Non
La mia ^ casa è la vostra casa
A small, rather old-fashioned shop front is squeezed between a branch of the County Bank and a tattoo parlour. ‘Mia Casa' is a slice of Italian prosciuto clamped between chunks of Hovis.
Its interior is dimly lit. Circular tables jostle for breathing space; each gaily decked with a chequered cloth, sports a Chianti bottle whose raffia is coated in the solidified lava of a decade of candle wax. The walls, which once were as white washed as any in Tuscany, are now a uniform tobacco brown. A plate rack supports the bric-a-brac of myriad holidays to sunny Italy. Three pottery Towers of Pisa lean at odd angles and a garish plate bearing the word ‘Roma’, gather dust next to a puppet Pinocchio who clings precariously with limbs hanging over the edge. One more lie will tumble him off.
Mr Abbott thrust open the door and the bell, on its strong spring, clanged and banged, threatening to fly across the café and strike the proprietor between his dark eyes. He walked as if he owned the place, which, as the manager of the County Bank to which Mia Casa was mortgaged, he felt he did. Mr Abbott was the first customer of the day but was certainly the last that Luigi wanted to see.
“Buongiorno, Signore Abbott. You would like a coffee?" Luigi was nothing if not polite to what he vainly hoped was a customer.
“You don't need to keep up the accent for me Mr Castle and I won't have your filthy Italian coffee, I like English tea, but I've not come to socialise. I've come to look over the property. To get a feel of it before I discuss plans with the architect this afternoon.”
“What plans, Mr Abbott?” All trace of Italian accent had vanished, “This is my café, why would it be in your plans?”
“You defaulted on the mortgage, Mr Castle, so I am within my rights to foreclose.”
“It was two days, Mr Abbott, a computer error, your assistant, Annie, Miss Gibbs said so. She say she sort it out.” Luigi said.
“Miss Gibbs is just a cashier. She had no right to tell you anything of the sort. Our computer doesn't lie. In normal circumstances it might not have been a problem, but you see, Mr Castle, I need this property. It's progress. The County Bank is expanding. Modern banking is more like a retail service. We don't just look after people's savings nowadays, and as such we need more space to offer these services.” Mr Abbott smiled. It was not a pretty sight.
“But why would you need my café?”
“You know that, Mr Cotton, the tattoo artist is retiring in a few months. The bank has acquired his premises as part of our expansion programme. And here lay my difficulty, Mr Castle; I had his premises which would have made an excellent extension to the bank but your property lay between them. You remember we discussed the bank buying your premises last year? What was it you said?”
“Over my dead body,” Luigi muttered.
“Yes, but it sounded so much more dramatic in your false Italian, so Mafioso. Well it turns out I won't have to kill you. You defaulted on a payment and I may legally foreclose and take your property. Here, Mr Castle.” He handed Luigi an envelope, “A month's notice, gather up your leaning towers and your pepper mills and be out of here, pronto.” He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the bell clanging a death knell to Luigi's life.
“Presto,” Luigi said to the empty air, “pronto is Spanish.”
Luigi was sitting with his head between his hands when his first real customer of the day arrived. Annie Gibbs came for her morning break and had been looking forward to her usual cappuccino and, since it was Friday, one of Luigi's notoriously gorgeous pasticcio. His news removed her appetite more quickly than the prospect of her Tuesday night weigh-in.
“Surely, he can't do that Luigi, not for two days. I put in an alteration.”
“Well he says he can and he says he's your boss and you are, just a cashier, his words. I know you a lovely person, Annie, but he is the man with the power in the bank."
“But he's just using this blip, this error to ruin your business,” Annie wailed. She pushed from her mind the thought that if Mia Casa closed the bank workers would have to go back to having their breaks in the poky little cupboard that Mr Abbott called the staff canteen. It was ignoble of her, she was better than that, but it was an incentive to help Luigi.
The doorbell clanged, and Mr Cotton entered. He was the most unusual tattoo artist you will ever see. His hair was cut short and he was painfully thin, but the real surprise was that his pale skin was devoid of any trace of tattoo. As he put it, an artist doesn't have to paint himself to sell his work. As Luigi prepared a double espresso Annie put Mr Cotton in the picture.
“What a creep,” Cotton muttered, “I hated the idea of letting him have my shop, especially at the price he was offering but I needed the sale to buy the place I've got for my retirement. He had me by the… sorry Annie.”
“Oh, don't mind me, John, most days I could happily crush his in the safe door.” Annie sipped her cappuccino and smiled at the thought. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”
“I don't see what we can do. He has the evidence that I defaulted on the payment. He says that the computer never lies.”
“What nonsense!” The shop bell tinkled, “My Sean says that with computers it's ‘Garbage in garbage out’ that's the golden rule."
“Someone talking about my business?” said Ginger Green, pulling a chair up to join the group. He was another of Luigi's regulars but was only welcome when, as now, he was not in his dustman's working clothes. They filled him in on the morning's events.
“Well, it's easy, innit? If he's got the evidence that you defaulted on a payment and that evidence is on the computer, it's easy. Change the computer record.”
“But that's illegal, isn't it?” Annie looked worried.
“And what he's doing isn't? He's using the computer record that you believe was an error, for his own purposes. If you correct the error, he can't do it.”
“It's not that simple. I don't have access to those records, I had to submit a request to put the error right in the first place. He just rejected the request because it suited him.”
“So, you need someone who can get access to the records and put it right. Who was the guy you were quoting when I came in, the garbage guy?”
“That's Sean, my fiancé; he's in computers with A.C.E." Annie smiled shyly. They were the first she had told about the engagement, they hadn't even chosen the ring.
“Well he's the one then. Get him to do the dirty on Snotty Stuart. What? It's what I call him. He looks down his nose at me ‘cos I'm a dustman. My money's as good as his, I told him. Get your man to sort out that record. Time someone put Snotty in his place.”
It had been a long day and Annie was glad it was nearly over. She glanced at the clock and grinned at Angela Snoddy. Bless her; she had been livid with Annie for getting engaged before her. She had found that Stephen Roach, her latest, was struggling to avoid commitment. Annie knew she couldn't be angry for long.
Ginger sauntered in, in his working gear, and winked at Annie. John Cotton was being served by Angela. The scene was set. It was five minutes to closing and as usual, Mr Abbott stepped out of his office to supervise the ending of the day. For Luigi Caselotti it was high noon. He stepped into the bank with Sean Devlin standing close behind. Luigi faced Mr Abbott, his legs slightly apart, his hands held loosely by his sides. The showdown had come.
“Mr Abbott, I come about my mortgage,” his voice echoed around the branch in his best Corleone tones. “You got it wrong Mr Abbott, I not owe you anything. You owe me apology.”
“Come into my office, Mr Castle, we'll discuss it there.” Mr Abbott looked a little uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as he had when the bank had been robbed.
“No Mr Abbott, we discuss it here, out in the open. You make mistake. We check it out, put it right." He waved the notice to vacate under Mr Abbott's nose.
“Very well if you insist; Miss Gibbs, kindly print Mr Castle's mortgage account for the last three months." As the printer clattered, Mr Abbott and Luigi remained face to face. Annie slipped the paper into Mr Abbott's hand. “As you see, Mr Castle, you defaulted on the payment last month. You were two days late, I am quite within my rights.”
“No, you look, Mr Abbott, I think you wrong. I have solicitor, he tell me you can't do this." Mr Abbott glanced at Sean, standing behind Luigi. He held up the paper. Then he glanced at it and Ginger wished he'd had his camera handy. The double take was classic cinema.
“There's some mistake here. Miss Gibbs, is this the right printout?”
“Yes, Mr Abbott. It's the one you asked for. You're the only one who can make changes.” Annie smiled sweetly.
“Yes, well, it seems you were right Mr Castle."
“Caselotti.”
“Eh, yes, Mr Caselotti. Perhaps I was mistaken. You won't need your solicitor.” He glanced at Sean.
“I'm not his solicitor. I'm Annie's, Miss Gibbs’ fiancé. I've come to collect her. We're going to a party." He grinned at Annie.
“Yes! We have celebration in my café. We celebrate two things. We celebrate ‘Mia Casa' and its future and we celebrate Annie and Sean, their future. Come, everyone is welcome. Come Annie, you show us the ring.”