Free The Miracles of Santo Fico by D. L. Smith Page B

that moment Marta was busy hating Leo’s battered Panama hat, and his wrinkled suit, and his stupid mustache, and everything else about him. He looks ridiculous, she thought, in that shabby suit, with that ugly green tie, and that stupid yellow hankie—he looks like a faded Italian flag.
    Marta called down the bar, “Carmen, did he pay for this wine?”
    “Yes, Mama,” Carmen lied without hesitation.
    She eyed him for another moment. “Nice suit.”
    He nodded a bit too smugly, and for an instant thought he was about to get slapped as Marta’s hand shot toward him. But, to his embarrassment, she merely pulled a long blade of razor grass out from under his coat lapel.
    “What’ve you been doing, crawling through a field?” His common sense argued with his panic—there was no way she could know about him crawling through the field! Leo struggled to control the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth as Marta pressed on.
    “Have you asked Uncle Elio about this?”
    From the cloud of guilt that crossed Leo’s expression, Marta read the answer. The idiot hadn’t so much as spoken to Father Elio. He’d simply plowed ahead with this whole elaborate thing without having spoken even a word to the old priest.
    “I didn’t think so,” she chuckled mirthlessly—and Leo fought the image of Marta cackling with laughter as she gleefully shoveled dirt on his grave. In less than a minute and with about three short sentences, she had established her authority over him, identified a secret sin, and pointed out the major flaw in his scheme. The thought occurred to him that if it were only a hundred years earlier, he could have her burned as a witch, no problem. She was frighteningly correct about one thing though—there was a chance Father Elio wouldn’t give his permission.
    Fortunately for Leo, the guide was approaching and their exchange was to be cut short. Marta spoke quickly, biting her words under her breath.
    “I know what you’re doing and I don’t like it. If I didn’t have these people . . . I’d tell you how much! You’ve got two minutes, then you get the hell out of my hotel.” She turned smoothly and smiled to the guide just as he stepped up, “Signore, the desserts are ready. Zabaglione and coffee. We’ll bring them right out.”
    “Good . . .”
    And Marta disappeared into the kitchen without giving Leo another look.
    The guide was delighted to hear about the desserts, but that wasn’t why he’d come over.
    “It seems that some people in my party liked your story.” He smiled broadly and quoted Leo, “
The shrine of the Miracle and the splendor of the Mystery of Santo Fico
—That was good. These people, they’re interested in seeing these sights. . . If you’re not too busy . . . Maybe you could give them a personal tour?”
    Leo’s brow furrowed with concern. He rubbed his un-shaven face wearily and sighed. “This is difficult.”
    The guide leaned in and whispered, “I think they’d be willing to pay . . . Maybe a few hundred thousand lire?” and he encouraged Leo with a sly wink.
    Leo raised himself to his full height of indignation (which was actually quite tall) and fixed the guide with a glare that struck the poor man with cold fear to his very bowels. It was obvious to everyone in the room that Leo was deciding whether or not to strike this impudent rascal. Those locals who remembered the wild days and the violence that often surrounded Leo and Franco recognized the potential seriousness of the guide’s situation.
    In truth, although Leo really didn’t like this
pazzo,
his mind was racing. Until that moment he hadn’t given any thought to exact figures. The guide’s approach and subsequent proposal were, of course, expected, but now Leo was thankful for this moment of bluff because he had to do some fast calculating.
    He glared at the round man like the great Duke Cosimo himself and frantically tried to work out the numbers in his head . . .
Twelve people . . . maybe 20,000