Lozupone gestured with his umbrella. "This drizzle will go on all day, Mike. It's good for us. We can take the tram to Franks' Bar and meet up with the guys who will take you over to Italy."
Michael nodded. The jaw was getting to be painful but he had been advised to avoid going to the regular clinics and hospitals. "The guys at the Bar, do they know who I am? How are you introducing me?"
Lozupone helped Michael get on to the moving tram. The driver was about to protest but one look at Michael's bashed-up face and grim-set eyes, he shrugged his shoulders. Lozupone dropped the required change in the cash machine and guided Micheal to the front seats.
"No. They do not know you are a Corleone," he said. "Words like that spreads fast. Best we avoid that. There is already much news here that, a week back, an Italian Mafioso's US army-returned son shot a New York Police Captain and Sollozzo in a cafe. People talk, and news of your presence here, in Paris, will immediately move fast. You will be stopped here in France and deported back to the US."
Michael did not reply. He was more concerned with the pain in his jaw. McCluskey had hit him badly that night, where he stood guard outside the hospital in New York. His father had been admitted in that hospital.
They got off the tram as they approached Franks' Bar. Michael looked at the people within, sheltering from the drizzling rain and the cold night.
"They are all Italian, here in Paris?" Michael asked.
Lozupone nodded. "Yes. The owner's Italian and the boys here are all from the docks. They work exclusively with the ships that bring in olives, oil, and grapes from Italy. We keep our businesses to ourselves."
"Sophia is at the bar tonight. We have a woman bartender, here in Paris," Lozupone whispered. "Her man is at the corner table over there. He sits with the barge owner who will take you out with the charcoal tugs to the open seas. You will join up with an Italian ship going back home. The customs here in France will never know."
"You go sit at the bar and talk with Sophia. Order a light whiskey only. Its known as 'Uncle Tony'. We need you to be alert. You will be traveling back alone in the tram that goes into the port transit areas. They never question anyone on the last trams that connect to the night trains that go inside the port, especially in this terrible rain. It's supposed to snow tonight. That will be good for you."
Michael went up to the bar and asked for an 'Uncle Tony'. Sophia picked up a bottle from under the bar and poured out three fingers and looked at Michael enquiringly.
"No ice," he said, grimacing in pain.
"You need ice," she said disinterestedly. "Not for the whiskey. For that wound on your jaw. In this night, wherever it is that you are going to, you will need lots of ice to ease that pain, whether its raining or snowing."
"Do not worry about being seen. The customs see that ice wrapped in Sophia's handkerchief and they are going to let you go right into the port areas."
An essay written in a story-writing workshop
Bharat Bhushan
22 February 2020
Michael nodded. The jaw was getting to be painful but he had been advised to avoid going to the regular clinics and hospitals. "The guys at the Bar, do they know who I am? How are you introducing me?"
Lozupone helped Michael get on to the moving tram. The driver was about to protest but one look at Michael's bashed-up face and grim-set eyes, he shrugged his shoulders. Lozupone dropped the required change in the cash machine and guided Micheal to the front seats.
"No. They do not know you are a Corleone," he said. "Words like that spreads fast. Best we avoid that. There is already much news here that, a week back, an Italian Mafioso's US army-returned son shot a New York Police Captain and Sollozzo in a cafe. People talk, and news of your presence here, in Paris, will immediately move fast. You will be stopped here in France and deported back to the US."
Michael did not reply. He was more concerned with the pain in his jaw. McCluskey had hit him badly that night, where he stood guard outside the hospital in New York. His father had been admitted in that hospital.
They got off the tram as they approached Franks' Bar. Michael looked at the people within, sheltering from the drizzling rain and the cold night.
"They are all Italian, here in Paris?" Michael asked.
Lozupone nodded. "Yes. The owner's Italian and the boys here are all from the docks. They work exclusively with the ships that bring in olives, oil, and grapes from Italy. We keep our businesses to ourselves."
"Sophia is at the bar tonight. We have a woman bartender, here in Paris," Lozupone whispered. "Her man is at the corner table over there. He sits with the barge owner who will take you out with the charcoal tugs to the open seas. You will join up with an Italian ship going back home. The customs here in France will never know."
"You go sit at the bar and talk with Sophia. Order a light whiskey only. Its known as 'Uncle Tony'. We need you to be alert. You will be traveling back alone in the tram that goes into the port transit areas. They never question anyone on the last trams that connect to the night trains that go inside the port, especially in this terrible rain. It's supposed to snow tonight. That will be good for you."
Michael went up to the bar and asked for an 'Uncle Tony'. Sophia picked up a bottle from under the bar and poured out three fingers and looked at Michael enquiringly.
"No ice," he said, grimacing in pain.
"You need ice," she said disinterestedly. "Not for the whiskey. For that wound on your jaw. In this night, wherever it is that you are going to, you will need lots of ice to ease that pain, whether its raining or snowing."
"Do not worry about being seen. The customs see that ice wrapped in Sophia's handkerchief and they are going to let you go right into the port areas."
An essay written in a story-writing workshop
Bharat Bhushan
22 February 2020
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