Bigger Than A Breadbox

Part 1: THE VISITOR

“Where can I find the Italian?”

The old man might have been asleep. His beat-up and mud-stained cowboy hat was pulled so low his face sat mostly in shadow. Maybe he’d been watching my approach. I didn’t know, didn’t care. I’d been driving for hours. I was hot, tired, and irritated. And maybe a little nervous.

He lifted his legs off the blistered railing to bring his chair down with a thwack that sent tumbleweeds scattering. The wind whistled through the cracked pane in the old building behind him. Despite the suffocating heat, I shivered. I wanted to hightail it out of there. I stood firm, though.

Clearing my throat, I spoke again, steel reinforcing my every word. “I asked you if you’d seen the Italian. He’s got a package for me.”

The old man leaned forward a couple of inches. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could tell he was sizing me up.

“I’m here for my wife,” I continued, my voice like steel. “She met the Italian last year. They made a deal.”

He tilted his head back. Now I could see his eyes: slits the hard gray of granite set into a lean, weathered face above a hawk-like nose and grizzled chin. They took my measure. In a voice like dry dust, he spoke. “I remember your wife.”

Those four words froze my blood. He’d met her, obviously, and she’d made an impression. How did he remember her? As a formidable opponent? A no-nonsense negotiator? Her beauty would have been obvious, along with her keen intelligence. I knew her mettle, adored her resolve, counted myself lucky every day of my life that she’d come into mine. She’d gotten past the old man; that much I knew. She’d actually reached the Italian. No small achievement. That must have rankled the cowboy/sentry in front of me.

Too sick to travel this time, she’d tasked me with locating the Italian and bringing back what was hers, no, what was ours. We were in this together. The taciturn old man with the hooded gaze wouldn’t know the specifics of their arrangement, would he? No matter. His goal was to thwart me. Mine was to retrieve the package and return home to my beloved. I had to do this, no matter the danger or the discomfort.

Fear tightened my parched throat. I took a breath, blew it out with as much force as I could muster. “The Italian,” I growled. “He was supposed to leave us a package. He got his money. I’m not leaving until I get it.” I spread my legs apart and folded my arms to show I meant business.

The old man’s lips parted, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. He hauled himself out of the chair and drew himself up to his full height, well past six feet. Standing above me on the porch, he reminded me of a tree, unyielding and unbending.

“How ‘bout you describe this package?” The old man spoke quietly, weight in every word.

I held out my hands to indicate an oblong shape maybe twelve inches long, curling them slightly to represent a cylinder.

He chuckled, a harsh unforgiving sound. “Big as a breadbox, eh? You must want it bad to come here on your own.”

I ignored his veiled threat, kept my voice steady. “I’m more than capable of handling this on my own.” I gave him my best snake eye. “Deal’s a deal. I paid for it and I want it now.”

We faced each other for what might have been a minute, neither of us giving ground until he finally looked away. He offered a grimace, walked down the stairs, and clamped a hand on my shoulder. He indicated the house and I followed, determined to finish the job.

In the end, I walked out of there with my head held high and the package tucked under my arm. That’s what counts.

 

PART TWO: The Old Man

“Where can I find the Italian?”

The man didn’t startle me, mainly because he’d announced his arrival long before he posed his

question. He’d shown up in a white Ford Fusion with a bad muffler and a couple of sad little dings—a rental, judging by the plates. He’d heaved himself out of that sorry vehicle with a grunt, as if the effort of standing were too much for him. Now he stood below me, peering from under the brim of his ridiculous white cowboy hat. I lifted my legs off the railing, setting down the chair with a thwack that sent tumbleweeds scattering.

“I asked you if you’d seen the Italian,” he repeated, his voice breaking.

I leaned forward, taking in his starched chambray shirt, pressed new jeans, pointy new boots, and oversized belt buckle. He looked worse than a caricature of a cowboy; he looked like a fool. Clearly not from around these parts.

“I asked you if you’d seen the Italian,” he said in a voice so choked I could scarcely hear him. “He’s got a package for me.” He sounded like a little kid asking for candy at the five and dime, poor fella.

“I remember your wife,” I told him. Indeed I did. Mouthy woman, real pushy. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Couldn’t scarcely call her pretty, she was so pulled and pinched. All bleached out, too. She reminded me of a lemon. She actually tried to flirt with me in that scratchy purring voice of hers, posing her skinny body like I’d be interested. When that didn’t work, she got kinda prickly, like the world owed her a favor. No more kitty-cat; she was all shrill business. Pushed right past me. I wasn’t about to hit a woman, though I was sorely tempted, let me tell you.

The city slicker kept yammering in his tight little voice.  Something about the package he’d paid for and how he wouldn’t leave until he got it. He stood there, legs spread and arms wrapped around like his torso like he had some kind of intestinal disorder. I had to work some to keep myself from laughing.

I stood up, mostly to stretch my legs but also to get a better look. I swear he cringed. “How ‘bout you describe this package?” I suggested.

Darn if he didn’t hold out his little hands like a schoolboy describing the lunch he lost. I guess I must have chuckled at that. “Big as a breadbox, eh?” I recall saying. “You must want it bad to come here on your own.” Without your pushy wife, I could have added.

““I’m more than capable of handling this on my own,” he replied with a quaver that gave lie to his words. “Deal’s a deal. I want what I paid for.”

He was trying to sound tough. Honestly, it wasn’t working. For one thing, he was practically shaking in his fancy boots. He tried to stare me down but he kept looking away.

Time to end this show, I thought. The Missus swears I’m trying to scare the tourists. Hell, I’m just having a little fun. Anyway, I flashed him my kindliest grin, walked down the steps and clamped a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.

“I reckon if it means bread enough to bring you out on a scorcher like today, you damn well deserve it. Pasquale doesn’t like visitors, as I told your wife last time she was here. Interrupts his creative process, or so he tells me. We can make an exception though, just like we did for your spouse.” Who almost didn’t get through the door, thanks to the Missus. I suppressed another grin. My wife is protective of her employees.

“Let’s get you something to drink. I’ll even give you a quick tour of the bakery. Then you can be on your way with the best prosciutto bread around these parts.”