Evicted From Eternity_ The Restructuring of Modern Rome - Michael Herzfeld [97]
The local bosses used these practices not only for profit but also, and perhaps more importantly, to assert their authority. They were often suspected of setting up the thefts themselves. Each caporione or capobanda (boss, gang chief) was in some sense a protector of his poorer neighbors, and the idiom of mildly extortionate and sometimes carefully staged property restitution must be read in the same framework as their harsh punishment of those who mistreated others in need. At one point, immediately after World War II, there were still two dominant Monti clans whose members would not speak to each other. But while they sometimes clashed violently (in one case allegedly murdering a Sicilian who was trying to muscle in on the turf of one of them), and while one clan was connected with the infamous Banda della Magliana, they took good care to treat well-behaved residents in their respective sections with solicitude and respect.
Theirs was a moral code and understood as such. One boss made sure that a baker who refused to give free bread to paupers was repeatedly robbed; he chose to interpret the baker's churlishness as a sign of disrespect both to his own authority and to society at large-a rejection of decency. Relations were based on "a chain of respect" (rispetto a catena), and the stingy baker was ruined "because he deserved to be." The jeweler who explained the power of the local bosses in these terms also described the system as "a quickfix/small-scale union." They also ensured that crooks from outside were kept at bay: intruders were immediately identified, and no boss could afford to tolerate such poaching. Car theft is still largely a local affair; the remaining local underworld operators are still apparently able to keep intruders out of that particular game-and the big-time crooks have much larger interests to pursue.
They are also able to keep up pressure on ambulant vendors. A Monticiano who sold goods in many of the major markets of Rome, and who claims he bought off persistent pressure from police officers with gifts of socks and underwear, apparently knew the active thieves. That knowledge stood him in good stead. At one point his beloved van disappeared, complete with its load of clothes for sale. He phoned his numerous underworld contacts. At first, he found no trace of the van. Then one man, a fellow vendor, relieved him of his anxiety: "'I have it in hand. How much are you offering?' 'I'm offering one million!"' But, as the Monti vendor pointed out, "there's a 'why' [for this]." The other man, a fence for stolen clothing, wanted the Monti vendor's license for a market closer to his own home, and hoped to achieve his goal by showing off his skill as an operator and by offering the Monti vendor a much lower price (600,000 lire) to get his van back. He was prepared to go even lower in order to secure the license transfer (and invited the vendor to a cordial dinner in order to soften him up); but the vendor was extremely nervous because he was not sure of getting all the contents back with the van-in the event they were mostly restored to him intact-and so agreed to the price already on offer. He commented that the middleman's wife was "so very kind" (tanto gentile); she was evidently an active party to the polite exchange that masked a serious tussle over valuable resources. Some middlemen also frequently offer the Monti vendor a good price for vanloads of stolen goods, but he rejects these offers as, says he, he wants to sleep easily at night. Nervous though they make him, however, the vendor must keep his channels open to all the capi; they are still numerous in the world of the markets.
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