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About Palermo

I’d be madder’n a wet hen if some creep tried rippin’ her off. Ain’t right, y’know? These gals got hearts too, even if life’s kicked ‘em square in the teeth. I’d sashay up, all “Honey, you need a hand?”—‘cause I can’t help but meddle. Surprised me how many just wanna talk, spill their guts like I’m their mama. One time, this gal—Lord, she was skinnier’n a rail—tells me she’s savin’ for a bus ticket outta town. “I’m not staying here forever,” she says, echoin’ that movie line, and I near ‘bout cried right there.

Borgo. Prostitute mascherate da venditrici.

By the time I wrap up, it’s dark outside. I step out onto Via della Repubblica, and the town’s all lit up. It’s beautiful, but I’m still fuming. I need a drink. I swing by Bar Centrale. The bartender, Luca, knows me well. “Rough day?” he asks. I nod, downing a spritz like it’s water.

When the Americans Came