Mr. Savarese, a slightly built, silver-haired, superbly tailored and shod man in his early sixties, arrived at Ristorante Alfredo at five minutes to one. He took great pride in his personal appearance, believing that a businessman, such as himself, should look the part.
He had, ten years before, arranged the immigration from Rome of a journeyman gentlemen's tailor and set him up in business in a downtown office building. At Mr. S.'s recommendation, a number of his business associates had begun to patronize the tailor, and he had found financial security and a good life in the new world. It was understood between the tailor and Mr. Savarese that the tailor would not offer to cut a suit for anyone else from a bolt of cloth from which he had cut a suit for Mr. Savarese.
Shoes were something else. Mr. Savarese was a good enough businessman to understand there was not a sufficient market in Philadelphia to support a custom bootmaker, no matter how skilled, so he had his shoes made in Palermo on a last carved there for him on a visit he had made years before attending the funeral of a great-aunt.
Mr. Savarese did not own an automobile, and rarely drove himself, although he took pains to make sure his driver's license did not lapse. The Lincoln sedan in which he arrived at Ristorante Alfredo was owned by Classic Livery, which supplied limousines to the funeral trade, and which was owned, in much the same sort of arrangement as that which Mr. Savarese had with Mr. Baltazari vis-a-vis Ristorante Alfredo, by Mr. Paulo Cassandro. Mr. Cassandro, as now, habitually assigned his brother, Pietro, to drive the automobile he made available for Mr. Savarese's use.
Mr. Savarese, as now, was habitually accompanied by Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselli, a tall, heavyset gentleman in his middle thirties.
When the Lincoln pulled to the curb before the marquee of Ristorante Alfredo, Mr. Rosselli, who was riding in the front seat, got out of the car and walked around the front to the sidewalk. He glanced up and down the street, and then nodded at Mr. Cassandro. Mr. Cassandro then got from behind the wheel and opened the rear door for Mr. Savarese.
By the time Mr. Savarese reached the door of the restaurant, Mr. Rosselli had pulled the door open for him. He stepped inside, where Mr. Baltazari was waiting for him. They shook hands. Mr. Baltazari was always very careful when shaking hands with Mr. Savarese, for his hands were very large and strong, and Mr. Savarese's rather delicate. Mr. Savarese played the violin and the violoncello, primarily for his own pleasure, but sometimes for friends, say at a wedding or an anniversary celebration. It was considered a great honor to have him play at such gatherings.
Mr. Baltazari led Mr. Savarese and Mr. Rosselli to the table, where the maitre d'hotel was standing behind the chair in which Mr. Savarese would sit, and a waiter (not the wine steward; that sonofabitch having this day, of all goddamned days, with Mr. S. coming in, called in sick) stood before two wine coolers on legs.
Mr. Savarese sat down, and the headwaiter pushed his chair in for him. He looked up at Mr. Rosselli, who was obviously waiting for direction, and made a little gesture with his hand, signaling that Mr. Rosselli should sit down.
"What are you going to feed me, Ricco?" Mr. Savarese asked with a smile.
"I thought some cherrystones," Mr. Baltazari said. "And there is some very nice swordfish?"
"I leave myself in your hands."
"I have a nice white wine…"
"Anything you think…"
"And some nice Fiore e Fiore sparkling…"
"The sparkling. It always goes so well with the clams, I think."
Mr. Baltazari snapped his fingers and the waiter who was standing in for the goddamned wine steward who'd chosen today to fuck off twisted the wire holding the cork in the sparkling wine off, popped the cork, and poured a little in a champagne glass whose stem was hollow to the bottom and cost a fucking fortune and was only taken out of the cabinet when Mr. S. was in the place.
Mr. Savarese tasted the sparkling wine.
"That's very nice, Ricco," he said.
"Thank you," Mr. Baltazari said, beaming, and then added, to the headwaiter, "Put a case of that in Mr. S.'s car."
"You're very kind," Mr. Savarese said.
The waiter filled Mr. Savarese's glass with the Fiore e Fiore, and then poured some in Mr. Baltazari's and Mr. Rosselli's glasses.
Mr. Baltazari then raised his glass, and Mr. Rosselli followed suit.
"Health and long life," Mr. Baltazari said.
Mr. Savarese smiled.
"What is it the Irish say? 'May the sun'-or is it the wind?- ' always be at your back.' I like that."
"I think 'the wind,' Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"I think it's the sun," Mr. Savarese said.
"Now that I think about it, I'm sure you're right," Mr. Rosselli said.
"It doesn't matter, either way," Mr. Savarese said graciously.
"The cherrystones and the swordfish for Mr. Savarese, right?" the maitre d'hotel asked. "And for you, sir?"
"What are you eating, Ricco?" Mr. Rosselli asked.
"Lamb chops."
"Same for me," Mr. Rosselli said. "Sometimes swordfish don't agree with me."
"How would you like them cooked, sir?"
"Pink in the middle."
The clams, on a bed of ice, were served. While they were eating them, Mr. Savarese inquired as to the health of Mr. Baltazari's wife and children, and Mr. Baltazari asked Mr. Savarese to pass on his best respects to Mr. Savarese's wife and mother.
The clams were cleared away, and the entree served.
Mr. Baltazari made a gesture, and a folding screen was put in place, screening the table from the view of anyone in the front part of the restaurant.
"Open another bottle of the Fiore e Fiore," Mr. Baltazari ordered, "and then leave us alone."
Mr. Savarese delicately placed a piece of the swordfish into his mouth, chewed, and nodded.
'This is very nice, Ricco," he said.
"I'm glad you're pleased, Mr. S."
"It has to be fresh," Mr. Savarese said. "Otherwise, when it's been on ice too long, it gets mushy."
"That was swimming in the Gulf of Mexico two days ago, Mr. S."
'Tell me why you told Joe Fierello to make the police officer a good deal," Mr. Savarese said as he placed another piece of swordfish into his mouth. "Tell me about the police officer, is what I want."
"I was going to call you this morning, but then Carlo called and said you was coming, and I figured it could wait until I could tell you in person."
Mr. Savarese nodded, and then gestured with his fork for Mr. Baltazari to continue.
"I try to keep my eyes open," Mr. Baltazari said. "So when I saw this cop flashing a wad in the Warwick
"How did you know he was a police officer?" Mr. Savarese interrupted.
"I can tell a cop, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said, a bit smugly. "So I checked him out."
"How?"
"I happened to be with a lady," Mr. Baltazari said, just a little uneasily. "I had her do it for me."
"Can this lady be trusted?"
"She's a divorced lady, Mr. S. With a kid. She has a hard time making out on what they pay her at the phone company, so I help her out from time to time."
Mr. Savarese nodded, and Mr. Baltazari went on.
"She struck up a conversation with this guy, like I told her, and come back and told me he's a corporal, working at the airport, and that he just come home from Vegas, where he won a lot of money…"
"How much?"
"I don't know exactly, but he was talking about buying a Caddy, so I figure fifteen, twenty big ones, maybe a little more."
Mr. Savarese nodded his understanding again.
"So I figured this was one of those times when you have to do something right away, or forget it," Mr. Baltazari went on. "So I sent the lady back to the cop and told her to tell him she has an uncle who has a car lot who would give him a good deal."