ABSTRACT
“Giardello, what kind of name is that?”The desperate, gun-toting white man puzzles over the dark features of the FBI agent trying to talk him into releasing the son and daughter he holds hostage in his barricaded apartment. The vowel-heavy name doesn’t square with the face: he needs identity clarification. “I’m Italian, Italian and black,” Mike Giardello responds. A smile creeps up the face of the embattled white man, and he seizes the opportunity to crack wise at this racial enigma. “Ha,” he says, “chitlin’ scallopini.”
