The Sparrow

Frank Barbera watched the sparrow dip its tiny legs into the ceramic bird bath he had in his back yard. It bathed its wings and frolicked nonchalantly. Some more sparrows came to join it. He felt the wind brush against his face but the sudden change in weather did not deter the sparrows. They stayed, content in their surroundings and enjoyed each other’s company. The last of the sun had disappeared behind the heavy clouds which had rolled over, covering a patchy sky. A crow swooped in from nowhere and landed on the edge of the bird bath. It squawked and the sparrows flew away in unison, their idyllic moment lost in the gloomy atmosphere. Frank hated crows and to him, they represented an ominous warning. His stomach began to turn and he closed his eyes, muttering a prayer to St Christopher – not for himself, but for Palmarosa  Spilotro. He prayed she wouldn’t get herself into the same trouble as her husband. He cursed much louder than he ever had – not only because Michael- his son  was dead, but for Palmarosa because he knew she had eluded everyone.

Back inside the house, Frank made himself an espresso. His gazed at the blackness of the coffee as it swirled around in the cup. Melancholy visions began to take over his thoughts. He looked away from the cup and towards the portrait of his broken family, hanging in the hallway. The phone started to ring. He waited until the third ring before he answered.

         ‘Frank,’ he said into the receiver.

         ‘You will need to come down to Police Headquarters Mr Barbera.’

         ‘I have nothing else to add,’ Frank told the detective on the other end of the line.

         ‘We’ve been through this before.’

Frank hung up the phone and finished drinking his coffee.

He had become an informant after his could no longer protect his son from the treacherous Melbourne streets ruled by the laborious demands of the Spilotro Crime Family.

 His friendship with Armando Spilotro began at the Queen Victoria Market over a love of aubergines. Soon Frank was eating Sunday lunch with the Spilotros and storing palettes of tin can tomatoes in his garage. He was never part of them – the pack, the clan, the Family. His son saw the dangling carrot and moved right in to Armando’s basement.

         ‘I’ll only charge him one hundred and fifty a week for rent,’ Armando had said.

Frank and his wife Rosa agreed their son could benefit from living out of home and he was only moving a few houses down the road. Frank would kiss Rosa hard on the lips, grateful he had met such man as Armando Spilotro.

Nestled inside Docklands, the Victoria Police Headquarters covered two blocks. Upon Franks’ arrival, the rain came down. He escaped the heavy deluge and scurried into the foyer; the automated glass doors sensing his body and opened, allowing him to enter seamlessly. The Detective he had been speaking to – Thomas Kershaw was waiting for him in the foyer. He was much taller than Frank – yet all Australians were.  

         ‘Mr Barbera, follow me,’ Kershaw said,  walking along a glass  corridor; the work of other policemen and women visible to everyone who passed by.

For the past nine months Frank followed Detective Kershaw down the corridor until the walls were no longer translucent. They entered the area of the police station where covert matters were implemented and discussed. The detective stopped in front of taupe coloured door. He pushed it open and Frank followed him inside the square shaped room. The beige walls created the illusion of a much larger room. Frank pulled out the recordings from his back pocket  between himself and Armando Spilotro before sitting down.

         ‘How much longer do I have to keep doing this?’ Frank said.

         ‘We’re trying to eradicate organised crime in Melbourne,’ Detective Kershaw said.

Frank rested his elbows on the table. ‘When is the trial?’

         ‘I need you to find out some information on Armando’s wife – Palmarosa.’

Frank took his elbows off the table. Another detective entered the room, holding two take away coffees.

         ‘Oh shit, sorry Frank,’ Detective Johnstone said, handing Kershaw a coffee. ‘I should have brought you one too.’

Frank looked away. Detective Alan Johnstone’s curly hair fell in front of his eyes. He tilted his head back and the curls found their spot on the top of his head.

         ‘We appreciate your cooperation,’ Kershaw said, removing the polystyrene lid off the paper cup.

         ‘We’re gonna get these Italian criminals but we need more on Palmarosa,’ Johnstone said. ‘I mean no disrespect Frank, but you Calabrians are something else.’

Frank did not answer. There were no windows in the room, and he was overwhelmed by a feeling of claustrophobia. He tugged at the collar of his shirt while trying to breath.

         ‘Remember, if you choose to cease cooperating with us, you will be charged as an accessory,’ Johnstone said. He took a sip of his coffee.

Frank cleared his throat. When the police raided his house and ceased Armando’s palettes of tinned goods, they bought Frank into custody. Frightened at the thought of having a criminal record, he told the police he knew Armando Spilotro but insisted he was oblivious to his criminal life. The cops weren’t as forgiving. ‘Your son is a known associate,’ the interviewing detective had said.

The sound of Detective Kershaw’s mobile phone buzzing brought him back.

         ‘When will this end?’ Frank asked.

         ‘Until we have enough evidence for a conviction. Once we can get the entire Spilotro family, we go ahead with the case.’ Detective Johnstone said. ‘And you a free to be reunited with your wife.’

Frank sighed. He had a chance to change the situation, yet he was drowning in waves of guilt. He wanted to make things right for the sake of family, for the sake of his son. He lowered his head and stared at his belly which had expanded over the past few months. ‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked.

         ‘She is safe. That is all I can tell you,’ Detective Kershaw said.

After Michael was killed, Rosa left him. She slapped his faced, packed a suitcase and took Victoria Police’s suggestion of going into witness protection.  His bones ached knowing he could no longer kiss his wife, smell her skin or hold her in his arms. Shaking Armando Spilotro’s hand had been  his biggest mistake.

He left the police station with another wire he was to use when he returned home. Upon his return, he saw Palmarosa pruning her roses in the front yard. He waved at her but she continued cutting dead leaves off the flowers. He opened his front door and was greeted to an empty house. He never told the police it was Palmarosa who was the brains behind the Spilotro Family. That she had come to his door late one night crying and begging him to bury a gun Armando had used. A few weeks after the raid, a man wearing a black suit had come to his door. He handed Frank three thousand dollars then instructed him to dig up the gun he had buried.

 He had chosen to keep this from the police. But the open window had been there and maybe if had have said something, Rosa would have stayed. If he could have just said no to Armando, maybe Michael would still be alive.

He could not go back and change anything. He could not even go back and stop it. This would be something he would take to his grave – along with any of the other secrets he had. But now he had a chance to make amends on his poor choices.

 He sat on his leather sofa and switched on the television. He flicked through the stations before stopping on a movie about Cowboys and Indians. He loved watching Spaghetti Westerns. They allowed him to escape into a world where the bad guys lose, and the good guys win.  

The following morning, while having his breakfast, he looked out the kitchen  window and into his garden. The sparrows were back frolicking in the bird bath. Fear had eluded them.