They walked into the pizzeria in their overcoats. Their collars raised high. They wore fedoras and smoked cigars and their oxford shoes click-clacked behind them.
“Where’s Corleone?” One wrinkled old face asked.
I rolled the dough out and tossed it into the air. “What’s your business?”
“You know our business,” he said. Two men stepped up to his side. Pistols peeked through their overcoats.
I tossed the dough again. “You want Corleone, you find him. You’ll find him if he needs you, or you need him. He has people. This is not the way.”
“Not the way?” They all laughed a low maniacal laugh. “Give me any more lip, and we’ll bust holes through you.”
I tossed the dough, caught it again. Then I took the pizza sauce and spread it on the dough which had now taken the shape of a pizza.
“Here? Don’t be silly. You want to bust holes through me in the city centre?” I laughed. “Fellas, you aren’t thugs. Better watch it.”
“Smart tongue. You talk big, kid. Don’t underestimate us.” The old man pointed to his head. “Look at these hair. They’re white. You know what that means?”
“That you’re an old fool,” I said and added mozzarella to the pizza.
The old man’s face screwed up into a look of disgust. “You just don’t get it, huh. Corleone. Give me Corleone, kid. And you just might make it.”
I smirked, took two little balls of dough, spread them, tossed them, and threw them at the faces of the two gunmen. I ducked. There were gunshots. A decorative plate on the wall was shattered. Below the counter, I felt for the handle of the hatch, opened it, and slid in. I locked it from inside.
From inside my hiding place, I heard the screams of people in the shop, and the shuffling of feet as someone climbed over the counter. Then I heard the police siren wail. The sound got closer and closer. Only then did I get out of the hatch.
The mafia men were gone. The people were gone, there was nobody in the shop. The police sirens were heard, but the car was still some distance away. There was no one, except for my half-done pizza. And I was adding the topping when the police came. They inquired about the gunshots.
“They wore low fedoras, smoked cigars, and wore heavy overcoats. I didn’t see their faces,” I told them.
They didn’t press the matter any further, and I took the ready-to-bake pizza and put it in the oven.