Three-Card Monte Read Free Page A

fact that her employer particularly hates pointless questions and, although with a certain effort, she avoids asking them.
    â€œSo, let’s go over this. The four tables near the tamarisks don’t have any signal at all.”
    â€œYes. I mean no, they don’t.”
    â€œThe three near the pillar, a weak signal.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd the table under the elms, a full signal.”
    â€œThat’s right. So . . . ”
    So we’re screwed, Massimo thinks. Shit, it isn’t possible. It’s a conspiracy. I equip the bar with Internet, I spend a small fortune on it, I lose what remains of my mind installing it, setting it up correctly and everything, and in the end what happens? It doesn’t work. Worse still, it works in fits and starts. The signal’s useless. It wavers, it fades, it spits. But in one spot, dammit, there’s a signal. A strong, clear, firm signal. At one table. The table under the elm. The table where my grandfather and those other worshipers of Gerovital have been spending all afternoon every afternoon, from April to October, ever since I opened. I’m sorry, but to hell with them. I need that table.
    It’s afternoon, and the bar, together with most of the town, is indulging in the long postprandial nap that precedes aperitif time. The only people outside are two girls sitting next to the tamarisks over a laptop and two coffee shakeratos, and the four standard-bearers for the elderly, proudly enthroned on the chairs around the table under the elm. After taking the old-timers’ orders, Tiziana comes back into the bar.
    â€œMassimo?”
    â€œAll present and correct.”
    â€œSo, two espressos, one regular for your grandpa and one with a shot of Sassolino for Aldo. An Averna with ice for Pilade and a chinotto for Rimediotti.”
    â€œRight. Make the coffees for me, Tiziana, please. I’ll see to the rest.”
    Massimo takes a wooden tray, puts it on the counter, bends under the counter, and takes out a little bottle of dark liquid. He looks at it lovingly for a moment, then grabs it and shakes it hard for about ten seconds.
    He places it delicately on the tray with the bottle opener next to it, then pours a finger of amaro into a glass, adding to it for completeness’s sake another half-finger of balsamic vinegar. Then he picks up a small ice cube directly with his fingers and drops it with a professional air in the glass. Finally, he conscientiously examines the two espressos that Tiziana has made and placed on the tray. He takes a neat sip of both, then in an authoritative manner tops up the contents of the cups with sparkling water taken directly from the refrigerator, and adds a squirt of lemon juice for Aldo, who does after all want it with a shot.
    â€œReady, you can take them.”
    â€œMassimo, come on . . . ”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDon’t play the fool, come on.”
    â€œNever offend the boss. It’s bad manners and not very clever. I could fire you, you know.”
    â€œI didn’t say you are a fool, I said you play the fool. I’m sorry, but those poor old guys . . . ”
    â€œPoor old guys my ass. Did you or didn’t you ask them if they could please change tables?”
    â€œYes, Massimo, but even you have to realize—”
    â€œNot ‘even you.’ Only you. Massimo has to understand. Massimo has to understand that these poor old guys are creatures of habit. Massimo has to understand that it’s cool under the elm. Plus, I don’t see why Massimo has to get so upset. The bar doesn’t even belong to him. The old-timers have taken it over. He should just accept the fact.”
    â€œWell, I’m not taking them these things.”
    â€œNo problem. Rimediotti’s coming.”
    Sure enough, one of the old men has entered the bar. An old man in slightly worse shape than the others. He is tall and emaciated, and is