Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [48]
“I’ll tell my family,” I say.
“Y’all do that.”
We walk back along the path. Once we’re out of hearing distance, Cirone says, “Why do you always have to act so stupid?”
“What’d I do stupid?”
“You acted like we don’t know about the Fourth of July.”
“I don’t know about the Fourth of July.”
“Well, I do,” says Cirone. “Everyone in America does. I’m not the new one here. You are. Ask me about things before you go acting so dumb.”
“How can I ask about things I don’t know about?”
“Shut up.”
We walk a ways, kicking the dirt.
“What’s calf slobbers?”
Cirone laughs. “I knew you didn’t follow that. Ha! It’s meringue, dummy.”
Back at the grocery John Wilson, the saloon keeper, is standing in the doorway.
I touch the tip of my cap. “Good day, Mr. Wilson.”
Mr. Wilson smirks, but doesn’t say a word. And doesn’t move.
“Could we get by, please, sir?”
He moves aside.
Cirone and I slip past him.
“You open it?” Francesco’s talking to old Pat Matthews, loud with anger. I’m surprised; we’ve always been on good terms with Pat. He makes himself useful doing odd jobs here and there. Francesco’s hired him lots of times. We’re all usually real gentle with him ’cause he’s sick in the head from his war days. “Who tell you do that?”
“The box was sitting there,” says Pat. “What’s the harm? It ain’t nothing personal. It just came off the train.”
“Somebody tell you, eh? Somebody nose in my business? How much they pay you?” Francesco picks up the broom from behind the weighing counter. “You go back to Milliken’s Bend.” He chases Pat out the door.
Mr. Wilson moves aside obligingly as Pat passes. He turns to face into the store. “I can’t hardly believe my eyes. If I ain’t mistaken, you just chased a white man with a broom. And I ain’t mistaken. Pat’s old and broken-down with the drink and all—but he was a soldier. You either color blind or plum crazy.”
“This trouble no concern you,” says Francesco.
“Got troubles, huh? That’s what you people attract: trouble.” His upper lip curls at the words you people.
“You stand in doorway,” says Francesco. “Fifteen minutes you stand there. Why?”
“So no one comes in.”
“You block business.”
“Now you got the idea.” Mr. Wilson taps his temple. “You block my business, I block yours.”
“I no understand.”
“I just bet you no understand. Play dumb with me? Where’s this lemon stuff you’re thinking of selling?”
“Ah, I understand. You sell whisky. I no sell whisky.”
“You bet your sorry ass you no sell whisky. It takes a permit to sell whisky. Y’all ain’t got no permit.”
“I no sell whisky.”
“That’s right. You got no permit. You got no government tax stamps. That’s how it works in Louisiana. Ain’t nothing like that country you come from. We regulate. Understand?”
“I no sell whisky.”
“You sell one drop of that lemon stuff and I’ll get Sheriff Lucas in here so fast, you won’t have time to cock a gun.”
“You see gun here? No gun here.”
“Good.”
“You want vegetable? Fruit?”
“No.”
“Then you leave my store.”
“If I hear…”
“I no sell whisky.”
“You got the chorus right. Go back to your goats now. Drink that stinky milk. Eat that rotten cheese. Use just one barrel of flour to make miles of that crap you eat—those wormy strands. Don’t buy nothing from nobody. That’s fine. We don’t need your money. We can get through these hard times without dirty money from dirty foreigners. But listen good.” He points a finger at Francesco’s nose. “Ain’t that much business these days—and ain’t no one going to stand for you stealing theirs.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”
Mr. Wilson leaves.
Francesco turns to us. “Never go in his saloon,” he shouts in Sicilian.
“We don’t go in saloons,” I say.
“Don’t talk back to me.” He slams his hand on the weighing counter. “Get to work. We have to fill the pint bottles with limoncello. It’s business time.”
“You just promised Mr. Wilson you wouldn’t sell it,” says Cirone.
“I promised I wouldn’t sell whisky. Limoncello isn’t whisky. And I’ve already