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Carmella Commands

“We talk senza Carmella?” asked the father.

“We talk what I talk without her.”

“All right,” said Tommaso. “Eight o’clock.”

Dixon entered the Sons of Italy clubroom promptly at eight, to find Tommaso already there. He looked around the main lounge and pointed to an empty corner. They sat down, and smoked in silence, until Dixon said:

“We got good business, Mr. Coletta.”

Tommaso nodded.

“It will grow bigger.”

“What?”

“Business. More and more big.” Dixon stretched his arms like a man telling a fish story.

Si!” Tommaso nodded. “Bees-ness, she grow, yes!”

“You got nice girl, too,” said Dixon.

“Carmella? She nice keed!”

“She grow big. She go to school. She finish—feenish—she out—in four year.”

Si, si!

“She nineteen years, then.”

Tommaso smoked in silence. Dixon doubted how much he had understood. It was one of his tricks, like that of a deaf person, to understand more English when he wanted to, and less when he chose.

“Listen, Mr. Coletta,” began Dixon again. “Carmella—she nineteen years when she feenish school. Old enough to marry. Marry. See?”

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