...what the heck with the Petrullos?

By Steven Kas

Marco Petrullo, a successful stockbroker under pressure from a mafia enforcer,  hoping to inherit a big fortune, willingly marries his ugly daughter. The problem is the crafty old paisano put a time-limit he can't touch the wealth for ten years. Trapped in a marriage, how to  get out, and get the money.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Kas
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223086314

Steven Kas

Born and educated in Hungary, Graduated from the College of the Theatrical and Film Arts in Budapest as dramaturgist. (Theatrical equivalent of the book editor) His involvement in the 57 revolutions made his stay in the country impossible. To avoid imminent retribution, he left for Austria at 56' on Christmas night carrying his eighteen—month—old daughter. He settled in Canada. Without any marketable skills and no talent for languages, he became a perfect example of a "Jack of all trades" and made a decent living. Soon he realized writing in English was not a choice, he kept writing and publishing fourteen books in his mother tongue and published in Hungary with modest success. As a last chance for fame, he wrote and directed a short dramatic film for the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) and won the "Best in Category" award in 1964 at the San Francisco International Film Festival, then the Salt Mine. With the opportunity and the means offered by the internet, for eighteen years he edited and published a highly respected online magazine; the Kaláka Literary Magazine for the Hungarian progressive literary left. He is 94 years old, living now in the Upper Canada Lodge with his daughter Nora in peace, happy with his life, well over the "best before" expiration date. Still working. Two novels are in the last stage of being published, and he is now writing a new one, well into the third chapter.        

Book preview

All rights reserved.

Steven Kaskoto

2023

1

I don’t know the Petrullos more than any other of my neighbours; our occasional conversation was limited to

brief greetings, or discussions of the weather.

Twice a day, in the morning and around 7 o’clock in the evening, regardless of whether it’s raining or windy, in the winter and the summer heat, I go out because I have to; that’s the fate of dog owners. Of course, there’s no talk of ownership. It’s more of a relationship of dominance and subservience. Romeo is the master, and I am the faithful servant, following him to pick up what he leaves behind.

Well, I  don’t complain; his kind, admiring brown eyes make up for everything when you look into them.

Drummond Village, this quiet residential area, is a few minutes' drive away from the famous Niagara Falls, far enough to avoid meeting the millions of tourists who provide a livelihood for many locals but also cause plenty of annoyance. Therefore, we avoid mixing with them as much as possible.

The several hundred houses that make up the neighbourhood were named VILLAGE by some smart real estate developer simply copying the name of the neighbouring road, the Drummond. It’s hardly even a village, but what can I say? There are streets in this city with words like hill and valley despite there being no hills or valleys around here unless you count the few hundred feet of elevation caused by the falls, but that doesn’t make it a mountain or valley.

Village or not Village, this is a pleasant neighbourhood for our village. Wide, tree-lined, winding streets alternating between twin and single houses to avoid the appearance of monotony. Many children. The population is quite mixed; you can find car factory worker, government official, teacher or  retired bank managers, casino croupier and even a Mafia here. I’m not saying, but according to the gossip, Dominic Gallucci, in addition to being a headwaiter at a fashionable Italian restaurant, is also reportedly a member of the local familia.

There are all kinds of nationalities here, a true Canadian microcosm: Pakistani, Italian, German, Jamaican, Vietnamese and Hungarian, like me. As I said, Marco Petrullo was one of the neighbours on Lakeview Avenue with whom I usually talked, especially during evening walks. We discussed the quality of the lawn and the persistent effort of the dandelions to decorate the otherwise monotonous green grass. Will it rain, will it snow, have the water rates been raised, and why doesn’t the city fix the potholed asphalt on the road?

Then it gradually became clear that Marco worked as a financial advisor at a local branch of a big financial institution, buying and selling stocks, and government, municipal and corporate bonds on behalf of clients. He’s been married for five years and doesn’t have any kids yet; somehow, it hasn’t happened yet. It’s not his fault, he said with irrefutable conviction. His wife doesn’t work, there’s no need for it.

That’s it, thank you.

The prerequisite for a carefree life, it eventually became clear, at least I thought so, was that the wife was Russo’s daughter. The only heir of the recently deceased Johnny Russo, who was only known in the city as Johnny the Fixer. Understand that as you wish.

Of course, if I had known what Marco and the late father’s lawyer knew, but nobody else, I would have judged Fetrullo’s carefree life differently.

Angelina Russo - Marco only talked about her as Lina - would hardly have won any place in a local beauty contest. She was slightly bowlegged, a low creature, with curly, unkempt black hair tied back with a colourful scarf, and usually wore tight spandex. She carried her bulging, watermelon-sized breasts around the house with quiet resignation. I don’t remember ever hearing more than two words from her. Constantly. She grew tomatoes, zucchini, and eggplants in the flower garden around the house. She had a dark black mustache, and when she smiled, which was rare, it reminded me of the gap between her front teeth, ala Terry Thomas, the late British actor.

I often wondered what compelled the handsome

Latin Adonis to tie his life to a bit of ugliness. When the Russo connection was revealed, there was no need for further explanation. Bless them.

-  Hello, Marco.

-  Hello, Steven, - greeted the neighbour, stopping his wheezing lawn mower and wiping the sweat off his forehead, - I hope this is the last mowing. I’m so tired of it.

-  Why, - I asked, - would you rather shovel snow?

-  They say it’s going to be a mild winter.

-  I’ll believe it when I see it," Romeó slowly lay down and let out a long sigh, the smart dog resigned to the fact that a prolonged wait and delay in dinner was to follow.

It was only later that I realized this was the last exhaustive discussion we had about the weather forecast, the increase in property taxes, the corrupt city officials and gasoline prices.

Something extraordinary happened in the Petrullo household, which I only understood much later when I asked the question while we were standing in line at the Home Depo cash register in the middle of the Christmas fair. Marco bought a big blue plastic tarp, and I bought bone-white latex paint, planning to repaint the doors in the boring winter season. Of course, I have to admit, nothing came of it, the paint will dry up nicely like the rest.

But perhaps it’s better if I tell you about the aforementioned changes.

It was the end of November, late autumn mood, it got dark early and Romeó and I, walked the streets with conscientious effort, marking every corner, lamp post and fire hydrant. Romeó. I was just wathching. 

I didn’t assist, I only assisted. There was no more lawn mowing, the fallen yellow leaves were also collected for composting, and Christmas light garlands were already flashing on the roofs of houses here and there, forgetting every economy advice and despite the warnings of scientists fearing global warming. The diligent homeowners watched hockey games on TV, drank beer, belched loudly and dreamed of sunny golf courses. It was noticeable that all the windows of the Petrullo house were dark; usually, the lights were on in the living room, even if they were not home. Marco’s black Ford Escort was parked on the street, the garage door was open, and only a faint red light illuminated the empty space. In the middle of the garage, Marco and Lina sat in lawn chairs, staring into space. Above their heads, a blue strobe light flickered monotonously. The sharp, painful light cast distorted shadows of the sitting figures on the bare white wall, creating a bizarre combination of a five-pointed star and a crucifix. Black and white, large and primitive. From somewhere, a low, monotonous, mystical music played.

I greeted them with a wave, but Marco barely acknowledged me with a gesture, and I felt that they wanted to be left alone. The scene left me uneasy, so around 10pm, I got in my car and drove past their house again, taking a detour as if I were heading home. The same scene was there, they were sitting silently in the garage, staring into the night, and the blue light was flashing like a warning light on the roof of a skyscraper for lowflying planes. The next evening, I greeted them again, but Marco responded reluctantly, and I walked away. A week later, I stopped greeting them and acted as if I didn’t see them. Eventually, I avoided Lakeview Avenue altogether.

I confess my sins. I am not better than the