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Pasta with garlic and oil is great. I loved the stuff. That is until my boss, Salvatore Leto turned purple and died with his face in a plate of poisoned spaghetti con aglio e olio.

My name's Luigi Mancuso and I was supposed to be watching out for Mr. Leto and his new bride, Angela.

We were sitting in La Botte Ristorante in Monreale, Sicily, originally an old Arab town, situated on a mountain above Palermo. The Cask Restaurant was famed for its wine and it was close to the Monreale Cathedral Mr. and Mrs. Leto--with me watching their backs--had been visiting. The bells on the Cathedral had started bonging out the noon hour when Mr. Leto told Mrs. Leto that it was time for lunch and he was hungry. Mr. Leto asked Mrs. Leto where would be a good place to eat. She said La Botte was near, so there we went.

At my insistence, the head waiter seated us at a table away from the windows then scurried off. Mr. and Mrs. Leto perused the menu while I perused the establishment. About six other tables were occupied. The air was redolent with the aroma of tomato sauce, oregano and garlic. My stomach growled.

Mr. Leto was the owner of a large string of refuse collection trucks and several small retail stores that sold imported goods. Our families, the Mancusos and the Letos, were all related in one way or another. Which made Mr. Leto some kind of cousin to me. I knew Palermo and spoke Sicilian so I had been the obvious choice to accompany him whenever he needed to come to the old country.

Bodyguarding wasn't my usual line of work. When we were in America, I worked for Mr. Leto, my cousin something-removed, as a glorified gofer. It wasn't the most rewarding job, but I had hopes of becoming his personal companion cum-valet after we returned to America. When we'd come to Sicily, he liked me to act as a bodyguard. He said it gave him more prestige. He even gave me a gun in a shoulder holster.

This time I had come along with Mr. Leto for his and Angela's nuptials the day before. Like most Sicilian-born men, Mr. Leto had come back to Palermo to hunt for a new bride when he decided to remarry. The original Mrs. Leto had died some two years before. Mr. Leto had met the new Mrs. Leto through family connections.
Though my idea of a honeymoon didn't include having a third party along, I continued to travel with the newlyweds. Mr. Leto paid me, so I went where he went.

A waiter appeared at our table. I scrutinized him. He gave Mrs. Leto a quick appreciative look. I guess that's natural, she's twenty-six and drop-dead gorgeous. She's Sicilian, with long dark hair and immense brown eyes that just seem to lure men in with the promise of a night of love-making they'd never forget.

I figured she must have married Salvatore Leto for the money. He was sixty years old, short and while not exactly obese, was kinda chubby with little fat fingers covered in diamond rings and a fat neck hung with ribbons of gold chain. And she didn't seem the type to be an obedient, submissive wife. The fire smouldering just below the warm brown of her eyes spoke of rebellion, not kow-towing.

I checked out her reaction to this waiter-dude. I saw her flick a glance up at him, but I didn't blame her. If I was a woman, I would have looked, too.

The guy must have been in his late twenties, tall, dark and handsome with a devil-may-care spark in his eyes and a two-day growth of beard. His unstylish black suit and white shirt with a black bow-tie couldn't hide the physique underneath. Well-developed muscles pushed against the shoddy material of his waiter's uniform.

"Bring us a bottle of Corvo Red," Mr. Leto bellowed.

"Sì, signor," responded the waiter. "Do you wish to order your food now?"

Mr. Leto, the waiter, and I looked at Mrs. Leto. She smiled at Mr. Leto, showing her small, even, white teeth. "That would be nice," she said in her sexy, accented English.

Mr. Leto's voice underwent a major change from tough to tender. "What would you like to eat, my dear?" He sounded most solicitous. Mrs. Leto had a way about her that seemed to soothe the savage beast in Mr. Leto.

"I am thinking that pasta with salsa alla bolognese would be good for me." Mrs. Leto lowered her lashes most becomingly. The effect on Mr. Leto was profound. He seemed to melt into the chair.

In an eye-blink, Mr. Leto straightened up. "Okay," he pronounced. "They want spaghetti with meat sauce and I want spaghetti with garlic and oil. And bring an order of fried calamari for me."

I felt a little miffed. He didn't even ask me what I wanted. Oh, well. He was the boss. He paid me to eat, so I ate what he ordered.

The waiter scribbled on his order pad. "Will there be anything else?"

"No. That's all. And hurry up, I'm hungry."

"Sì, signor. Right away." The waiter turned and left.

Mr. Leto returned to his melted, oozing-graciousness pose. "Did you enjoy the cathedral, mia piccola oliva?" He turned his cow-eyes on Mrs. Leto.

Her long lashes stroked her cheeks as she blinked and lowered her eyes. "Oh, yes, husband. Very much." She raised her eyes and joy sparkled on her face. "Thank you, so much."

I thought Mr. Leto would slide off his chair and end up in a pile of goo under the table.

Just then, the waiter returned with the wine. He opened it and dribbled some in Mr. Leto's glass for him to taste.

Mr. Leto waved his hand. "Just pour it."

The waiter poured the wine into our glasses, left the bottle on the table and moved off toward the kitchen.

Mr. Leto raised his glass and smiled at Mrs. Leto. "To my bride. May our days together be long and fruitful."

I hid my discomfort at the thought of how he would cause her to become "fruitful." It wasn't a pretty image. I downed my wine in one gulp.

Mrs. Leto smiled and said, "And to you, my dear husband." She took a sip of the wine. Her lips touched the edge of the glass so lightly and sensuously my heart pounded.

In a matter of minutes the waiter returned, balancing plates of steaming spaghetti on his left arm. He passed Angela and me our plates and, with a flourish, laid Mr. Leto's plate before him.

The waiter's eyes flashed as he said, "Buon appetito, signor. I'm sure this plate of spaghetti con aglio e olio will be the best you'll ever have." He turned and scurried off.

I dug in, having worked up a good appetite by following behind Mr. and Mrs. Leto all day, while at the same time, checking out the crowds gawking at the Cathedral. Mrs. Leto twirled her spaghetti around her fork and popped it in her mouth like a pro.

Mr. Leto shoveled his pasta into his maw without bothering with the twirly stuff. I was just getting a good feel for twirling when Mr. Leto dropped his fork, grabbed his throat and croaked, "My mouth is on fire." A few strands of spaghetti hung out of his mouth and his eyes bulged out. His chest heaved up and down like he couldn't get his breath. "Poison. Someone help me." It came out sounding like "Oizun. Umon ep ee." He tried to push his chair back and get up, but it was too late. He turned purple and fell with his face in his plate.

Mrs. Leto pushed her chair away from the table and started screaming.

I jumped up and collared the head waiter. "Call an ambulance. Call the police. Now."

He seemed paralyzed by all Mrs. Leto's screaming, so I jostled him a little. "Now," I yelled.

He came to and snapped up the phone. I waited till he started dialing, then headed for the kitchen. I had to force my way past the other customers and restaurant staff who were converging on the hysterical Mrs. Leto.

I should have caught on to that waiter the first time I saw him. The look he flashed at Mr. Leto should have warned me. I shoved through the kitchen door. He was nowhere in sight. The startled bus boy stared at me with most of the whites of his eyes showing.

I grabbed the front of his apron. "Who made the pasta?" I yelled.

He just stared at me, his mouth hanging open.

I shook him -- not gently. "Who made it?"

"Not me, not me." I could feel his body quaking through his apron.

I tightened my grip and pulled him closer to me. "Where's the waiter?"

"Là, là," he screeched and pointed toward a door on the back wall.

I dropped my grip on his apron and sprinted out the service entrance. It opened onto a tiny alleyway, no more than four feet wide, that dead-ended on the right. I raced to the left where I could see cars passing on the street.

When I reached the sidewalk, I stopped and glanced right and left. On the left, the street ran up toward the Cathedral. In the distance I could see the archway leading to the belvedere, the garden overlooking Palermo. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw a man in black hurrying that way.

Behind me I could still hear Mrs. Leto's wails and the shouts of the crowd. I hotfooted it up the street toward the archway, jumped down into the sunken piazza and pushed my way past all the vendors hawking cheap mementos.

After not a few Sicilian curses had been flung at me, I reached the entrance to the old convent and raced through the belvedere archway. I slid to a stop and scanned the lookout point. Tourists meandered here and there, taking photos standing under the huge magnolia trees, or leaning on the railing at the edge of the cliff.

The view overlooking Palermo was spectacular. No wonder it was called the Conca d'oro, the Golden Shell. The whole city lay before me with the blue of the Mediterranean sparkling just beyond.

I caught a glimpse of a man in black headed toward a door in the old convent building on the left. I raced after him.

I tackled him just as he started up the steps. We went down in a rolling tumble. I scrambled to my feet and hauled him up by the back of his jacket. I cocked my fist back and swung him around to plant one on him.

Looking back at me, his eyes brimming over with fear, was a priest I'd never seen before.

Before the shocked bystanders could react, I let go of the priest's shirt front and let him fall on his butt. I spun around and raced back to the restaurant.

All Hell had broken loose. The women customers stood in a group, pointing at the door and shrieking like banshees. The men waved their arms and yelled at each other. Mr. Leto was still dead with his face in the pasta.

I didn't see Mrs. Leto anywhere.

I grabbed the head waiter. "What happened? Where is the woman who was with us?"

He acted like he'd lost what little sense he had. His head bobbed around and saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. "Gone. Gone."

I shook him, making his head bob faster. "What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"La signora … the man … with a gun…."

I shook him harder. "What? A man with a gun?"

"Sì. Sì. With a gun. With a big gun. He dragged her out."

"Who dragged her out?" I gave him a rough jolt. "Who?"

"The waiter."

I flung him aside and rushed out the door. I glanced left, right and straight ahead. No sign of Mrs. Leto or the waiter.

Great! Not only had Mr. Leto been murdered, but Mrs. Leto had been kidnapped. And all right under my nose. Some bodyguard I turned out to be.

I went back inside and moved toward the head waiter. When he saw me coming, he ducked like he was afraid I'd belt him one. I felt like it, but I didn't do it.

Instead, I grabbed him by the throat. "Where did that waiter come from? What's his name? Speak up before I choke you to death."

I loosened my hold on his throat so he could talk. "Basilio Riela. He said he comes from Palermo. Somewhere near the Vuccirìa."

Just then I heard the wailing of the carabinieri sirens: eee-ah, eee-ah, eee-ah. If I stayed till they got around to questioning me and filling out their interminable police forms, Mrs. Leto could well be on her way to joining Mr. Leto.

I cut back through the kitchen and out the alleyway. Our rental car was parked next to the little piazza with the fountain in front of the Cathedral. I unlocked it, jumped in and worked my way past all the tourists and street vendors to Corso Calatafimi, the street that drops down into Palermo.

The roads were gridlocked with traffic. Eventually I got on a street that bordered the outdoor market the Sicilians call the Vuccirìa, which literally means "the butcher." Not an encouraging thought.

There was no room at the curb so I drove the car up onto the sidewalk and parked it. I jumped out and cut through an alleyway into the warren that made up the Vuccirìa. It was a place most people wouldn't want to walk alone in. But Mrs. Leto wasn't alone. Basilio Riela had her.

I found my way to the Bartolini outdoor meat stand. Mauro Bartolini was my cousin from LA who had moved here to work with our Uncle Totò. Whenever I came to Sicily, we always hung out together as much as possible. I figured he'd rather be helping me than chopping up dead cow carcasses.

In his right hand Mauro held a meat cleaver poised, ready to smash it down on the neck of a dead, naked chicken.

"Hey, Mauro," I called as I pushed between the old women waiting in front of the counter.

Blam! went the cleaver. Plop! went the chicken head.

Mauro looked up. "Hey, Luigi. What's happening, dude?" He pulled a big square of butcher paper from under the counter and started wrapping the chicken.

"I need your help."

"That'll be six thousand lire, signora," he said in Sicilian to an old woman. He turned to me while she searched through her change purse for the coins. "What you need me to do?"

I explained my predicament as he took the money and rang up the sale.

"So, what you want is for me to help you find this Basilio Riela, right?" He handed the woman a cash register receipt.

"That's about it."

"Okay." He turned toward the back of the stand and yelled, "Hey, Zio Totò. I'm going someplace with Luigi. You better come up front and wait on these customers." He pulled off his apron and slung it over a chair. "Let's go," he said, without waiting to see if Uncle Totò had heard him. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along.

"Don't you want to make sure Uncle Totò heard you?" I asked as I glanced back toward the meat stand.

"Nah. He'll figure it out when the old women start yelling."

I peeled his hand off my arm and turned toward the street where I'd left the car. "You know where we might could find this guy?"

He changed directions without missing a step. "I got an idea. At least, an idea of who to ask." Mauro lived and worked cheek-to-jowl with the low-lifes in the old part of Palermo. If anyone knew who to ask about this Basilio Riela, it would be my cousin. He knew everyone.

I led the way to my car and we climbed in and headed toward Via Vittorio Emanuele. Just east of Via Roma, I found a parking place in the Piazza Marina and followed Mauro to a rundown hotel above a shoe market.

We climbed the stairs and pushed open the door. The old guy behind the desk looked like he just woke up. Mauro leaned toward him over the counter. "Eh, paesan. Where can one find a guy called Basilio Riela?" he asked in Sicilian.

"You need more than just a question, paesan," the old guy answered in Sicilian. He stuck his finger up his nose and started scrounging around inside.

Mauro looked at me. "You got any money? He's not giving us nothing without."

"How much?"

"A hundred ought to do it."

I peeled off a one-hundred-thousand lire banknote, which was worth about fifty bucks in real money, and gave it to the old guy. "Where is he?"

He took his finger out of his nose long enough to snatch up the dough and jam it into his pants pocket. "Try at the Oleificio Pirrone."

"The Pirrone Olive Oil Mill? Why would he be there?"

It belongs to his family. They use it for many things, among which is the crushing of the olives."

"Where is it?"

"Carini. The state highway 113, until the kilometer 201. You can't miss it."

Carini was a little west of Palermo, up in a low mountain range. Mauro and I piled back into the car and headed toward the autostrada. Highway 113 parallelled the freeway so it wasn't hard to get to. The hardest part was getting out of Palermo. Driving in Palermo is like riding the bumper cars at the carnival. Only here, the trick is to miss the other cars.

It took us about half an hour to finally get on the right road. We kept our eyes peeled for the oil mill.

"There it is," Mauro said, pointing to a two-story warehouse about a quarter of a mile ahead on the right.

I slowed the car and eased up to the parking area. There was a black Mercedes sitting by the loading dock. I didn't see any other cars. Basilio Riela must be knocking down some pretty good tips if the Mercedes was his. Maybe I should change occupations.

The place looked empty. I couldn't hear any machinery working. Maybe everyone was off having lunch. I pulled around to the side of the warehouse and parked.

Mauro and I got out and closed the car doors without slamming them.

"What do you want to do now?" Mauro asked.

"Maybe we should split up. You go around that way and I'll go check if I can see anything from the loading dock."

Mauro nodded and headed off toward the back of the building. I hopped up onto the loading dock and peeked around the corner of the open loading bay doors.

The warehouse was huge. All I could see through the gloom was a big wooden vat with a some kind of machine above it. The place smelled slightly rancid, like old olive oil.

I eased around the doorway and moved into the shadows on the right. After a minute or so my eyes got used to the darkness. There were other machines and a pile of burlap bags filled with olives next to the wall on the left. On the other side of the big modern press stood an old-fashioned oil press -- the kind that has a big stone wheel that revolves around a circular trough. The wheel was about six feet in diameter and two feet thick. Whatever fell under that wouldn't be coming back out.

A platform with a small stairway ran aong the back wall and around the oil vat. I moved to the steps and up. It was full day outside, but inside the semi-darkness lay thick and heavy. I stopped and peered down at the oil vat. It was full. The light from the open bay door barely reflected on the dense surface of the dark green olive oil.

At that moment I heard a scratching noise behind me. I turned just in time to see someone launch himself at me. He landed on me and we went down, right into the vat of olive oil.

I kicked my feet on the bottom of the vat and bobbed up to the surface. The oil was thick and gooey. It filled my eyes and ears and ran up my nose, threatening to suffocate me. Moving was like trying to swim in slow motion. If I kept this up for very long, I'd drown.

Riela looked like he was having the same trouble. I grabbed for him and missed. He rose up and tried to punch me on the head. He missed and sank back into the oil.

I kicked up and grabbed for the side of the vat. There was just enough room between the edge of the vat and the platform to squeeze my fingers into. When Riela's head cleared the oil, I swung. And missed.

He hung on the side of the vat and brought his foot up. With a lunge, he caught me on the temple and I went down. He climbed on me and used my body for leverage.

I struggled to get away, but his weight pressed me down further. He stood on the top of my head, pushing me down, down, down. After a moment, the weight lifted and I bobbed to the surface again.

I grabbed the side of the vat and gasped for air. My eyes, nose and mouth were clogged with the oil. I spit several times and tried to rub my eyes clear.

Riela stumbled toward a door a little ways further on the platform. Through an oily haze, I watched him go through the doorway.

I pulled myself out of the vat and rolled onto the platform. I got on my hands and knees and spit out some more oil. When my lungs stopped screaming, I stood with my hand against the wall to steady myself. My knees wanted to buckle. Oil dripped off me, making a puddle that eased toward the vat. I watched it as it reached the edge and dripped downward.

I never wanted to use olive oil again.

I took a couple of deep breaths and let go of the wall. I pulled out my Beretta 9mm Parabellum. Oil dribbled off the barrel and joined the mess headed toward the vat. I shoved the gun back in my shoulder holster. Didn't look like I'd be shooting Riela any time soon.

I made my way to the door, opened it and went through to a hallway with a door on the left. A window next to the door looked into an empty office.

The trail of oil drippings led straight ahead and up a stairway that rose to the right. I followed it. The stairway lead to another hallway. I paused and listened. There was no sound, but that didn't mean much. I eased up to a door on the right and opened it.

I had just enough time to see two things: the frightened face of Angela Leto sitting on a wooden chair and Basilio Riela standing in front of me with a length of pipe.

When I came to, Riela was putting the finishing touches on the rope that bound my hands behind me. I was stretched out on the floor, on my stomach. My head pounded with the world's worst headache.

"Okay, Mr. Big-Shot Bodyguard," Riela said. "On your feet." He jerked me up by my arms.

I stifled a scream and stumbled upright.

Riela stood there with a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum pointed right at my chest. "So, march." He pushed me ahead of him. He kept the barrel of the gun pressed against my back as we went down the stairs.

Finally we reached the oil vat platform and Riela jerked me to a stop by pulling on my jacket collar. "See that press there?" he said, pointing down toward the old oil press with the big wheel. "Well, it can do more than just smash olives." He sniggered. He flicked on a switch and the wheel started rolling around the trough. Riela pushed me closer. "I don't think you can see it so good from up here. Maybe you better get closer."

While Riela had been mouthing off, I'd been busy squeezing my oil-slicked hands out of the ropes. Just as he pushed me forward toward the press, I sidestepped and brought both fists down on the back of his neck. He made a one-point landing into the trough just as the wheel rolled around to that spot.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

I turned and sped back to the hallway and up the stairs to free Mrs. Leto.

The door was locked. So I did the only thing I could do. I kicked it open.

Mrs. Angela Leto stood in the middle of the room with a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum pointed right at my chest.

Jeez. Where'd they get those guns?

I smiled at Mrs. Leto. "I guess you weren't really worried about being kidnapped. Right?"

"Shut up and move yourself." Her big brown eyes looked hard and calculating.

I raised my hands. "Sure, Mrs. Leto. You're the boss. Now. But can you tell me why you and Riela killed Mr. Leto so publicly? Why not wait till he was in bed and then shoot him?"

"You don't understand. I could never let that miserable pig come to my bed. With you always next to him, covering him all the time, how could Basilio have a shot? It had to happen before the night fell. La fortuna was with us when the fat one wanted to eat. I knew he would want to, so I made sure we were near the ristorante."

"But what about last night? Didn't you--"

"No! Sicilian wine is very good for making men sleep. You remember the dinner after the ceremonia? When the porco ate and drank enough for two?"

"But still. Couldn't you have figured out another way? Something more private?"

"I told you. I could never let that pig into my bed. Later, I'll go to the polizia and tell them I escaped from the terrible kidnapper. I, of course, will not be able identify him. Italy is famous for such kidnappings. Then Basilio and I will fly to Brazil and live among the happy natives and enjoy Mardi Gras every year." She cocked her head to the side and looked me up and down. "It is a shame that you take your duties so seriously."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Her smile was so warm and inviting, the oil on my skin almost sizzled. "You are a bravo man. Younger and so much better looking."

"Aren't you forgetting Basilio?"

"Basilio is nothing to me. Just a way of liberating me from the old man." Her eyes crinkled up and shined with a lewd gleam. "It is too bad Basilio waits for me."

Temptation reared its ugly head. Maybe …. But it didn't feel right with Mr. Leto dead only a few hours. "You know, Basilio's not waiting anymore."

"You lie." She motioned with the gun toward the door. "Now. Move."

I turned and headed back down the stairs to the oil vat platform.

Before we got to the doorway into the warehouse, I said. "Mrs. Leto, could we talk about this for a second?" I turned around -- very slowly -- holding my hands high.

She backed up a step or two. The S&W .357 didn't waver. "What's to talk about?" In spite of her cold eyes and big gun, I still found her Italian accent sexy.

"Well. For one thing, I don't think you want to see how your boyfriend ended up." I grimaced. "It's kind of ugly."

She sneered.

"Also, I want to warn you that my cousin, Mauro, is right behind you with a BIG gun."

Her sneer grew till her upper lip was practically pushed into her nose. "Right. You think I am that dumb?"

Mauro tapped her on the shoulder.

She gasped and turned her head. I grabbed her wrist and twisted the gun away. I pointed it at her nice chest while she gave me a disgusted look.

"Sorry, Mrs. L. But Mr. Leto always paid me in advance. So, technically, I'm still working for him and you're a danger to him. Or -- you were."

"Well, then. Shoot me. Because, otherwise, I am not moving myself."

"Now that's a shame. Cause I don't really want to shoot you. So." I pulled my fist back and let her have it, right on the chops.

She went down like a sack of olives.

"Okay, Mauro, you grab that end and I'll grab this end."

We carried Mrs. Leto to the car. Then we drove her all the way back to Monreale and delivered her to the restaurant where the carabinieri were still writing up their report.

That Angela Leto is slick. She'll probably get away with everything -- the murder, the money, the property -- everything. There's no proof that she and Basilio Riela were in cahoots, and the kidnapping had been public. Riela was dead and couldn't tell his side of the story. Mrs. Leto had been very careful. No one knew of their relationship. Even if Riela hadn't been killed, I'm sure she would have thought of some other way to get rid of him.

As far as holding a gun on me, she'll probably say she found the gun after freeing herself from her bonds and thought I was in on the murder and kidnapping. She'll be so sorry for the mistake in identity. All the while batting those fabulous eyes.

Mauro and I will probably be hailed as heros and saviours of poor Mrs. Angela Leto and she will be the lovely, sad -- but very rich -- Widow Leto.

She's already made me an offer to be her personal companion cum-escort.
END

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