Labor Day

May 1, 1986

          Giuseppe spent eight hours a day standing at his circular saw, surrounded by rough wood cut in every imaginable shape and size. No two pieces had the same dimensions, and he never threw anything away. He still had all his fingers and both thumbs, proof he had been an excellent carpenter for fifty-eight years. Giuseppe felt much more at ease in his workshop than he did in his home with its furniture, all built or restored by him. His house’s furniture shone with a smooth glow, termites had been banished from its perfect order, and every surface breathed sturdy solidity.

But not his shop. Sawdust and cigarette butts littered the floor and his stained overalls hung from one shoulder. He looked out the dirty windows onto the street’s cobblestones. Nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning and no one was out and about, only the mongrel dogs from the neighborhood who padded in to beg for old bones. He shooed them away; all the shops were closed this morning. Indeed, the entire city was completely shut down except for the train station, one café in the square and “Bolognesi, Falegnameria.” A hundred years ago, unions had started their eight-eight-eight plan; eight hours of work, eight hours of leisure and eight hours of sleep after the Haymarket Affair in Chicago. Giuseppe had bought into the eight-eight-eight as a young man. Like Gandhi without knowing it, Giuseppe just didn’t feel right if he didn’t put in his quorum of labor.

Many people thought that Giuseppe never stopped working. This was not true. He put in all the hours that he could, but at a certain point in the afternoon he just piddled around, looked at accounts, rumbled through the various boards, smoked cigarettes and talked to passersby. Giuseppe knew he could not really work all day, cutting and sawing and planing and joining. After he put in his first seven hours, his attention began to wane. He had made a couple of deep cuts on his fingers about forty years ago, and he had had a miraculously close call with the circular saw and his right thumb about thirty years ago. He had had to scrap more than a couple of projects, because he joined the pieces of wood a little too late in the day and when he went to look at them in the morning light the next day, they were warped and crooked. Giuseppe realized that no matter how much he liked his work, he had a limit every day, after which he produced disasters. He did however like to work, everyday. Even today. He’d put a few hours in this morning before the picnic.

Wasn’t the best way to honor labor, to labor? Labor Day never made much sense to him. People didn’t honor labor by laboring, but by taking the day off and having a picnic. It was like spending your wedding anniversary in a bordello. Even his wife requested not to cook or clean, and he would have to take her to the Tradesmen’s Picnic for lunch where everyone would grill their own mutton steaks. Giuseppe always worked a little on Labor Day; his neighbors were accustomed to the smell of smoke and sawdust and the hum of his morning saw on all the holidays.

He grabbed a board and measured it off for a false cabinet. Solid wood, none of that compressed crap, sawdust bonded with glue that everyone was using nowadays. Cheap wood makes cheap furniture, but that didn’t even matter anymore. Most furniture nowadays was thrown out after four or five years and a new, a more stylish (and even cheaper version) was cut out again, from the same shitty chipboard. That crap never crossed the threshold of his shop. Giuseppe’s work was more expensive and closer to permanence. Consequently, he had fewer customers. He wasn’t cheap. He never lacked for work.

This, this could be just right for a boiler cover he was making for the widow down the street. The grain was good but too large, so he would stain the board to match the rest of her kitchen, and it wouldn’t show. It was nicely seasoned, it had no knots, no holes, and it wasn’t even the least bit warped. This would be just fine.

He laid the board on the saw and started cutting it down to size. The saw hummed and the sawdust flew just as he took the board off the table. He ran his thumb along the side he hadn’t cut. It would be fine just like that, since he would be dovetailing it into the other side. No glue, no nails, no screws. Every piece of wood fit perfectly into the others and even the humblest little stool he made always radiated pure craftsmanship. It had only taken him fifty years to achieve it. Giuseppe loved his work, and he loved doing it well.

A police car pulled up in front of his shop. It belonged to the Carabinieri state police, their gold balls aflame on their shiny black visors.

“And what is your shop doing open today?” The Carabinieri rarely bothered with greetings, manners, or consideration for the people they were dealing with. They were far too important, powerful, and ignorant. They were cruising the streets this morning mainly to get coffee, but along the way, they would uncover bad deeds and punish people. Giuseppe was accustomed to dealing with them. He knew most of them were pretty stupid, which is why they had been chosen as police officers.

“Who told you my shop was open? Do you see an open sign? I don’t think so.”

They stepped back and looked at the ramshackle façade of his shop. The only sign they saw was Bolognesi Falegnameria.”

 While their eyes were trained on the general sign, Giuseppe deftly kicked a tiny sign into a ground level window. The sign said “Closed.”

“Yeah, well, there is no ‘open’ sign, but your door is open.”

“I’m so sorry. You didn’t see the ‘closed’ sign. Giuseppe walked over to their car, turned around, and pointed out the ‘closed’ sign at street level.

“Well, your door is open and the lights are on and I seem to see a board that you’ve just cut. So you must be open to the public.”

“No, I’m not. Can’t you read?” said Giuseppe pointing to the sign.

“Yes we can read. I think we need to take a look at your books.”

“You can’t do that. I would have to open up my shop, and you seem to think that’s it’s against the law, on Labor Day, now isn’t it?”

“Yes, but we’re the police.”

“Yes, and you enforce the laws, you don’t make them up as you go along. This has all happened to me too many times for me to make a mistake again. If I let you see my books, I will have opened the shop to the public and I may have broken the law. No one is going to ask you if you told me I had to open up. You will never be interrogated, and I will simply have to pay the fine. But I’m not going to do that again. So, if you want to look at my books, you’ll have to obtain a special warrant from the judge for entering my place of business on an official holiday, with the time and date, and send it by registered mail to my home, with a return receipt. Then, I will respond and let you know who will be there to open up the shop and I will be delighted to show you my books. Which are clean. And honest. Because I am an honest person.”

 “This is starting to sound like contempt in the face of the law.”

“This is nothing more than respecting the laws on the books. So, just go consult with your superiors about how to handle this situation and leave me alone today. You won’t be back. I’m not worth the trouble. And if you do come back and try to prove me guilty of something, you’ll have the whole association of tradesmen, agriculture and commerce against you. This has happened to me before.

Giuseppe sighed and tried looking them right in their eyes and telling them the truth with civil honesty.

“Don’t you see? I’m not doing business. I’m working. That’s different.”

The officers looked at Giuseppe slightly puzzled. Then they looked at each other, and Giuseppe closed his door and locked it. He turned off the saw and walked out the back way to the street. He heard the two police officers banging on his door.

“Let us in!”

“Good morning officers. I can’t let you in. I’m closed for business today.” He turned and rang the doorbell of the house in front of him. A white head popped out of the window upstairs.

“Useppe! Whaddya want?”

“Wilma, Good Morning! I just want you to listen to what goes on in the street here and remember it. Call Nedo to the other window.”

“What are you up to, old man?”

“I’m not up to anything. I was just minding my own business. Now, what do you need from me?”

“We need to see your books. Now. Today. Or else.”

Nedo popped his head out of the other window upstairs. “Oh Holy Mary, Mother of God. The Carabinieri! What’s Giuseppe getting us into today?”

Giuseppe raised his voice ten decibels so Wilma and Nedo would hear, and repeated verbatim what he had told the two officers earlier: “If I let you see my books, I will have opened the shop to the public and I may have broken the law. No one is going to ask you if you told me I had to open my shop. But now I have two witnesses to what you have said. You will be interrogated this time, and I will simply have to pay the fine and then get it reimbursed when these two witnesses here testify that you asked me point blank to break the law. But I’m not going to do that again. So, if you want to look at my books, you’ll have obtain a special warrant from the judge for entering my place of business on an official holiday, with the time and date, and send it by registered mail to my home, with a return receipt. Then, I will respond and let you know who will be there to open up the shop and I will be delighted to show you my books. Which are clean. And honest. Because I am an honest person.”

“This is now contempt in the face of the law.”

“This is nothing more than respecting the laws on the books. So, I suggest you just consult with your superiors about how to handle this situation and leave me alone for today. You won’t be back. I’m not worth the trouble. And if you do come back and try to prove me guilty of something, you will have the whole association of tradesmen, agriculture and commerce against you. This has happened to me before.”

”I think it’s time to take you downtown.”

“For what? I haven’t broken any law, I haven’t insulted you, and I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t do what we asked you to do. And that constitutes contempt. So, I think it’s time to put you in the squad car here.”

“I refuse to go, unless I know where you are taking me.”

“We don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I think you do, but Nedo here is already taking down your license plate number, and he knows well enough to call the President of the Union of Tradesmen and my friends. They’re all Partisans!”

The police walked up to Giuseppe, put his hands behind his back and handcuffed him. They opened the back door, pushed his head down into the back seat of the car, and shut the door behind him. “We’ll see who’s in charge now, won’t we?

          Giuseppe just sat in the back seat of the car and waited to see where they would take him. Nedo phoned the President of the Union of Tradesmen, who happened to be Giuseppe’s son-in-law. Wilma gathered her things together and when Nedo got off the phone, she called the police to inform them of what had happened, because she needed to know where they had taken her brother Giuseppe.

“Signora, there’s only one place: the police station in the main square. But there’s no need for you to come.”

“Oh yes there is. Are you sure that they were real police officers? Do you have a squad car with this license plate: EI 659-832?

“Signora, that’s not information we can give out.”

“Well, then I suppose I do need to come down to the police station and report the abduction of my brother by people masquerading as police officers, don’t I? You don’t have enough information to help me.”

Wilma hung up the phone. Goddam Neapolitans! Not a one you could trust in the lot, not that she’d ever met. Nedo walked into the room, dressed and ready to go downtown. Wilma stopped him.

“No, wait. Let me go first. I’m going across the street to tell Vicenzina what’s happened to her husband. In the meantime you go ahead and call Piergiorgio; we might need the press down there to get Giuseppe out. And call up my sisters and tell them to meet us in the square. Here let me have that piece of paper with the license plate number on it. Did you copy it?” Nedo handed her the sheet of paper and opened the door for her. As Wilma was putting on her scarf, she saw Pinuccia and her husband across the street getting their bicycles out the front door.

“Did you see all that too?”

“Of course we did. I got the license plate and he even took a picture I’ve called Idina, too! We’ll have some fun now. I’m bringing the camera with me; you are going to the police station, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. But first let’s go tell Vicenzina what’s happening. Well, let’s get moving!”

It took the three of them no longer than eight minutes to get to the main square of the town, park and lock their bicycles, and ring the doorbell. A police officer came out: “What do you want? Don't you know today is a holiday?”'

“Someone has abducted my brother and I need to report it.”

“That’s too bad; unfortunately the officer in charge of taking reports has gone off for a cup of coffee. Why don’t you come back in an hour or so?”

“I’ll wait.”

Wilma pulled out the sheet of paper with the license number on it, and looked at the police cars parked outside the station. Sure enough; that was the car. She was hardly surprised. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to wait too long; she wanted to get back and finish making her Russian salad for the Tradesmen’s Picnic.

         After about fifteen minutes, Lucio Cavallari, President of the Union of Tradesmen showed up and Wilma quickly explained the latest developments to him. A couple of Giuseppe’s friends showed up and his other two sisters were walking into the square from different corners to converge on the police station.

Lucio knocked on the door. The police officer was surprised to see a group of ten people standing on the pavement. “The Police Station is closed. This is a holiday.”

“My name is Lucio Cavallari, and I need to see Marshall Diogenes.”

“Nobody gets inside today. And he’s he not here anyway. Now, all of you people need to circulate and move along.” The policeman put his hand on his pistol; one of Giuseppe’s sisters dropped backwards, pretending she was fainting from fear. Three women hovered over her.

“And your name is officer …”

“We‘re not allowed to give out our names.”

“Not according to the latest Parliamentary Decree, I think. Now, I know that Marshall Diogenes is in the office, because I called him and he is expecting me. So, unless you want me to give him a second call . . . .”

“Well, why didn’t you say that? You should know better.”

“No, I don’t know better, because I’m acting like a normal person, and not a criminal. Now, do you want to let me in or should I wait here?”

“Let me call up to the Marshall and we’ll see what he says.” The police officer closed the door.

It was just after ten and people were starting to come through the square to have a shot of coffee at the only café open in town. The clump of people standing in front of the police station waved and beckoned their friends and relatives to come over and soon a small crowd had formed. Piergiorgio walked up to Lucio.

“Well, what ill wind is blowing today?”

“Just the usual asinine police harassment. But you know all about this, I’m sure Nedo has already told you about Giuseppe. He’s almost as much trouble as his daughter…but less expensive. I’ve already called the Marshall and they should let me in if he isn’t out having a cup of coffee. Did you bring a photographer? This looks like it could be quite a crowd.”

“Oh no, they’re all off today.”

Wilma’s neighbor Adalberto chimed in. “I’ve got a camera, and I’ve got shots of them arresting Giuseppe! You just tell me where to stand and what pictures to take and I’ll do it.”

“All right. I want you to stand over there, way over there on the other side of the square in front of the bank. Keep your bicycle beside you. When they open up the door, get a good click of the crowd and the police officer and the car with the license plate. And make sure the police officer sees you. You can handle that, I’m sure. Oh, and answer to the name of Roberto. The police force knows that he’s the photographer behind most of the scandals we expose at the Resto del Carlino.”

“I can do that.”

The police officer opened the door again. Wilma walked up and asked: “When can I report my brother’s abduction?” The police officer never even bothered to look her way and spoke to Lucio. “The Marshall will see you in five minutes, please come in.”

At that moment, the police officer’s eye caught Piergiorgio taking notes on his reporter’s pad and then Adalberto snapping away across the square. “What the fuck! Hey you! You there! Don’t you know it’s illegal to take pictures of the police station? You come over here right now and give me that camera!”

Piergiorgio shouted “Roberto! That’s not true! We journalists have a right to take a picture of anything except a body in the morgue.”

The police officer thought he realized what was going on and took off across the square. Piergiorgio turned to the crowd and said: “Now, in an orderly fashion, I want half of you to walk inside and stand in the courtyard. The other half stays outside to see what happens here.” They did as they were told. When the police officer turned around and saw the people walking into the police station he screamed and raced back across the square into the station.

“You people get out! Get out! Get out ! Get out!”

Wilma responded: “I’m not leaving until I report the abduction of my brother.”

“Well, you can stay, but everyone else has to go.” No one budged. “YOU HAVE TO GET OUT, NOW!”

No one budged. He tried taking one woman gently by the arm and she screamed so loud everyone could hear it outside. She dropped to the floor and acted as if she were in great pain screaming “Help help! They’ve got my brother!”

The policeman ran back out in pursuit of the photographer calling for “Roberto! Roberto! Stop!” Piergiorgio smiled. If the police tried to press charges against his paper’s top photographer, it would take them a week to discover he had passed away two months ago!

Upstairs, Marshall Diogenes was speaking to Lucio and heard the cries.

“So, Marshall, we have the editor of the Resto del Carlino downstairs, a photographer, no less than four witnesses, and an uncooperative police force holding a citizen against his will, and refusing to investigate.”

“Now now, come, come. What do you think I can do?”

“You can release Giuseppe Bolognesi. Right now. And we can forget about everything. Or you can continue to hold him. In the space of thirty minutes I’ll arrange for a crowd of forty people to be here in the square all day. The Tradesmen’s Association is having their big mutton grill in the pine forest at this very moment, and there are hundreds of people arriving there as we speak. It’s an all-day event, and I can easily arrange for groups of forty people to come to the police station at forty-five minute intervals to spell the crowd waiting for you to release Giuseppe Bolognesi. We can’t all eat at the same time anyway. And tomorrow morning you will read on the front page about how your police officers abducted an old man, mistreated an old woman, refused to investigate a legitimate complaint, and were besieged by the populace on a holiday. Or you can release Giuseppe Bolognesi. Now.”

The Marshall looked at Lucio. These fucking dirt farmers with permanent grime under their ragged nails, thought they were so smart. They thought they could band together and force the police to do what they wanted. But they had another thing coming, didn’t they?

“Dr. Cavallari, well there’s just one problem. I don’t know where he is and all of the officers are out except for the guard.”

“Oh, I know where he is. He’s in your lock-up downstairs. The police car he was brought in is out front, where we have the four witnesses who saw him forcibly pushed inside.”

The Marshall could stall as long as he liked; but it was getting towards eleven and he wanted to go out and have a coffee.

“Well, then perhaps we should go down together. And take a look.”

“That sounds like a most reasonable idea.”

When they got to the main vestibule, the Marshall saw one lady lying on the floor and everyone else standing around, waiting. The guard had disappeared. Giuseppe’s wife had arrived and came up to the Marshall.

“Marshall, I need to report a missing person.”

“My dear lady, I don’t think that will be necessary. I think I know just where he is. And I believe we can perhaps reunite the both of you almost immediately.”

With that, the Marshall waved his hand at Lucio, indicated for him to wait, opened a door to the left and closed it behind him. Then Marshall Diogenes opened the second door. Gaetano Mutti and Michele Pezzioli were smoking cigarettes, and typing their report while an elderly man had his back to them, standing in a corner.

“Gaeta’! Is this Giuseppe Bolognesi?”

Gaetano snapped to attention and saluted the Marshal, as did Michele.

“No Sir! This is not, Sir. I mean Sir, I don’t know who he is. The suspect refuses to collaborate with the police, Sir. And he has no identification on him. We’ve given him a standard body search, Sir.”

“Let me speak to him. Now listen Gramps, why don’t you collaborate? If you’ll just tell me who you are, maybe I can release you. But first I’ve got to run a check on you, based on your name. So Gramps, what’s it going to be?”

Giuseppe turned around and looked the Marshal in the eye. What a disgusting greaseball! And the nerve he had, calling him Gramps. “I demand a lawyer. You can’t run a check on me, because I don’t have any identification. I didn‘t even have time to get my handkerchief, much less my wallet. So I want a lawyer.”

“All right Granddad, we’ll get you one, but that’s going to take at least an hour.”

“NO it won’t, because he’s waiting outside the police station.”

“Now how do you know that?”

“Because he saw these two ‘officers’ take me away. He’s there. You call him in. His name's Nedo Minguzzi and I’ll tell you whatever you want.”

“You’re in no position to dictate to me what I’m supposed to do.”

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

The Marshall went out of the room and closed the door. He went over to the window and saw that a crowd of about forty people had formed in front of the station. It was coffee time, the police station was on the shady side of the square, and the crowd milling around was the only thing happening in the deserted city. He needed to get this fucking peasant out of the station. The Marshall walked back out into the vestibule. He motioned to the officer on duty at the door who had returned after unsuccessfully chasing the photographer.

“See if there is a certain Nedo Minguzzi here.”

“I’m right here, sir.” Nedo gently made his way through the crowd.

Lucio asked: “Well, isn’t he in there?”

The Marshall responded. “I cannot answer that question.”

“Whaddya mean, you can’t,” rebutted Piergiorgio. “At the paper …”

“My distinguished editor, I cannot tell you because there is a suspect but he refuses to cooperate and provide his name. He has asked for a lawyer named Nedo Minguzzi. If he is who we think he is, perhaps I can bring your friend out in the next five minutes.”

            The Marshall motioned for Nedo to precede him.

“Well, let’s hope you’ll recognize this man and we can all go and have a cup of coffee together afterwards.”

Nedo looked Marshall Diogenes in the eye. What a slimy worm with his thick Southern cadence! Nedo just gave out a little half smile and looked at the ground. Nedo knew better than to say what was absolutely necessary. The Marshall opened the door to the holding room. Sure enough, there was Giuseppe standing in the corner with his back to the police officers.

“Is this man here Giuseppe Bolognesi?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure. Does he have any identification?”

“No, and that’s why we have asked you to come in. So you can identify him.”

“Let me ask him a few questions to ascertain whether he is Giuseppe Bolognesi. Sir, could you turn around please?”

“Nedo , may you get a bleeding tumor in your occiput. Now, get me out of here!”

“Sir, first I need to ask you a few a questions. Have you been physically maltreated?”

“That has nothing to do with his identity.”

“Marshall, are you interfering with a lawyer conferring with a client and person suspected of criminal activity?”

The Marshall heaved a sigh and said: “Go on.”

“Now, can you answer the question please?”

“Well, they kind of twisted my neck when they pushed me into the squad car, and they haven’t let me sit down for the last hour and I’ve got to take a leak and they won’t let me go to the bathroom. In just about two minutes I am going to pull my pistol out right here and piss in the corner.”

“Marshall, I think the next thing to do is to accompany the suspect to bathroom prior to any further questioning.”

“Miche’, take Gramps here to the head.”

As Giuseppe walked out, Nedo winked at him and said: “And don’t forget to wash your hands.”

With Giuseppe safely out of the room, Nedo turned to the Marshall. “What is this man accused of?”

Gaetano responded: “Doing business on a holiday.”

“Oh I think we can do better than that, dear Marshall. Especially since there is no law against it. Let me see, officer how about if you put a clean sheet of paper in your typewriter there and let me dictate to you exactly what he was accused of?”

Gaetano looked at the Marshall who nodded his assent. Gaetano put a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter and turned to Nedo .

“On Tuesday, May 1, 1986 at a quarter past nine in the morning , Officers – and please insert your names since you do not want to tell us who you are against all the laws of the Italian Republic – stopped their squad car in via Zagarelli alle Mura 16 in front of the shop of Mr. Giuseppe Bolognesi. After insistently questioning Mr. Bolognesi, they decided to take Bolognesi to the Central Police Headquarters; he was suspected of trafficking in narcotics and soliciting clientele for the prostitution services of his wife.”

At this point, Giuseppe came back into the room followed by the police officer. He started to remonstrate when he heard the charges, but Nedo looked him straight in the eye and said: “Shut up! I’ll take care of everything.”

“After Signor Bolognesi’s arrival in the police station and through the petition of his wife and sister to report a missing person, Officers - and write your names again – realized this was a case of mistaken identity and neither pressed charges nor attempted to retain the suspect any longer. He was released on recognition of his lawyer.”

“But Marshall, that’s not what happened at all,” Gaetano rejoined. ”He. . . .”

“Gaeta’, shut up. We’ll take care of this. Now Counselor, is this Giuseppe Bolognesi?”

“I will say whether it is he or not, once you sign the carbon copy of this report, open the door, and put the paper in my hand in front of Piergiorgio Casadio and Lucio Cavallari. Then I will tell you. And you don’t need to worry about me making this public. I will do nothing of the kind, unless you don’t get that drug addict and his slutty trollop that are mentioned in this police report regarding Giuseppe Bolognesi, to stop doing business underneath our windows at night. I’ve called the police about the pusher, my wife has called about the whore, and nothing’s ever been done. So, if you would most kindly open the doors and give me the carbon copy of the report paper, you can go have your cup of coffee…

The Marshall did want his cup of coffee, the suspect was obviously innocent, and this Nedo Minguzzi could solve the whole problem in the next two minutes. The Marshall swung open the door, called Lucio to open up the other door and let Giuseppe’s wife and the other two men come in. With a big smile on his face, the Marshall bent over the desk, signed the carbon copy and handed it to Nedo who folded it and put it in his trousers.

“Giuseppe Bolognesi, it’s time to go back to your shop, if you want.” Nedo went over to Giuseppe, put his arm around his shoulders, handed him his police report, and ushered him out of the interrogation room. The crowd in the vestibule huzzahed, the Marshall smiled at Lucio and Piergiorgio, and Giuseppe walked away from the police station, taking the crowd in his wake.

Nedo turned to the Marshall: “I mean business about the pusher and his whore. If they’re back at work tonight at nine, like they usually are, and the police don’t come to carry them off there’ll be photographs of them, photographs of Bolognesi and his wife, a facsimile of the report you just signed, and an article on how crime is being handled within the city limits, in two or three newspapers next week. I’m not asking for much: I know what I’m asking for. All the police have to do is tell the pusher and his whore not to do business anywhere near via Zagarelli alle Mura, and they won’t be back. Please let me add, my dear Marshall, I have the greatest confidence in your authority.”

The Marshall smiled at Nedo and responded. “Of course, we shall be delighted to take care of this. You needn’t worry any longer. I hope you will enjoy the picnic this afternoon.”

          Nedo smiled back at the Marshall and with the most profound hypocrisy of the law, gave a little bow. “Well, I suppose I’d be better get out to the pine forest before all the mutton disappears. I wish you a very good day Marshall.” Nedo turned and gave another little bow to the Marshall as he walked out the door. The Marshall turned to see the crowd dispersing and the suspect’s wife scolding him mightily, wringing her hands in the air. The Marshall walked up to Nedo, smiled broadly again and turned to Lucio.

“Well, my dear editor I’m afraid you won’t have much of a story for your paper tomorrow, now will you?”

“Oh Marshall Diogenes, you obviously don’t read the local papers regularly, do you? None of them is coming out tomorrow. Today is a holiday and no one is working, writing or printing. But I am glad to hear you are concerned about the news that I print. Now let’s have that cup of coffee.” Lucio smartly turned on his heel and left.

“Gaeta’, Miche’, why don’t you go and get us some coffees to drink here in the station? Commendatore, what you would you like?”

“Oh, I’ll have an iced coffee without sugar, and then I have to run. Keeping the mutton grilled is my task today.”

The officers put their hats on and marched out across the square for coffee. Lucio turned to the Marshall.

“Well, now, that was swiftly taken care of, now wasn’t it?”

“Given the circumstances, I did want to expedite matters. But my officers were only doing their duty."

“Arresting an old man who was inside his own shop? I don’t think there’s much duty there. But, it’s not my place to tell other people how to work. It’s my job to make sure that the tradesmen in this province can work, that they pay their taxes and that nobody interferes with them. That’s why I have tight relationships with the people and the politicians. Now I see we need to be a little tighter with the police. Don’t you agree, Marshall? There’s no good reason for the police to be bothering men and women who are just trying to eke out an honest living, is there?”

The Marshall looked at Lucio. These fucking northerners all thought they were so goddam fucking smart. He could see that it would be well to leave these half-witted fucking tradesmen alone for a while now. An honest living indeed. The Marshall had his job to do, he had to get fines somewhere so he got them from people who would pay them. Criminals were too wily to ever think about paying anything legally. At least, the real professionals were. Marshall Diogenes smiled back at Lucio and asked him to step into the vestibule. Gaetano and Michele were coming back with the coffee. As they drank it, Lucio remarked that perhaps the police should attempt to find the actual drug dealer and his hooker girlfriend before he wrote up an interview in the paper with Nedo Minguzzi. It would certainly look good for the police officers given their erroneous arrest of Bolognesi and it would probably keep Nedo quiet.

“I’ll make up a special detail for that little job.”

“Well, thanks for the coffee. I’m off to my grill. Happy Labor Day! I trust nothing seriously bad happens today.”

              The officers smiled and finished their coffee. The Marshall turned. “Gaeta’! Come up to my office. We need to talk.”

Gaetano hung his head as he walked up to the Marshall’s office. He was sure he was going to get an official reprimand for acting so stupidly. The Marshall closed the door and told Gaetano to sit down. The Marshall sat of the edge of his desk and smiled.

“Marshall, I’m so sorry . . . .”

“Gaeta’, what are you sorry about? Doing your job? Are you ashamed of what you do? You just listen to me. Any time you bring someone down to the station, I’ll be there to back you up. I may not be able to do it in front of other people, but I’m always there for you. We’ve got to put the fear of God into everyone. That’s our job, to make them tremble at the very word carabiniere. That’s what you did today. Didn’t you see how everyone rushed down to the station? They were terrified, and you made that possible. I think you’ll be getting that promotion you wanted and pretty soon.”

“Marshall, can I go back to Pozzuoli, then!”

“Gaeta’, you can’t go back to Pozzuoli until you retire, you’ve got to get that into your skull now. I need you here. The Arm needs you here, to do just the sort of thing that you did today. But that promotion will mean you can bring your fiancée up north and marry her. You’ll see. Everything is going to work out for the very best. Now, can you send Miche’ up to see me? I need to speak to him.”

“Thanks Marshall. Thanks. I’m proud to do my duty.”

              Gaetano clicked his heels, saluted and left the office. The Marshall heaved a sigh and went to the window overlooking the square. Everyone had dispersed except for a stray dog was wandering around in the shade. Michele walked in.

“Miche’, you know what we need to do?”

“Arrest Mario and Carmen?”

“Well, that’s the basic idea. You heard what that puny little excuse of a lawyer said about the hooker and the drug dealer doing business outside his door. But don’t really arrest them though. Just make it look like you’re arresting them. Remember what we did at Count Palmieri’s poker game? Make a lot of noise, make sure everybody sees you handcuffing them, Drive them off and tell them they have to find someplace else to do business. But be sure and get our cut from last week out of Mario. Oh, and Miche’!”

“Yes sir.

“I’m going to promote Gaetano. He’s going to be your new direct superior.”

“Marshall, you’re generosity itself. I’m sure I can do whatever he wants me to do. He’s so fucking stupid and honest, he’s probably never fixed a ticket.”

“I don’t believe that he’s ever fixed a ticket or even been tempted not to hand out a fine unless he was confronted with bazooms like cantaloupes. We all lose our heads then. We need someone like Gaetano out in front, someone whose integrity no one is going to question. If a journalist ever does question his integrity, the reporter gets in trouble, because Gaetano’s as upright as they come. We need an honest man doing an honest day’s work. And we are certain Gaetano’s honest. We can do whatever we want to do with him because he trusts us.”

“And why shouldn’t he? He’s getting the promotion, isn’t he?”

“And you get your bribes. And I get my cut of your bribes. And I remain the Marshall. Everyone’s happy, aren’t they?”

“I gotta agree. Well, let me get down to the interrogation room.”

“Miche’!”

“Yes sir?”

“No more arrests today. No more visitors in the station. If anybody calls in, be sure and take your time. It’s Labor Day for us too. We deserve a little rest.”

“I’ll make sure you get yours, sir. NO one else will get through.”

“Good man! See you about lunch time.”

“Yes sir.”

Michele turned on his heel and walked down to the squad room.

*   *   *

“Gaeta’, congratulations! The Marshall told me he’s going to promote you; you’ll be my new boss!”

“Oh I’m not sure I’m up for this. I’m just, you know, I’m a little slow.”

“Just because you graduated at the bottom of your class don’t mean you’re stupid. It means you’re honest because you didn’t cheat on your exams! And you’re as fine a sharpshooter as we have. So, you just take the job. We’ll turn this stinking backwater into our own little corner of heaven.”

“If only I could get Ermelinda up here!”

“We’ll get her here. Now, I think it’s time for one of us to take a little late morning nap before lunch. Shall I go or you?”

“Oh Michele, you go ahead. I want to reread the calendar.”

Michele went to the back office, took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. Then he swung his legs up on the desk, leaned way back in his swivel chair and crossed his hands over his incipient paunch. He pretended like he was snoring loudly, as he picked up the phone.

* * * * *

Back in via Zagarelli alle Mura, Giuseppe was evening up the board for the boiler cupboard. He had forgotten about the police officer, he had forgotten about the group of people waiting for him outside the interrogation room. He had just about forgotten about lunch.

“Giuseppe!” Vicenzina called from across the courtyard.

“What?” he replied.

“How about lunch?”

“Now?”

“If we go to eat it any later, it’ll be dinner! Get the car out of the garage.”

“Do I have to go?”

“No, you don’t. You could pay for a taxi for me, since I’ve got these 24 eggs of tiramisú to take and everyone is waiting for them. But you should go: look at all the people who came downtown to get you out of the police station.”

“They’d do anything not to work. Even my Partisan buddies.”

“Today is Labor Day you old canker, and you think that nobody’s working today except for you! But you’re wrong. Other people have been working.”

- Me!

- And the police!

- And Nedo!

- And our son-in-law!

- And the Editor of the Carlino!”

- And your sisters and sisters-in-law!!!

“You’d think you were the only person who ever did a lick of work. Now, get the car out of the garage and drive us off to the picnic. If nothing else, you owe it to Lucio. He’s going to cut quite a figure when you triumphantly arrive in that smoky cloud of mutton fat. You know they haven’t been talking about anything else since they got there, and how Lucio saved the day.

“You’re worse than our daughter.”

“No, I’m not; I’m worse off, though. I was the one who had to marry you! Now let’s go, old man. I’ve earned my eight hours of leisure, after all; I’ve been up since yesterday, it seems like, cooking and washing and chasing after you at the police station. Get your butt out of the house!

* * * * *

 “Mario’! This is Miche’ speaking down at the police station! Listen up! We have a little game to play. You and Carmen have lost your spot there on via Zagarelli alle Mura, you know in front of the carpenter’s. I’m personally going to arrest you this evening, so you be there right on the dot at ten past eight; it’s the end of our shift and this needs to be done today. I don’t got no time to waste. But in the meantime, seeing as you won’t be going back there any time soon, you might want to pick up a little extra on the side. These filthy peasant farmers need to be taught a searing lesson about showing respect for the police, and nobody knows how to respect the police quite as well as you and Carmen do. So, you might want to pay a little visit to the carpenter’s shop about one this afternoon. Nobody’s going to be hanging around via Zagarelli alle Mura at lunchtime; they’re all at some fucking picnic out in the pine forest. Who knows, since you know how to get in, and no one is going to be around to notice anything, you might find the carpenter’s stash of cash. We don’t need the cut on that, though. Any little upsetting vandalism that might be needed to get your prize will be reward enough for us. And don’t worry about the police coming; I’m running the squad cars this afternoon. Got my drift?”

Mario smiled. This would be a perfect little taste of revenge for him; the carpenter’s wife had taken to dumping a bucket of water on him and Carmen when they wouldn’t leave. “Just don’t arrest any gypsies today, and we’ll be fine.”

“That’s perfect Mario; we ran them out of town last week. But don’t forget to be back in via Zagarelli alle Mura at ten past eight. I need to get off at half past eight so I can meet another one of your colleagues.”

* * * * *

             Mario arrived in the side street dressed as a gypsy. Michele was right; there wasn‘t anybody in sight at half past one. He easily jimmied open the door that led to a small courtyard with linens stretched across it to dry in the sun. To the left, the entrance to the carpenter’s house had been locked shut behind two iron gates. There was no way he was going to get through there, even with all this silence. Instead, the door to the workshop was closed with a simple Yale lock, and nothing was easier to pick than a Yale lock.

* * * * *

About half past five, Giuseppe parked the car by the door and went around back to get the dishes and empty bottles out of the trunk while his wife came around to shut the trunk behind him. They walked up to the door to their house on the side street and as she rooted around in her purse for the keys, Giuseppe leaned up against the door and it swung open.

“Oh Holy Eve, Mother of us all! Burglars!”

“Burglars, hell! It looks more like murderers!”

The floor of the courtyard boasted a trail of dark red, clotted blood that led towards the linens. Giuseppe’s wife ran to the door to the house and shook it while Giuseppe looked across the courtyard at the entrance to his shop, where the brown trail led to. He swung open the door and gasped. He would not have thought his shop could have been in more disorder, but someone had managed to turn it upside down. The lumber stacked against the walls had all been pulled down to the floor; the drawers of nails and screws had been yanked out and their contents strewn over and under the boards. The doors to all the cupboards were flung open and his bottles of stain and varnish and turpentine and paint had been raked out onto the floor, their liquid contents oozing and solidifying on top of the boards. But worst of all, the vandal or vandals had overturned his circular saw, which now lay on top of everything, its legs pointing towards Giuseppe. Giuseppe had bolted his cashbox to the underside of the steel plate that the saw popped up through. The burglars had found his cash box, yanked at it, and toppled the saw and its stand onto its side.

“Oh, Good God in Heaven!” he screamed.

Vicenzina ran into the shop.

“They broke my circular saw! How am I going to work?”

“Your circular saw? Is that all you can think about? What about all this blood? Where did it come from?”

They both looked down at the saw. The trail led right under the legs of the stand to the other side of the saw. They picked their way around the boards and walked to the other side of the saw where found the blade covered in blood. But there was no body. There was dried blood, blood that had squirted apparently everywhere. There was even a thin splash of blood on the ceiling, but no body. Well, that was a relief. Giuseppe walked back around his saw and pulled the key from his pocket to his lockbox. The lockbox was still closed and all his money was all inside. His wife slumped to the ground by the blade, slapped her forehead with her right hand, and leaned back on her left hand. She felt something softer than wood and when she looked at her left hand, she found it soiled with a dark brown powder. She looked down at where she had had rested it and screamed. She jumped to her feet.

“Saint Rita preserve us! This is where the blood came from!”

She pointed down to floor and Giuseppe saw a dismembered index finger lying right on top of the board he had cut that morning for the boiler cover. They hunted around nearby and found a middle finger that had flown off to the right.

“I have to go lie down. I think I’m going to faint.” With that, Vicenzina stumbled out of the workshop towards the house. Giuseppe was trying to figure out just what had happened when he heard Vicenzina scream again!

“My mother’s embroidered hemp pillowcases! They’re gone!” Vicenzina burst into tears. Giuseppe walked up to her; the trail of dried blood led right to where the pillowcases had been hanging out to dry. The burglar had yanked them off the line. God what a mess! Giuseppe opened the door to their home. It had not been touched, and led Vicenzina to the kitchen table. He sat her down and poured her half a glass of red wine that he diluted with water.

“Here. Drink this! I’m going to get Nedo. And I’m going to lock the door. Don’t let anyone in.”

After Giuseppe and Nedo surveyed the trail of the blood, the disorder in the workshop and the fingers, they had a glass of wine and conjectured on what had happened. The burglar had entered the workshop, looking for money, and he had pulled all the boards away from the walls, cleared the shelves and cupboards and started looking under the workbenches and furniture. He found the cashbox and thought he could pry it off with the crowbar that Nedo had noticed was lying between the legs of the circular saw stand. With his right hand he had pried the crowbar between the cashbox and the bottom of the saw plate and held the shelf still with his left. With a mighty effort, he pulled the crowbar, leaning up against the stand for leverage and inadvertently turned the saw on with his shoulder. The noise must have startled him, his left hand slipped toward the saw that sliced his fingers off, as the weight of his body pushed the saw over, unplugging it. He ran out, grabbed the first piece of cloth he could find, which was Vicenzina's heirloom pillowcase, wrapped his hand up and fled.

“Should we call the police?” Giuseppe asked.

“We should. Are you insured against vandalism?”

“Of course not.”

“Is anything missing apart from the pillowcases?

“Not that I can see. I mean., everything is upside down and I don’t know if my saw can be fixed, but there wasn’t much to steal unless you’re a carpenter.”

“Well, you can call the Carabinieri but there’s not much point to it. If you tell them about the fingers, they’re going to want to come and check everything and they will most likely impound your saw and cordon off your workshop while they do their investigation. That could take a week. Since you ain’t got the insurance, there is no advantage to having the police around that I can see. This is what I’ll do. I’ll go ahead and call down to the police and report that I have just seen a suspicious person lurking about your house. We’ll see if they come. In the meantime, make sure there are no more body parts lying around your shop. We should probably get them out of here as quickly as possible.”

* * * * *

         Michele and Gaetano made the last round of their twelve-hour shift about eight, when they knocked on Nedo ’s door. Nedo opened the door, took a look at them and sneered.

“It’s a little late. I mean, I called you two hours ago. A suspicious person could have burned down the whole block in the meantime.”

“Counselor, you don’t need to be accused of contempt for the law. And you don’t know how busy we’ve been. Now, what can we do for you?”

“Nothing. I didn’t really get a good look at the man who was hanging around in front of the house across the street. All I know is that after he left, that bag appeared on the ground over there by the corner and I’m not going to touch it. It’s probably got dope in it and I don’t want any part of it. So officers, I wish you a very good night. And I thank you for coming as soon as you could.”

Nedo closed the door and Gaetano walked over to the little white bag that had been tied closed in a knot.

“Miche’, don’t you think we need to look at this?”

“Gaeta’, it can’t be anything important. But look at it if you want. We need to arrest the pusher and the hooker who do business on this corner. I wonder where they are?” Michele looked at his watch. It was already a quarter past and their shift ended in fifteen minutes. The Marshall would be hopping mad if he didn’t bring them in, and then his cut of the graft in, this evening.

“Holy Mother of God! Miche’! There are fingers in here!”

Michele glanced inside the bag. There they were, four bloodless fingers, sliced neatly above the knuckles of the hand. Michele snatched the bag out of Gaetano’s grasp and holding the fingers from the bottom, turned them over to look at them. The middle finger had an “R” tattooed on it, the index finger an “A,” the ring finger an “I” and the little finger bore an “O.” Shit! Who knows what had happened? He could only hope Mario still had his thumb with the “M” on it. Well, Mario and Carmen wouldn’t be coming out tonight.

“Gaeta’! That’s it. Let’s go. It’s time to knock off.”

“Wait. What do we do with the fingers?”

“Well if you want to write up a report on them, we can take them to the city morgue and put them in the deep freeze to see if somebody claims them and check the emergency room.”

“This might be a case of murder. I’m going to go ahead and do it.”

“That’s fine, just drop me off at the station. I have a gallant engagement this evening and need to knock off. You know Gaeta’, this is why you’re getting the promotion and not me. You’re just harder working and more conscientious than I am. But don’t tell anybody! I want to keep working with you, My Future Marshall!”

Gaetano smiled and thought of the new epaulets he’d be getting. It was worth it, putting in the extra time. They both got in the squad car and drove off.

Giuseppe opened the window to his shop and Nedo raised the shutter across the street.

“Well, what do you think?”

“It sounds like the fat one wasn’t very concerned (or surprised) but the young one was. That pusher and his slut haven’t showed up either tonight, so something must have happened down at the police station, but we’ll never know what it was.”

“God it’s been a long day!”

“You can say that again. Anyway, I’ve got to go in; my cousin and his wife are coming to play cards.”

“Well, thanks again Nedo, for everything. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s all right, it’s just my job.”

“I know that, and you should be remunerated for the work you did. Everyone deserves something in exchange for their labor.”

“You’re right about that. So I tell you what. Next year, leave your shop locked on Labor Day. You can do that for me. That would be payment enough.”

“I can do that. But is that enough?”

“No, it isn’t. Not really. Somehow though, just knowing how the burglar was remunerated for his little job today, well, that kind of satisfies a very unchristian but deep-rooted sense of justice in me. It seems to make everything all worthwhile. God doesn’t pay the laborers in his vineyard every day, but when he does pay, he pays pretty well.”

“May you get a tumor in your butt!”

“May you get two on your balls! Goodnight!”

“Good night.”

* * * * * *

First the birds chirped and then at six thirty-four the sunlight came through the shutter. Giuseppe opened one eye, turned over and saw Vincenzina sleeping soundly. Beyond her, the clock on the wall showed it was just before seven. What a wonderful dream! Down to the smallest details, it was just the sort of world Giuseppe had always hoped to live in. But Giuseppe knew the society that he lived in, Partisans or no Partisans would never band together tight enough to fight anything ever again. Not even the Fascists. His people, these Romagnols barely had the social cohesion of newly hatched tadpoles and not much more sense about how things really worked. Then he remembered it was Labor Day! Time to get up! There was work to do; at least for Giuseppe.

First the birds chirped and then at six thirty-four the sunlight came through the shutter. Diogenes opened one eye, turned over and saw Venerina sleeping soundly. Beyond her, the clock on the wall showed it was just before seven. What a horrible nightmare! Down to the smallest details, it was just the sort of world Diogenes had always feared. But Diogenes knew the society that he lived in, Partisans or no Partisans would never band together tight enough to fight anything ever again. Not even the Fascists. These people, these Romagnols barely had the social cohesion of newly hatched tadpoles and not much more sense about how things really worked. Then he remembered it was Labor Day! Time to get up! There was work to do; at least for Diogenes.