Mom and Dad complained a bit because they would've liked to hang round longer. I lay back in the back seat of the car and groaned every now and again. Charlie backed me up by saying he felt a bit sick too.
Mom turned round to us. "That's strange, I feel fine." She checked with Dad. He felt fine too, of course. "That's a shame,' she said. "I wanted to go shopping. If the airport reopens, it'll be our last day here."
"What?" I said, too loudly for someone who was meant to have food poisoning.
Dad said, "The airport is still closed. It should reopen tomorrow or the day after."
Charlie and me looked at each other. I knew we were thinking the same thing. That gives the black-shirts extra time to find us. They knew our hotel. Of course Franco's bodyguards would have his black book. As if we could steal it. We'd have to stay real close to Dad - not that he'd be any help if there was trouble. I wondered if the junior black belts Charlie and me had in taekwondo would help if the black-shirts found us.
When we reached the center of town, I declared, "My stomachache has gone. I'm okay now." I didn't want to go back to the hotel. And anyway, there were meant to be fake soccer shirts. I'd need a bigger size Manchester United shirt when I grew some more.
So Dad found a car park and we wandered up the main shopping street. Charlie and me stayed right behind Mom and Dad because we didn't want any guys with black shirts pushing us into a dark alley.
First, we stopped to buy postcards. I wrote one to my two best friends.
Hey Thomo & Chook,
The pizza in Italy is the best and the TV in our hotel room has about 100 channels. We're in Sicily and there are guys with black suits and black sunglasses who carry guns. Like out of a movie.
C u,
Max
I'd tell them about Mr. Mafia and the black-shirt guys when I got home.
I got my Manchester United shirt and Charlie got an AC Milan shirt. He'd probably only wear it if they won the Champions League.
After that we reached a square. There were buskers and guys painting and food stalls. You could see the ocean and a view of Taormina. Mom and Dad were sighing and carrying on about how they'd miss the lovely view.
A girl was singing and playing a guitar right near us. She sounded good enough to be on the radio, even though I couldn't understand a word. Her guitar case had lots of coins in it, which gave me a real good idea.
"Charlie, give me Franco's twenty euros."
"What for?" Then he saw me glance at the busker. He looked at me like I was crazy. "No way. We'll exchange it when we get home and split it."
"That money has brought us bad luck. Just think about what has happened since Franco gave it to us. There was the fire alarm, Franco was murdered, Mount Etna erupted and those guys in black shirts could've killed us."
"They wouldn't have! They wanted us to steal his black book, that's all." He rolled his eyes like I was a total idiot. "And you reckon Mount Etna erupted yesterday because a mafia boss gave us money to buy a few stamps?"
It was impossible to win an argument with Charlie. "I'll pay you back your share when we get home." The busker began a new song.
"Do you want to pass the bad luck on to her?"
"I won't. It'll only bring good luck if we give it away."
He huffed and took the twenty-euro note out of his pocket. "You owe me."
I grabbed the money, went over, carefully placed the note in her guitar case and tried not to think about how much twenty euros was worth in Australian dollars. The girl saw the note, gave me a nod and kept singing like a professional.
I felt real good. I knew I'd turned our bad luck into good luck, even if Charlie didn't know it.
***
That afternoon, we all strode back into the hotel and were stopped by a Carabiniere again. Very politely, he took us all into the same office where we'd been questioned before.
I whispered to him, "Today, two guys with black shirts wanted Charlie and me to steal Franco Petruzzelli's black book. Do you know them?"
His eyes widened. "Si. Yes. Grazie. Those boys look tough, but ... how you say ... harmless."
"Oh." I let out a deep breath. I sort of felt let down. Maybe Charlie and me hadn't been in danger after all. I wanted to ask him a million questions about Franco's black book.
The Carabiniere must've seen my disappointment because he said, "Mr. Petruzzelli used to write everything down in his black book. Who owed him money and who he owed money. The black-shirt boys think Mr. Petruzzelli owe him money, that's all."
"Oh."
The Carabiniere stood at attention and said to all of us, "We would like to inform that Franco Petruzzelli died ... how you say ... of natural causes."
We all sighed at the same time.
"Coincidence that at the time another family wanted him dead, he died by himself." He nodded. "Good for us. Maybe no more killing."
I whispered to Charlie, "Told you giving away that money was good luck."
***
The airport reopened the next morning so we could fly to Rome. We put our bags in the back of the taxi and Charlie said, "So we really aren't related to anyone in Sicily?"
"No." Mom shook her head like she couldn't believe her oldest son was so dumb.
The driver shut the trunk and we all got in the car. He said to Mom, "You have relatives in Italia?"
"Yes," she smiled, "they're from the north."
Charlie and me looked at each other and realized we'd been mega-stupid. And all that time I'd been worrying about being related to a mafia boss for nothing. I slid down in my seat.
Charlie called out to Mom, "Why won't you tell us who they are? They're descendants of Michelangelo, aren't they?"
Mom laughed. "No."
"Leonardo di Vinci?"
She turned round to face Charlie and rolled her eyes.
"The Pope?" I asked.
Charlie clicked his tongue at me. "Max, the Pope isn't Italian."
"Enough guessing," she said. 'Our relatives are a wonderful, normal family and like us, they aren't famous at all."
"That's okay with me," I said.