“I run the front of the house…I have it spinning like a top. That’s not fair to characterize me that way.” He looked genuinely insulted, but he also didn’t look me in the eye. Because he knew I was right.
“Yes. You do a great job running the front of the house. But have you noticed our help can be categorized in two ways…? In the kitchen we have Leon, with a shaved head, hip-hop clothes and a nose that has
clearly
been broken more than five times. He can barely breathe through it. He has to wear those breathing strips across it so he can get air when it’s hot and we’re busy. Then we have Chef
Jeff, he of the tribal tattoos and pockmarked skin but heart of gold. We have Luis, who comes in to do prep work and is missing three fingers on his right hand, as well as an eye. He makes vague references to incarceration and is entirely too handy with knives. And we have Ju-Ju-B, whose real name we don’t even know, who works with Leon and is just plain homely and claims to worship the devil.”
“And your point?”
“Then we have the front of the house. There are models who don’t have the looks our girls have.”
“What? You want me to,” he whispered, “hire girls with missing eyeballs?”
“Quinn, our bartender is so magnificent, she has modeling agents pass her their cards weekly.”
“I still don’t get why Tatiana won’t at least go
meet
with these guys. They’re from legit places. She could be making a lot of money.”
“Are you that dumb?”
“What?” Quinn looked at me, his blue eyes absolutely void of cognition.
“She stays because she loves you. She will do anything to be near you. She is a masochist who, unlike the others, hasn’t quit over you.”
Quinn’s eyes looked shiny. “What?” he asked hoarsely. Tatiana was nearly six feet tall, with blue eyes and black hair. If she and Quinn ever made a baby, it would be beautiful.
“Look Quinn…the point I’m making is that you think with your testosterone, and I think with a plan. This crackpot idea of Diana’s and yours isn’t a good ‘big picture’ idea. I can’t do a ‘Mafia’ cookbook. Not with the FBI parked in a van up the block.”
I finished my second sambuca. “Leon is in back. I’m going home. Tell the girls to push desserts and check averages up. Push the specials. We’ll make payroll. We always do.”
With that I trudged out the door and headed home. I was tired. Of everything.
Later that night, I cooked a simple meal for Diana and myself, relaxing, barefoot in my own kitchen. We usually do takeout, as on my nights off I don’t necessarily like to cook, but I needed to lose myself in the process. In rubbing the garlic and chopping the parsley. In the scents and ritual of cooking a meal. I felt myself relax. It was like being taken back to grandma’s kitchen with a towel tied around my waist and the approving pats on the head from my grandmother as she showed me how to coax the garlic from its skin.
As soon as Diana walked through the door, she smelled dinner simmering.
“Oh, God, I am famished! I love you, Teddi. Love you, love you, love you! Let me go change.”
“Okay. I opened a bottle of red. It’s breathing.”
“Not for long! We’ll
kill
it.”
Diana went back to her bedroom and changed into her version of “casual clothes”—a stunning pair of silk lounging pajamas.
“How was the lunch crowd?” she asked, twisting her hair up into a loose chignon and setting plates on our dining room table. We had a set of beautiful antique china she inherited from her grandmother. In fact, we had enough to feed forty. But it mostly sat in a china hutch. We were too busy to eat properly…and we always had Teddi’s and a dozen Chinese places to feed us.
“Well…” I called from the kitchen. “Robert came in and tried the special. Saw the place. Loved it.”
“Good,” she said without much enthusiasm.
“Is something wrong, Di? You were so fired up to have me in the hay with Robert, and now you seem a lot less enthused.”
“Oh, no…it’s nothing. Really. Go on.”
I padded out and put the pasta on the table, brought out the salad, poured us both a glass of wine and sat down.
“Anyway, he seemed just as captivated by my appearance in my chef’s coat as in Donna Karan.”
“I find that odd, but in a good way. You know, I once dated a man who liked me to dress like a schoolmarm. Buttoned up. Prim and proper. Totally unsexy. But it rocked his universe.”
“Bet you ended that quick.”
“You got that right. I think he kept hoping I’d spank him on the bottom in the bedroom. Not for me.” She shook her head. “You naughty, naughty boy. Bend over for the headmistress!” She laughed and pushed a stray tendril behind her ear.
“Di, have you been talking to Quinn again about that idea of yours?”
“The cookbook?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Not lately, though I still think it would be marvelous. I know it sounds a little…exploitative…but face it, Americans love all things mob. It’s terribly…well, American. Ever see the movie
The Krays
?”
I shook my head.
“’Bout a British gang. We find mobsters unsightly. Frightening. Ghastly. The movie was stylized, but they had
all these sick mommy issues. You Americans find mobsters glamorous.”
“Not me personally.”
“No. Not you personally, but your culture. The Brits want to lock them up and throw away the keys. Americans want their mob men eating Italian food in restaurants. I think if you did it, you’d get a good bit of publicity—with Kent PR handling it all gratis, of course. I owe it to you for all the free meals you and Quinn have given me.”
I nodded. “I know you’re right—about how Americans embrace the mob—but I don’t get it. I mean, aside from Sundays…the food and the boisterousness…all wonderful…why care about a bunch of men who have made their living off of bookmaking, loansharking and all the rest of it? Why care who’s a made man, who’s the don?”
“It’s that
Godparent
movie.”
“Godfather.”
“Yes.
Godfather.
The one where they put a dog’s head in bed with that man.”
“It was a horse’s head.”
“Yes. That one. Did I ever tell you I would do the young Al Pacino in a heartbeat? I bet he’s not all mouth and no trousers, that’s for sure.”
“Yes. In fact, you also said you would do the young De Niro.”
“I did? Hmm.” She lifted her fork, poised in the air. “Let me think about it just a moment… Why, yes I would.”
“You always love the Italian movie stars. You were destined for Tony, I can see that now.
The Godfather
started it. But you’ve gotten much worse. Now you even like the guy who plays Tony Soprano.”
“In a big-bear-ravish-me sort of way.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Ever do a search of
Marcello
on the Internet?”
“No. I’m lucky I have time to pee at work, let alone get on the computer to do a search.”
“An ungodly, ghastly number of sites come up. Hundreds of thousands. And people have fan clubs. Did you know there are even Internet serial killer sites?”
“Charming.”
She twirled her spaghetti. “Look, all I am saying is that I recently met with Anna Friedman, a literary agent, and when I
happened
to mention over much too much wine who my flatmate was and why I couldn’t ever possibly meet her for dinner on Sunday—that it was akin to sacrilege—she had this idea of a Mafia cookbook. Then I thought of the restaurant. Making it a real A-list place. Why not? You never capitalize on the fact that at any given time, if you walk into Teddi’s, you will see a real live, honest-to-God
mobster
sitting there eating. For some people, that would be a tourist attraction!”
I cringed a little. “So not my style.”
“But the cookbook…listen to me…they have made books, cookbooks, based on
The Sopranos.
Carmela Soprano is not a
real
person. Perhaps they
think
of her as real, thanks to America’s obsession with its idiot box, and I do mean idiot, but she is not. You, on the other hand are real. And all the Marcello recipes are real. As are the Gallo recipes. Your mother is real. Aunt Gina is real. Aunt Rose is real. Uncle Rocky is real. Uncle Lou is real. Can you not just see it now? ‘Uncle Lou’s Spaghetti Carbonara.’”
I nodded. “He actually likes Bolognese.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. I just don’t know with James Bond on my tail if that’s such a good idea to attract extra attention. But Quinn…he’s all for it.”
“Of course. He fancies himself an impresario. He fancies opening a Teddi’s in Union Square and one in Tribeca. He fancies being so famous that every woman in the world will simply stop dead in her tracks and spread her legs for him, already wet and waiting.”
“Di!”
“Well, it is Quinn’s ultimate fantasy—although he didn’t actually say
that.
And though his reasoning is all wrong, I think you should consider it. Write down your recipes. Start thinking of little stories you can tell along with them…how the recipes were handed down through the Marcello and Gallo generations, from Sicily and Italy to America.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to write a few things down. Pip
is
being a little bleak in his financial predictions.”
“Trust me. You do a cookbook, and you let me have free reign doing PR, and you, my dear, will give Wolfgang Puck a run for his money.”
I laughed.
“You think I’m bloody kidding? This pasta is orgasmic!”
I just shook my head. Lady Di and her harebrained schemes. But I had to admit, even to myself, that my pasta kicked ass.
T
he next night, late, the phone rang. I was watching a
Law & Order
rerun, feeling very achy from a long day on my feet in the restaurant, working a double, and I assumed the caller was Robert.
“Hello, sexy,” I said into the telephone.
“Well, hello sexy yourself.” The voice was unfamiliar.
“Who is this?”
“Agent Petrocelli…Mark.”
I bolted upright. “It’s—” I looked at my illuminated clock radio “—twelve-forty-five. What the hell are you doing a) calling and b) calling so goddamn late? What couldn’t have waited until the morning?”
“Actually…I saw your light on.”
“Pervert or voyeur? Which is it? Or is it both?”
“Neither. I was worried about you.”
“Why?”
“First, because of what we spoke about last week.”
“I’m fine. As I’ve already explained to you, I really have nothing to do with any of the family business. And Quinn, other than being a bit of a racetrack junkie, is also straight as an arrow.”
“Except when it comes to waitresses.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
Suddenly, I remembered an exceedingly incompetent waitress who took a little too much interest in Pip the accountant when he came in for lunch. She, after all, was one of Quinn’s statuesque beauties, and usually no one wanted to wait on Pip, who was known for being just as anal-retentive about his meals as he was about his ledgers, accounts and Quicken files. He would send his food back three times. Always three, never two, never four. Too much pepper, too little salt, not enough oregano, too much oregano. We always sent back the exact same plate of pasta, slightly reheated in the microwave. On the third attempt, he would suddenly rave. Yet this waitress…Julie, I think her name was…just fawned over him. Over an elf. And it wasn’t that he was a big tipper, either. He left precisely, to the penny, fifteen percent.
“Did you by any chance have an agent working undercover at my restaurant? We fired her about four months ago?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why do you know Quinn has a problem keeping his dick in his pants?”
“Word gets around.”
“You know,” I said, gathering my comforter around me, “this is why I hate cops. They can’t give you a straight answer. It doesn’t matter. Snoop all you want. Nothing to find. Good night, Agent Petro—”
“Wait! I said that was the first reason.”
“Second?”
“I still need to get Diana the money for her broken shoe.”
“Put a check in an envelope. Seal it. Buy a stamp. Put it in a mailbox.”
“And…look…most important, I don’t know if you’re aware, being as I believe you when you say that you don’t know much about the family business, but word is the Jersey Corelli family is going to make a move on some of your uncle Sonny’s turf.”
I shivered slightly. “No…I hadn’t heard. My uncles and father and Poppy don’t tell me anything. Or my mother and aunts, for that matter. And Quinn, he’s so busy with the restaurant—and our waitresses as you point out—that the family considers him a citizen now. They don’t keep him in the loop unless it’s about getting together to go to the track.”
“Listen…this is totally out of line as far as me being an agent goes. But I told myself all night that I wasn’t telling you anything your family doesn’t already know. The Corelli thing is common knowledge.”
“We’ve been through stuff like this before. Poppy was shot back when I was five. I don’t even really remember it.”
“I know. But the thing is, your grandfather is getting really old, and these young turks up and coming…they don’t give a shit about how things are done. Everybody’s looking out for himself, looking for a shortcut. Your uncle Lou is really pissed about things. You need to be careful.”
I smiled at his concern. “They’re all big boys and know what they’re doing. I’m worried, but—you know, it just occurred to me that I don’t even know if you’re married and have a family.”
“What?” he asked, even as I prayed he would say there
was no Mrs. Petrocelli. “No. But what does that have to do with a war brewing between the families?”
“Well, I was going to say that if wives of cops and FBI agents worried each time their husband did something dangerous, they’d go insane. Sometimes, you just have to let it go.”
“I never thought of it that way before.”
“I love my father with his old Brooklyn ways and his cigars and his pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his shirt like it’s 1952. I love him. But I’ve always known, or at least as long as I can remember, that there’s another side to this life. It’s not all Sunday dinners. Some of it is ugly. But I have to trust them to be careful.” I said the words with a wisdom and bravery I didn’t feel. The head of the Corelli family was a known hothead with a lot of ambition.
“But Teddi…they all eat in your restaurant. What if the Corellis try something there? I saw Chris Corelli drive past your place five times last week, just circling the block.”
“Did Tony and Uncle Lou see him?”
“Yeah.”
“That must be why they’re eating there twice a day now.”
“Please promise me you’ll be careful. Extra careful.”
“I’ll be careful. Look, I think it’s totally weird that you’ve called me at one in the morning. But it’s really sweet of you to worry. Thanks for the warning.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Was that all?” I asked.
“Yeah. No…. Listen, with this thing going down, I just want you to know that sometimes we really
are
the good guys. Now, some of the Corellis are real scumbags, pardon my French, but I have to give your family credit. They run a clean operation. No drugs. I don’t want to see some of the
old guys pass away and watch the crazy Russian mob take over, or the Colombians…or whoever. Most of all, I don’t want to see anyone who loves their family as much as your grandfather loves his get hurt. The feds, whatever you think of us, sometimes we really do want to help people, make the world better. All that.”
“Very Dudley Do-Right of you.”
“Well, let me put it this way. Cops aren’t all bad. If you came home and your apartment had been robbed, who would you call? Uncle Lou or 911?”
“I’d choose 911. I’d file a useless police report because there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell the police will find a robber in a city this size. Nor do they care when there are rapists and murderers out there. But I would do it because it’s what people do. Like one person says ‘How are you?’ and another says ‘Fine’ even when they’re not fine.
After
I called 911 I would
also
call Uncle Lou so that he could get the word out that if anyone even
thinks
of breaking into my apartment again, they better be prepared to lose their balls. Literally. Then Uncle Lou would help me replace my stolen everything because the insurance company would give me the runaround. Because that business is glorified racketeering. You have to have insurance, but then if you actually
use
it, they bump your rates up or drop you, despite the fact you’ve paid premiums for ten years.”
Agent Petrocelli audibly sighed.
“What?”
“I can see it’s going to be an uphill battle to win you over.”
“Win me over? What do you care what I think of you?”
“I care. I don’t know, I just do.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t hate the police
and the FBI. Well, not totally. I hate that there’s a lot of hypocrisy surrounding some of what you do. A ‘win at any cost’ mentality.”
“Why don’t you pretend I sell shoes?”
“Shoes?”
“Yeah. Shoes. And I’ve just called you up, and we’re just having a conversation.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. How was your day?”
“Long and tiring. Quinn wants me to write a cookbook.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Yes. But the whole concept is that it will be Marcello family recipes. I’ve never capitalized on the Marcello name before.”
“I bet they’re good recipes, though. With a last name like mine…I know good Italian food. My grandmother makes a veal meatball that is not to be believed. Maybe I should do a cookbook.
A Shoe Salesman’s Collection of Recipes.
”
“Instant bestseller. Actually, my recipes are really good. Delicious, wonderful recipes full of my aunts’ teasing and my uncles’ posturing—full of memories, I guess. Full of love. Any Italian will tell you that’s the best ingredient.”
“So maybe you should do it.”
“Maybe. I’m thinking about it. And how was your day?”
“Well, if I was a foot fetishist, it would have been a great day, but I’m not, so you know, it was tiring. Women come in all day long, ask to see fifteen different pairs of shoes in their size. They ask me if their ankles look fat. I tell them no, but still at the end of the day, they don’t buy anything, and I just have to restock five hundred pairs of shoes.”
“Doesn’t sound like a very good job. Unless you’re a foot fetishist.” I couldn’t help smiling.
“Exactly.”
“Do you have any other fetishes?” As soon as I said it, I blushed. What was I doing engaging in late-night small talk murmurings with an enemy of the house of Marcello? Quinn was the risk-taker, not me.
“Afraid not. Unless you count having a thing for seeing a woman laugh.”
“What kind of a fetish is that? Is it naked laughing?”
“No. Not naked. Just laughing. Not polite sort of laughing. I’m talking gales of laughter, ‘tears streaming down a woman’s face’ laughter.”
“And that would be sexy how?” Whenever I laughed like that, I got a runny nose.
“I don’t know. It’s just so real. I guess that’s what it’s all about. Like going on a date with a woman who orders the most expensive thing on the menu but then won’t eat. What is that? It’s fucking lobster! Excuse my language.”
“Please. I think we’re all baptized with the word fuck as our middle name in the Marcello and Gallo clans…. And I know about those women you’re talking about. I know the type. Happens all the time at Teddi’s. Then we give them doggie bags, but I know all my hard work is going to end up in someone’s trash can. We have a veal dish—very pricey. Why order it if you’re only going to have two bites?”
“Yeah. It’s the battle of the real women versus the fake women. I like down-to-earth. Real…and no one laughed at the shoe store today.”
“Sorry to hear that. Must have been a very lonely day.”
“It was. So I called you. What are you watching?”
“Law & Order.”
“Hmm. I hate cops. I don’t know why, being as I’m an
honest shoe salesman. I shouldn’t really hate them. And I have no reason to fear them. I suppose it’s the hypocrisy I hate.”
“Do you now?” I laughed. “Well, I don’t mind television cops. I like Chris Noth. Reruns of him on
Law & Order.
He could arrest me.”
“On what grounds?”
“Well, I have none. That’s the thing. My parents are retired schoolteachers. My mom taught kindergarten, and my father taught high school biology. So…they’re totally innocent of anything. Boring background, really. They couldn’t get arrested for jaywalking in this town.”
“I hear you. So Teddi…what are you wearing?”
“Why do men always ask you that when they call you late at night?”
“They like to picture you.”
“I’m naked,” I lied.
“You better watch that someone doesn’t use a pair of binoculars to spy on you.”
“A city of a million voyeurs. And I’m one of an anonymous zillion in this city. Who would be watching me?”
“You’re right. Maybe some cop on a stakeout.”
“I’ve never been on a stakeout. I hear the stakeouters drink a lot of coffee.”
“I wouldn’t know…. I should let you get some sleep.”
“Okay. But make me laugh first.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Amuse me.”
So he told me a joke about a pair of Irish twins. I’d heard it before. Quinn knew every Irish joke in the universe—and every Italian and Polish joke, too—but hearing Mark tell it made me laugh. And then when I laughed, he did, too.
“You have a nice laugh, Teddi Gallo.”
“So do you, Mark Petrocelli, shoe salesman.”
“See?” he whispered.
“See what?”
“How simple life would be?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Good night.”
“Sleep tight. Keep your windows locked.”
“I will.”
“’Night Teddi.”
“’Night.”
“Teddi?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re Italian, right? I mean kindergarten and biology teacher parents, but Italian, right?”
“And half Sicilian. And you?”
“Italian. I gotta ask you, Teddi…do you believe in the thunderbolt?”
I didn’t say anything. I looked over at all the silver frames on my table. Mariella and Uncle Mario were there, from back when Mariella was the most beautiful woman in all of Brooklyn.
“Teddi? You there?”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I cleared my throat and finally said, “Yeah…I’m here.”
“So do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. Good night.”
“Good night.”
I hung up the phone, my stomach spinning. I lifted my hand to my face to brush away my hair. My hand was trembling.
Maybe talking to the FBI
was
dangerous.
Or maybe Agent Mark Petrocelli made me long for something I didn’t know I wanted.
The next morning, I heard Di get out of the shower and the sound of a blow-dryer humming. I pulled on my terry robe, opened my door and ran across the hall.
“Di…Di…” I tapped her on the shoulder and she screamed.
“What are you doing up? You scared me.”
I stared incredulously at her. While blowing her hair dry, she was listening to a CD Walkman, hooked onto the elastic of her red satin underwear, headphones in her ears.
“Let me turn this off!” she said loudly. She turned off the blow-dryer, then removed her Walkman. I could hear the faint, tinny sound of George Michael.
“What are you doing? Turn it off completely.”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m blow-drying my hair. It’s supposed to dip below thirty today. I don’t want to step out with damp hair.”
“I mean the Walkman, Lady Di.”