The Compton Nova Sicilia franchise is a grisly scene. It is a jamboree of Young Mafia. These youths are even duller than the ones from the all-Mormon Deseret Burbclave. The boys are wearing tedious black suits. The girls are encrusted with pointless femininity. Girls can’t even be in the Young Mafia; they have to be in the Girls’ Auxiliary and serve macaroons on silver plates. “Girls” is too fine a word for these organisms, too high up the evolutionary scale. They aren’t even chicks.
She’s going way too fast, so she kicks the board around sideways, plants pads, leans into it, skids to a halt, roiling up a wave of dust and grit that dulls the glossy shoes of several Young Mafia who are milling out front, nibbling dinky Italo-treats and playing grown-up. It condenses on the white lace stockings of the Young Mafia proto-chicks. She falls off the board, appearing to catch her balance at the last moment. She stomps on the edge of the plank with one foot, and it bounces four feet into the air, spinning rapidly around its long axis, up into her armpit, where she clamps it tight under one arm. The spokes of the smartwheels all retract so that the wheels are barely larger than their hubs. She slaps the MagnaPoon into a handy socket on the bottom of the plank so that her gear is all in one handy package.
“Y.T.,” she says. “Young, fast, and female. Where the fuck’s Enzo?”
The boys decide to get all “mature” on Y.T. Males of this age are preoccupied with snapping each other’s underwear and drinking until they are in a coma. But around a female, they do the “mature” thing. It is hilarious. One of them steps forward slightly, interposing himself between Y.T. and the nearest proto-chick. “Welcome to Nova Sicilia,” he says. “Can I assist you in some way?”
Y.T. sighs deeply. She is a fully independent businessperson, and these people are trying to do a peer thing on her.
“Delivery for one Enzo? Y’know, I can’t wait to get out of this neighborhood.”
“It’s a good neighborhood, now,” the YoMa says. “You should stick around for a few minutes. Maybe you could learn some manners.”
“You should try surfing the Ventura at rush hour. Maybe you could learn your limitations.”
The YoMa laughs like, okay, if that’s how you want it. He gestures toward the door. “The man you want to talk to is in there. Whether he wants to talk to you or not, I’m not sure.”
“He fucking asked for me,” Y.T. says.
“He came across the country to be with us,” the guy says, “and he seems pretty happy with us.”
All the other YoMas mumble and nod supportively.
“Then why are you standing outside?” Y.T. asks, going inside.
Inside the franchise, things are startlingly relaxed. Uncle Enzo is in there, looking just like he does in the pictures, except bigger than Y.T. expected. He is sitting at a desk playing cards with some other guys in funeral garb. He is smoking a cigar and nursing an espresso. Can’t get too much stimulation, apparently.
There’s a whole Uncle Enzo portable support system in here. A traveling espresso machine has been set up on another desk. A cabinet sits next to it, doors open to reveal a big foil bag of Italian Roast Water-Process Decaf and a box of Havana cigars. There’s also a gargoyle in one corner, patched into a bigger-than-normal laptop, mumbling to himself.
Y.T. lifts her arm, allows the plank to fall into her hand. She slaps it down on top of an empty desk and approaches Uncle Enzo, unslinging the delivery from her shoulder.
“Gino, please,” Uncle Enzo says, nodding at the delivery. Gino steps forward to take it from her.
“Need your signature on that,” Y.T. says. For some reason she does not refer to him as “pal” or “bub.”
She’s momentarily distracted by Gino. Suddenly, Uncle Enzo has come rather close to her, caught her right hand in his left hand. Her Kourier gloves have an opening on the back of the hand just big enough for his lips. He plants a kiss on Y.T.’s hand. It’s warm and wet. Not slobbery and gross, not antiseptic and dry either. Interesting. The guy has confidence going for him. Christ, he’s slick. Nice lips. Sort of firm muscular lips, not gelatinous and blubbery like fifteen-year-old lips can be. Uncle Enzo has a very faint citrus-and-aged-tobacco smell to him. Fully smelling it would involve standing pretty close to him. He is towering over her, standing at a respectable distance now, glinting at her through crinkly old-guy eyes.
Seems pretty nice.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Y.T.,” he says.
“Hi,” she says. Her voice sounds chirpier than she likes it to be. So she adds, “What’s in that bag that’s so fucking valuable, anyway?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Uncle Enzo says. His smile is not exactly smug. More embarrassed, like what an awkward way to meet someone. “It all has to do with imageering,” he says, spreading one hand dismissively. “There are not many ways for a man like me to meet with a young girl that do not generate incorrect images in the media. It’s stupid. But we pay attention to these things.”
“So, what did you want to meet with me about? Got a delivery for me to make?”
All the guys in the room laugh.
The sound startles Y.T. a little, reminds her that she is performing in front of a crowd. Her eyes flick away from Uncle Enzo for a moment.
Uncle Enzo notices this. His smile gets infinitesimally narrower, and he hesitates for a moment. In that moment, all the other guys in the room stand up and head for the exit.
“You may not believe me,” he says, “but I simply wanted to thank you for delivering that pizza a few weeks ago.”
“Why shouldn’t I believe you?” she asks. She is amazed to hear nice, sweet things coming out of her mouth.
So is Uncle Enzo. “I’m sure you of all people can come up with a reason.”
“So,” she says, “you having a nice day with all the Young Mafia?”
Uncle Enzo gives her a look that says, watch it, child. A second after she gets scared, she starts laughing, because it’s a put-on, he’s just giving her a hard time. He smiles, indicating that it’s okay for her to laugh.
Y.T. can’t remember when she’s been so involved in a conversation. Why can’t all people be like Uncle Enzo?