpa was the most gentle, sweetest man to walk this earth. I never heard him raise his voice in anger. Maybe God—but definitely the other guy—knew what fires blazed inside the man that early in his life earned him the nickname “Bats.” Then, men spoke it with respect, reverence. Later in Nonno Gino’s life, people knew not to speak it at all. Afterwards, I stood outside Dad’s house, bidding visitors, “Saluti. Grazie di essere venuti,” and guiding them to the backyard where a feast had been set out on long linen-covered tables, with men and women in white jackets and black ties serving food onto china plates. The waitstaff circulated with trays of champagne in crystal flutes. In a corner of the yard, a combo played jazz. Nonno loved jazz, believed Coltrane was Apollo incarnate. As afternoon faded into evening, and only family and Nonno’s closest friends remained, we pulled a few tables together. Servers brought trays of pasticcini—Italian pastries—strong coffee and the ubiquitous anisette. Storytelling began, recollections of how Nonno Gino had helped this person or that, or once saved a child from drowning in Lake George, or how he always knew just the right person if some difficult thing had to get done. “See how Judge Steward and Police Chief Gallegher came? Made no secret of it,” someone said. “They’re both gentlemen,” my mother said. “They played golf with Gino almost every weekend.” “And the Monsignor,” Dad piped in. “The man loves his champagne.” As darkness fell, my mom and the other wives went inside to their own gossip and secrets. At their leaving I sighed in relief that none of the women had asked, “So, Michael, when are you gonna get married? How old are you now?” I’d put off marriage for the Army, then college and graduate school. Recently, I’d found someone I thought just right for me, but I didn’t say anything to that crowd, afraid doing so might bring mal’occhio or other bad luck upon us. In the darkness, the men gathered closer and spoke in low voices as they told of “Bats’” darker exploits. Tales of men who’d crossed Nonno Gino in some way, and soon either totally disappeared, or got dumped in some semi-public place where the carcass would send a message. Eventually, only my dad and I sat at the table, each of us adrift with our thoughts and memories. Then, Dad said, “Mikey, why not stay the night?” After I left home, they’d converted my bedroom into a guest room, and did a fine job of it, including an en suite—you know, an adjoining bathroom. I showered and settled into an armchair, sipping Dad’s fine single malt, remembering when as a high school senior, I’d stayed with my Nonna Chiara while Nonno Gino went away on business. Late that Saturday night, I heard some commotion downstairs, like someone had broken into the house. I rushed to Nonna’s room and warned her to stay quiet. I crept downstairs and saw four enormous goombahs turning over furniture, ripping paintings off the walls, smashing anything that would shatter. “What the fuck are ya doing?” I ran to tackle one of the intruders. I’d been in a few tussles, and could handle myself, or so I thought, but those mothers were gigantic, and one guy made quick work of me. One of them ran upstairs and dragged my Nonna down to us. I tried to help but got coldcocked. Throwing Nonna onto a chair, the goombah said, “You tell your batshit, lunatic, scumbag husband to mind his own fuckin’ business, or this ain’t nothing to what he’ll get.” I drove Nonna to the hospital and explained she’d fallen down the stairs. Doctors said she’d be okay, so I took her home. I cleaned up a bit and waited until Nonno Gino came home next day. Nonno looked around, said nothing. Just nodded his head. He made two phone calls, walked up to Nonna Chiara. He came down when the phone rang. “Give me an hour,” he said. Went upstairs to his wife again. When he returned, he said, “Let’s go.” We drove to the waterfront, to a derelict warehouse. Inside, two of Nonno’s associates nodded, and pointed to the four naked thugs hanging by their wrists from a water pipe, their toes inches off the floor. One of Nonno’s men handed him a Louisville Slugger. Nonno removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and approaching the hanging men, he said softly, “One of you is gonna tell me who put hands on my wife.” He took a couple swings with the Louisville Slugger, like a batter in the on-deck circle. “I’m gonna go down the line, one-by-one until somebody talks.” Three voices in chorus identified the thug. Nonno began with the feet. Worked his way up, swing after swing, toes to head. Then, he worked on the next two, the bat whooshing through air, followed by bone-shattering thuds. Reaching the goon who had beaten me, he handed the bat to me. © 2026 Nick Di Carlo About the author: Nick Di Carlo has taught writing in universities, colleges, and in New York State’s Maximum Security Correctional Facilities. Of Di Carlo’s prison work, Lawrence R. Reis, Wolf Masks: Violence in Contemporary Poetry author noted: “The men in Dr. Di Carlo’s classes recognized many similarities between their experiences and his. Those experiences, often dark and sometimes violent, inform and power Dr. Di Carlo’s own writing.”
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Does he know? That's the question that jabs Russell in the temple like the business end of an ice pick when he sees who the email is from. It seems a cordial invitation. Lunch, it says. Perhaps it’s just business. But racked between debilitating guilt and a desperate flicker of hope, Russell agonizes. What if it isn't?
Everything around him is white. The glare of the sun. The light bouncing off the bleached storefronts. The milky cobblestones on the street underfoot. His suit. The linen suit that virtually every businessman in Retiro de Santos wears to ward off the noonday heat. As he approaches the cafe, Russell dabs the sweat from his upper lip with his white handkerchief. Is he sweating from the heat or apprehension? The question remains. Does he know? Russell tells the hostess he is there to meet someone. When he gives her the name, she nods and leads the way. The patio is curiously empty, Russell thinks, but his observation is cut short when he spots the man who invited him to lunch, his client, seated at a table beneath the shadow of a banyan tree. "Good of you to join me," Russell's client says. "A pleasure to be invited. It's quite lovely here." "Attracted to pretty things, are you?" Russell's breath catches in his throat. His wavering provides the opportunity for his client to continue. "The concierge at our hotel recommended it." Still on edge, Russell blurts, "Hotel personnel are sometimes rewarded by local establishments for sending business their way." "Are you implying I've been duped?" "Not at all," Russell responds apologetically. "I'm sure no one would try to take advantage of you." "It's generally not a good idea." Unsure how to continue, Russell gives a quick, obedient nod of the head, and smiles. "Something to drink," the client asks. "Uh...I'll have what you're having." The client raises his hand, holding up two fingers. Glancing over his shoulder, Russell sees the waiter responding. He feels the need to make small talk, but anxiety muddles his judgement and again he says something he immediately wishes he hadn't. "We should go slowly, though. Cold cocktails and hot days can be a lethal combination." "Perhaps. But I have learned to discipline the things that give me pleasure." "Oh, of course. No advice intended. Just a friendly observation I've had to repeat to myself often." "Yes. You are quite a friendly fellow, aren't you? That's what my wife says." Russell takes an urgent sip of water. "And how is your lovely wife? I assumed she would be joining us." "She was feeling under the weather. Fatigue from travel, you understand." "Of course. Too much sun...or local color." "That's one way of putting it," the client says, as the waiter returns and puts the drinks in front of them. "I hope you don't mind, but I've taken the liberty of ordering in advance. Their signature dish." "If you like it, I'm sure I will," Russell replies. "That seems to be the case, doesn't it?" Russell's perspiration returns. Again, he is hesitant to respond. His client fills the void. "I've decided not to acquire the property you showed us. I thought it appropriate to deliver that little disappointment with the pleasantry of a mollifying meal." "That's very kind of you," Russell responds. "Most would have simply called and given me their decision over the phone. Though, I must admit my hopes were up when your wife expressed a desire to see the property a second time." "Frankly, it was the occasion of that second visit that solidified my decision." "Found it less attractive than on first viewing?" "Quite the contrary. She was effusive about the experience. But we both know her excitement was brought about by something altogether unrelated to the property. Need I be specific?" Russell's facade collapses, he instantly puts both hands on the table. "Please, let me explain." "No need. Recriminations and excuses are tiresome. I've heard them before. You don't think this is her first time, do you?" "Please understand. I meant no disrespect to you. The passion of the moment. Her astonishing beauty. I was helpless." "Yes, on occasion I've found that my wife is irresistible. But she is my wife." Before Russell can continue groveling, the waiter arrives and sets plates in front of them. "Ah, lunch," the client says. "Tell me what you think." "Sir, I truly regret what happened, It was never my intention to—" "No. Not about that. Tell me what you think of the fish?" Russel is beside himself. Unsure of how to react, he picks up his fork and samples a small piece of flesh. "Hmm. Makes the lips tingle." "That strange feeling in your mouth is the beginning of your central nervous system shutting down." Russell tries to speak, but only manages, "Wha..." "Next, you will become dizzy. But you won't fall because severe paralysis will immediately set in. You'll be unable to move." Russell hears but can't reply. "You'll soon lose all feeling in your face. It's possible you may vomit, but you'll remain fully conscious. At least until the poison reaches your diaphragm. At which time you'll die of asphyxia." Russell's eyes are locked in horror. "I mislead you. This cafe is actually owned by a man who owed me quite a sum. To repay, he suggested a special preparation of the blowfish. Now his debt is paid in full. And soon, yours will be." Russell is rigid. His face wrapped in a virtual death mask. As the client rises to leave, he says, "I realize etiquette dictates you stand as we part, but you needn't attempt it. What would be the point?" The movement of the sun has left the table no longer in shade. Intense light blinds Russell's spellbound eyes. He hears the tinkle of glasses, the rattle of plates, and noises from the street nearby, but is incapable of soliciting help. For Russell, now and forever, there is only white. © 2026 Joe Kilgore About the author: Joe Kilgore is an award-winning author of novels, novellas, screenplays, and short stories. He lives and writes in Austin, Texas. You can learn more about Joe and his work at his website: https://joekilgore.com |
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