“Mary has another date coming up,” Judy chirped. “With a lawyer, a friend of Anne’s.”
“That’s nice,” her father said, before Mary could start whining. “It is about time, you know, Mare? If Anna likes this young man, you should give him a chance.” Her father returned to the stove with the coffeepot, and as soon as he turned his back, Mary flipped Judy the bird. Judy flashed her an L for loser. They were really good friends.
“I am, Pop. I will.” Mary nodded. She knew when she was beat. Her parents had loved Mike as much as she did, but lately even they were trying to fix her up, most recently with an accountant who lived with his mother on Ritner Street. Her father returned to the table and eased into his chair, his movements stiffer than before the subject of Mike came up. Behind him, her mother was pouring cooked gnocchi into the colander, then shaking it to drain off the excess water. Slap, slap, slap. Steam billowed out of the sink. Nobody said anything, letting the empty moment pass.
“Is ready!” Mary’s mother turned from the counter with a steaming plate of gnocchi, then picked up a metal ladle and poured gravy in a tomatoey ring on top. Everyone brightened at the sight of the meal, and her mother bore it to the table and set it in front of Judy with pride. “Alla fresh for Jud’! Cheese onna table!”
“Thank you, Mrs. D!” Judy said, grabbing her tablespoon and digging into the hot gnocchi. She would burn her mouth, but nobody warned her because she wouldn’t listen anyway. In the next minute, her mother was setting a plate in front of Mary.
“This looks great, Ma,” she said. Her mother looked so happy that Mary swore she’d eat, hungry or not. “Thanks.”
“Okay!” Her mother stroked her back, then segued into scratching it like she always did. It made Mary feel like a treasured kitten, and she looked down at her gnocchi, speared a forkful, and ate, causing third-degree burns to the roof of her mouth. Her mother kept scratching her back. “Maria, you pray to Saint Anthony for the paper?”
“Paper?”
“Brandolini. You look for his paper.” Her mother made an arthritic circle in the air, and Mary understood. She hadn’t realized her mother had been listening to the conversation, but she should have known better. In addition to force fields, Italian mothers had sonar.
“You mean Amadeo’s file.”
“Sì. You pray to Saint Anthony to find?”
“Well, yes,” Mary admitted, breathing gnocchi fire. She’d learned the prayer in grade schooclass="underline" Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come around. For something is lost and cannot be found. To be on the safe side, she had prayed to Saint Jude, too, because she wasn’t sure who had jurisdiction.
“Then, they take,” her mother said, with typical finality.
“Who takes what?” Mary reached for her cup and tried to cool her mouth with scorching coffee.
“Somebody. They take his paper.” Her mother frowned deeply. “Brandolini’s paper. Somebody take it!”
“You think somebody took his file?”
“Sì. They want nobody to see. So somebody, they take.” Her mother snatched the steam that curled upward from the plate of gnocchi, and when she opened her palm, the steam had vanished. Mary was surprised by her mother’s cool hand tricks, but not her suspicion. Vita DiNunzio was always vigilant to the Devil At Work, especially in law firms.
“I doubt it, Ma.”
“This, I feel. This, I know!”
“Nobody took the file, Veet,” her father said wearily, his forehead creased all the way to his liver-spotted scalp. “Don’t jump to conclusions. The government loses more papers than it hides.”
But Judy had stopped eating, and her azure eyes glinted with doubt. “It’s a toss-up, Mr. D. I’d believe that somebody would deep-six the file of a suicide in federal custody. It’s a no-brainer. There was liability there. Maybe they were afraid of getting sued. After all, that’s exactly what’s happening, with Mary on the case.”
“Nah.” Matty DiNunzio shook his head. “I lived through that time, kiddo. Suing woulda been the last thing on anybody’s mind, then. People didn’t sue each other like they do now. And the government, who would sue them? Especially during the war.”
“It’s not completely impossible, Pop,” Mary said, thinking out loud. “Amadeo’s suicide had to be an embarrassment for the camp and for the government. Hell, for a long time they tried to keep the entire Italian internment a secret.”
Vita DiNunzio wagged a crooked finger. “Maria, this I feel, something evil! You pray and you no find? Then somebody take!”
And Mary, who had never before put that kind of faith in Saint Anthony, couldn’t say that her mother was mistaken.
Four
Mary eyed her latest blind date, one Jason Pagonis, as he read his menu. He was tall, cool, and reasonably handsome, with close-cropped black hair and brown eyes behind hip little glasses. His smile was pleasant and his manner friendly. He was her age, apparently healthy, with good teeth. He wore a black sport jacket over a black T-shirt, with jeans. In short, there was nothing wrong with him. Mary would have to work hard to find something.
“So what are you having?” Jason asked, looking up unexpectedly.
Mary reddened. “Don’t know. What’s good here?”
“Everything. I love this place. It’s owned by Masaharu Morimoto, one of the Iron Chefs. You’ve heard of them.”
“Sure.” Mary nodded. Her mother was an Iron Chef.
“I love the design elements here. The aesthetic. It’s interesting, isn’t it?”
“I guess.” Mary glanced around. She had never seen a restaurant like this except on The Jetsons. The tables and chairs were sculpted of transparent Lucite and lit from within with colored lights, so they actually glowed. Not only that, but the hue of the tables and chairs changed constantly, so at the moment, Mary’s chair was blue, turning her butt blue, too. Two minutes ago her butt was green, having segued from a bright yellow. Mary wasn’t sure it was a good look for her.
“The restaurant has an incredible website, too.”
“I bet.” Mary was suspicious of restaurants with websites. In fairness, she was suspicious in general, tonight. She’d worked the whole day, read approximately 129,373 documents, and still Saint Anthony hadn’t found Amadeo’s file. Could it really have been taken by the government? And was it behind this stupid decor, too?
“For an appetizer, I’d start with the shira ae.”
“I always do.”
Jason looked up. “You’ve eaten here?”
“No, I was joking around.”
“Oh.” Jason shot her a mercy smile, and Mary vowed instantly to stop joking around. Joking Around evinced a Bad Attitude, and she would fall prey to everyone’s claim that she Just Wasn’t Trying.
Jason was saying, “Shira ae is asparagus with sesame oil.”
“Mmm.” Barf. “What’s a good entrée?”
“The ishi yaki burl bop.”
Mary wondered what language Jason was speaking. She squinted at the menu but couldn’t read it in the orange haze emanating from the table. “What is whatever you said?”
“It’s yellowtail on rice, and it’s great. And for dessert, I’d have the togarashi.”
Mary blinked.
“Japanese sweet potato cake.”
“Great. I like cake. Cake, I understand. Cake is great.” Mary closed her menu, and Jason closed his.
“Great.”
Now that everything was great, Mary wanted to leave, but she knew she was expected to Make Conversation. “So you went to Stanford Law, with Anne.”
“Yes, how is she?”
“She’s on vacation, in St. Bart’s.” Having just opened the subject of her fellow associate, Mary realized that she had to close it right away. Anne Murphy was the hottest girl ever to earn a J.D. degree. No guy who was thinking of Anne would want to be in a multi-colored restaurant with anyone else. Mary tried to think of something else to say. “You were on Law Review, right?”