Sharing a hotel with a mafia boss - even if he was a little old man - didn't make me feel safe and warm inside. I could feel my stomach doing somersaults while we waited for the elevator. I wondered if Charlie was nervous too. He wouldn't admit it, even if he were.
Eventually there was a ping and the doors of the elevator opened. It was empty. That was good. Well, it was good as long as no mafia guys got in before we got out.
"I think I'll do fifty laps," said Charlie, after the elevator doors closed.
"What about Marco Polo? I want to say we played Marco Polo in Italy."
He looked at me like I was stupid. "Marco Polo came from Venice; Italy wasn't a country back then."
Trust him to turn something fun into a history lesson. "Yeah, whatever."
The doors of the elevator opened and we followed the signs to the pool. It was an indoor pool, there were three lanes and it was probably about fifteen metres long - long enough for races. I knew as soon as I saw it that Charlie would want to race.
At first I didn't see anyone in the pool, but then I noticed a figure push off from the edge. Geez, I wanted to have the whole pool to ourselves. Then I saw two men in black suits sitting at the side of the pool. The bad feeling in my gut came back. At first I didn't recognize them because they weren't wearing sunglasses. One of them got up and came over to us as Charlie and me were stripping down to our swimmers. I could barely take off my shorts, I was shaking so much.
The man in black was tall and he had big shoulders. He said something to us in Italian.
Charlie said, "Parla inglese?"
I knew that meant, Do you speak English? I hadn't worked out how Charlie could say four English words in only two Italian words.
"Come back to swim later," ordered the man in black.
"Sure," I said and began to put my shorts back on. I wasn't stupid. I knew from school that if someone three times bigger told me to do something, it was best to do it.
"We're staying at the hotel. We're allowed to use the pool." Charlie folded his arms.
Was he crazy? "We can go back to our room and watch the wrestling," I said to him. "Let's go."
The man in black leaned toward Charlie and said very softly, "Mr. Petruzzelli owns hotel."
Mr. P must've been Mr. Mafia in the pool. That was good enough for me. I was out of here. If Charlie wanted to stay and get his head blown off, that was his business. Real casual, I began to walk back toward the elevator.
I heard a voice behind me. "Boy! You stop!"
Before I even turned round, I realized that voice was coming from the pool. Mr. Mafia had called out to me. It was one of those times I wished I could run so fast that I'd be no more than a blur heading to the door. I held my breath, turned round and looked at the little old wrinkly man in the pool. Be cool, I told myself. But the mafia were probably like dogs and could smell fear.
"You inglese?"
Why did everyone think we were English? Except for Manchester United, what did England have going for it?
"Australian," Charlie answered before I could.
He laughed. "Good. Good."
Why was that good? Charlie and me seemed unable to move. It was like we'd been hauled up in front of the principal at school.
He waved us over. "Come."
Again, I thought about running. But that would make me look like a full-on loser. Instead, I followed Charlie. Since he knew so much about the mafia, he could do the talking.
Mr. Mafia got out of the pool and the other bodyguard handed him a big white towel. Mr. Mafia pointed to the pool. "Holiday?" he asked.
For some reason, I blurted out, "Yeah, our mom's grandparents are Italian and we're going to find their family."
He laughed. "Too fast, too fast."
I realized he hadn't understood a word I'd said. And Charlie was looking at me like I was stupid.
Real slow, he said to Mr. Mafia, "Yes, we are on a holiday."
"You speak italiano?"
Charlie shook his head. "No."
Mr. Mafia held out his hand to Charlie. "My name is Franco."
Charlie shook his hand. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Charlie."
Then Mr. Mafia held out his hand to me. I wished my friends at school could see this. I gave him a real firm handshake. "Max."
"Good to meet you, Max."
We all laughed and suddenly I wasn't as scared. If it weren't for the two bodyguards, he'd seem like an ordinary, nice old man. Sort of like the guy who owned the grocery store near home.
We soon realized he just wanted to practice his English. He asked us what sports we played and when we told him we were from Australia, he jumped around like a kangaroo. We laughed like it was the funniest joke ever.
He told us he had two grandsons about the same age as us and they loved football. "You like football?"
Charlie told him he followed AC Milan.
He'd only been following them for one week before we came to Italy. Charlie was the biggest suck of all time.
"You like stamps?" Franco asked us both.
"Stamps?"
He waved his hand about. "Il francobollo."
"Rubber stamps?" asked Charlie. "Or for letters?"
"Si. Letters. Yes," Franco replied.
I didn't want Charlie to say no, so I said, "Our nanna has a stamp collection."
"Good. You send me ... Australian stamps. I give you money." He turned round to one of the bodyguards. "Giovanni!" Then he gave him an order in Italian.
Giovanni came over to us, pulled out his wallet and handed Charlie a twenty-euro note. That was a lot of money. How many stamps did he want?
Giovanni then took a little black book from inside his jacket and wrote down something. Weird.
Franco said to us, "Send stamps to hotel." He pointed to his chest. "I own hotel. Send to Franco Petruzzelli at hotel. Si?"
Charlie nodded. "Si."
A bad feeling went right through me. He'd only just met us and he was ordering us round like we were his personal assistants specializing in all things Australian. What sort of mafia boss collects stamps, anyway? It was hard to imagine him soaking stamps off envelopes while his bodyguards watched him.