We reached the center of Taormina without being killed in a car accident. Getting a park in Italy wasn't easy. The streets were narrow and cars parked wherever they could. The only good thing about the four of us being squashed into a tiny car was that we could fit into a small car space. Dad had booked a family-size car to rent, but we'd been given a shoebox with four wheels.
Dad patted Tom Tom before we got out of the car; they were friends again because Tom Tom's directions had been right as usual. We found a restaurant and sat down for lunch. Mom was happy because we got a table outside the restaurant and she could gaze at Mount Etna and the sea at the same time. And Charlie was happy because he could check out every Maserati that drove past.
As usual, Dad studied the menu as though the waiter was going test him on it. I don't know why he needed to know what pizza or pasta you could have when he always ordered fish. Charlie and me didn't need to look at the menu. We always ordered the same thing. Even Mom had given up trying to get us eat something different.
It was when Charlie pointed to a blue Maserati driving past that I noticed four Carabinieri over the other side of the street. They were carrying machine guns because they were military police. Their black uniforms, with the red stripe down the side of their trousers, looked cool.
Charlie and me glanced at each other. What were they doing in some tourist street full of restaurants? Not making sure everyone was obeying the road rules, because no one in Italy bothered with boring stuff like that. I'd already seen Carabinieri guys at the airport, but why would they be here? And there were four of them. Even at the airport in Rome they only strutted about in twos.
The waiter put my salami pizza in front of me. Eating pizza every day was one of my favorite things about Italy. At home, I'd be lucky to eat it once a week. When I bit into a slice, I almost screamed. Far out, the salami was hot! What was it with Sicily and hot salami?
"Max," Mom said, "I wouldn't mind that you eat pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner if you'd eat something green with it." She held out a bowl of salad.
I took one lettuce leaf and removed every piece of hot salami from my pizza.
Charlie gave me a sideways look. "You should order a Margherita pizza too."
"I like salami, just not real hot salami."
"Yeah—" He stopped and stared.
I followed his line of sight. At the front of the restaurant, a string of very long, very shiny black limos pulled up. There were five of them. Two men, wearing black suits and black sunglasses, got out of the back of each car. Then a little old man got out of the back seat of the middle car. He was wearing a black suit and black sunglasses too, and walked with a bit of a limp. I bet there was a story behind that limp.
From nowhere, two guys wearing blue jeans and black shirts appeared and began talking excitedly to the little old man. Two men in black grabbed the arms of the guys in black shirts. One of the black-shirt guys was carrying on like a pork chop, even though his arms were pinned behind his back. The little old man talked to them for a few minutes then waved them away. The bodyguards pushed the guys in black shirts away and the little old man strode into the restaurant. It seemed like something out of a movie. I looked round for a film crew, but the Carabinieri across the road seemed to be the only other people interested. Maybe that sort of thing happened every day in Sicily.
Charlie whispered to me, "They've got guns. They must be mafia."
"How'd you know they've got guns?"
"Stuck down the waist of their trousers. I saw one. I bet they have another one strapped to their leg."
I dropped my pizza. Another cold shiver went up my spine. I didn't like guns. "Can we go to the hotel now?"
Dad gave me a dirty look. "May we finish our lunch first?"
The little old man bowed to Mom before he sat down at the next table. She just smiled at him like mafia bosses bowed to her every day. I twisted my napkin until it wouldn't twist any more. Four of the men in black sat down around the little old man. The other six men in black stood around the joint like they were on guard.
This looked serious. I wanted to finish lunch and get out. Even Charlie was finishing his pizza real quick. But Mom and Dad kept chatting about what sights they wanted to visit as though nothing had changed. Were all parents dumb? Or were Charlie and me real unlucky?
The Carabinieri were still across the road and they were looking over our way. I tore up my napkin into little bits under the table and waited for the sound of gunshots.
***
Okay ... nothing happened at the restaurant. Maybe Mom and Dad weren't that dumb. Although I reckon we were lucky.
Anyway, our hotel was nice. The entrance was big and fancy with statues, marble floors and lots of glass. The furniture was so posh you wouldn't want to sit on it and the guy on the front desk was friendly and spoke posh English. His badge said his name was Matteo. He called us by our names as though he'd always known us.
When Dad handed our passports to Matteo, Charlie whispered to me, "I bet they copy them and sell the details to some crime gang."
"Yeah, sure. As if every hotel in Italy would be doing that." Charlie could be dumb too. He might be smart at school, but he always reckoned everyone in the world was sneaky. Everyone but him.
When Matteo saw from our passports that we were Australian, he asked us if we had a pet kangaroo. We laughed until we realized he was serious.
We had to move out of the way because a group of American tourists wanted to check in. One of the Americans asked Matteo what day they should go to the top of Mount Etna.
"Any day it isn't cranky," he joked.
For no good reason, I glanced at the front entrance. Charlie must've as well because a gasp escaped our mouths at the same time. Mr. Mafia with his limp and his bodyguards had come through the door like they owned the hotel. They went straight to the front desk and for some strange reason Dad and the American tourists stepped aside. It was weird, as though Mr. Mafia had cast a spell over them.
Matteo bowed his head and greeted the little old mafia guy like he was the King of Italy. Mr. Mafia insisted Matteo speak to him in English. Matteo complimented him on his excellent English and then he groveled a lot because Mr. Mafia's usual room had a plumbing problem and wasn't available.
Everyone near the front desk stopped to watch how Mr. Mafia was going to take his usual room being unavailable.
One of the bodyguards stepped forward and muttered something in Italian. I could tell he wasn't happy. He wanted his boss to have his usual room. A long, excited discussion in Italian followed between Matteo and the bodyguard. I could feel everyone tense. Only the little old man seemed relaxed.
Mr. Mafia held up the palms of his hands and in a strong Italian accent said, "The other room good for me." He pointed to his chest. "The president's suite" - he held his hands wide apart - "big ... too big. I'm good."
Matteo replied in Italian, but switched to English. "Thank you, Sir. A bottle of your favorite wine is in your room. Let me know if you would like another."
Mr. Mafia smiled, turned and strode to the elevator. One bodyguard took the key cards from Matteo and both bodyguards followed their boss.
I breathed again and it felt like everyone else did too. None of us spoke while we went up to our rooms. Dad and Mom pretended to check out the wallpaper inside the elevator as though it was the most interesting thing they'd ever seen. Having a mafia boss in the hotel seemed to make everyone uncomfortable.
For the first time our room wasn't next to Mom and Dad's room. We were down the hallway. That was good. We could have pillow fights without them hearing us. Charlie and me ran into the room at the same time, but I managed to push in front. I jumped onto the bed closest to the TV and claimed the remote. Charlie threw his pillow at me.
The first station had a stupid show where some guy had to try to convince a rich old man that he was his long lost son. I flicked through the channels and found a wrestling show. The Dark Magician and The Crazy Cannibal were wrestling. Charlie yelled at me to leave it on that channel.
"I was going to!"
Charlie stacked up the pillows against his bed head and leaned back. He said, "Actually, I reckon it'd be cool to be in the mafia. You wouldn't have to think about what to wear because you'd only own black suits. You get to wear cool black sunglasses, drive everywhere in a black limo, have lots of money and live in a big house. Let's face it, we're not going to inherit much from Mom and Dad."
"You'd have to dye your hair black," I said.
"Yeah and I'd slick it back."
"Yeah and make a will because you'd probably be dead before you got old."
There was a loud knock on the door and we both jumped up. Charlie looked scared and I felt scared.
I tried to make my voice real deep. "Who is it?"
The voice on the other side of the door said, "Mom. Let me in."
I slumped back on the bed and let Charlie get the door.
She came in and looked straight at the TV. "Wrestling!" She hit the off button. "You can both go for a swim. There's a pool on the top floor."
Charlie and me groaned at the same time. Who wanted to swim, when The Dark Magician was about to pulverize The Crazy Cannibal?