Free The Coming of Fabrizze: A Novel (Black Squirrel Books) by Raymond Decapite Page B

Poggio.
    â€œWhat swelling? Where do you see it?”
    â€œIt’s thrilling,” said Poggio. “Off with your gloves. Put your hands in. It flows right through you.”
    â€œVery nice, my boy, very nice,” said Mendone, splashing his face and hair. “Tell me something. Seriously, eh? Did I frighten you when I crept up?”
    â€œIt was an awful fright, Foreman Mendone. Your name itself was enough. It’s like the gong of doom.”
    â€œThe gong of doom,” said Mendone.
    â€œMendone, Mendone,” said Poggio.
    â€œWe must be going,” said Mendone.
    â€œI had to lie down a little,” said Poggio.
    They dozed in the shade.
    Far off there was a stricken cry.
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Poggio, sitting up.
    â€œWhere, where?” said Mendone.
    â€œSome poor man—look on the hill!”
    A chain of hands took hold along the crest of the hill. Dark figures loomed above. For a moment they were frozen high in the misty white light. A cry packed with revenge split the air. Suddenly the black wave of men came sweeping down. They were armed with picks and shovels.
    â€œHe’s mine!” someone cried.
    â€œMine, mine!”
    â€œRun, Mendone, run!” said Poggio. “A beast is loose!”
    â€œPoor me, poor me!”
    â€œGive me your hand! Come this way!”
    They managed an escape as their pursuers flung themselves into the stream. Fabrizze salvaged the shoes and brought them home.
    â€œAnd the gloves?” said Mendone.
    â€œThe men buried them under the tree,” said Fabrizze. “Along with Poggio’s cap. It was a little ceremony. They gave me a look near the end of it.”
    M ENDONE was merely the first in a procession of workers hired by Fabrizze. Appeals were coming from every side. It happened to be a busy time on the railroad and so he was given a free hand in the hiring. He refused no one. Word of his kindness carried into immigrant settlements throughout the city. Men seeking work came right, to the house. One afternoon he found a stranger waiting on the porch swing.
    â€œCome inside,” said Fabrizze. “A glass of wine.”
    â€œYour lovely wife brought wine. It’s too warm in there.”
    â€œI’ll wash up and be with you in a moment.”
    â€œTake your time, Supervisor. How young you are!”
    Fabrizze went inside. A man was sipping wine in the kitchen.
    â€œThis is Russo,” said Grace. “He came for work.”
    â€œThe work is heavy,” said Fabrizze. “Very heavy.”
    â€œSo much the better,” said Russo. “Don’t be fooled by my size. Look at these hands. I’m a farmer.”
    â€œThe job is yours,” said Fabrizze. “I myself was a farmer.”
    â€œBenedico,” said Russo, blessing him.
    â€œOne thing about a farmer,” said Fabrizze. “He takes out only what he puts in. Or less.”
    â€œCardino was right about you,” said Russo. “Did he speak of me? He’s my cumpare.”
    â€œI was watching for you,” said Fabrizze.
    There was a burst of laughter from the porch. The man was swinging out there and flirting with women in the street. Higher and higher he went. How gay he was!
    â€œA cumpare of mine,” said Russo.
    â€œYou’re surrounded,” said Fabrizze. “And so am I.”
    It was true. Each of his men on the railroad had introduced at least one cumpare. Cumpare no longer meant godfather. A cumpare was a needy friend located between a cumpare who would help him and a cumpare looking to him for help.
    â€œI have a cumpare,” said Gritti, one day.
    â€œWhat can we do for him?” said Fabrizze.
    â€œHe plays the clarinet,” said Gritti.
    â€œTell him to come to work,” said Fabrizze. “He’ll play for the men during the lunch hour.”
    â€œI thought of it,” said Gritti. “Wait until you hear him play. His wife says he saves