Mafia Chic (11 page)

R
obert sent me a dozen roses at work on Wednesday of that week. A dozen red, long stemmed, in a handblown crystal vase. I called to thank him. I could only remember one other time that I was sent flowers, and those were make-up flowers after a big fight, not “I-just-think-you’re-beautiful flowers.”

“Thank you, Robert, they’re gorgeous.”

“Not half as beautiful as you.”

“Okay…now you’re going completely over the top.” I laughed.

“Can’t a man send his girlfriend flowers?”

I was silent.

“Um…the woman he’s dating,” he corrected. “I don’t mean to scare you off.”

“That’s all right. Really. And they’re lovely.”

“Can I come to Teddi’s for lunch today?”

“I’d love it. The special is a veal Florentine. I highly recommend it.”

“I’ll drop by at noon. And I’ll have the special.”

“See you then.”

After I hung up with Robert, I speed-dialed Diana.

“Diana Kent,” she sang into the phone.

“Guess who just sent me a dozen long-stemmed roses?”

“James Bond.”

“No.”

“Oh, damn.” She sounded crestfallen. “No
Live and Let Die
? No
Octopussy
? No
From Russia with Love
?”

“No. They’re with love all right, but from Robert. For no reason. Just because he cares—and thinks I’m beautiful. What do you think?”

“I think…um…”

“What?”

“I think that maybe you’re right. I think that your family and Robert…well…how can it ever work?”

“Diana, you said it yourself. They can’t very well expect me to date a mobster. They’ll get used to him.”

“I don’t know, Teddi. This is a lot to get used to. You’re from two different worlds. Didn’t you say his family is old money? Snobbish money. Can you imagine him saying to Mumsy, ‘Why, Mumsy, we’re off on a foxhunt. And may I mention…I’m dating the granddaughter of Angelo Marcello’?”

“You’re from old money. Old British money. Your parents love me.”

“Pish posh. They don’t so much love you as hate me. They love you to spite me. I could live with…with, oh, I don’t know, a serial killer and they’d think it was fine so long as I wasn’t living with
them.
”

“Thanks.”

“Nothing personal. I just hope you know what you’re getting into.”

“I thought you understood. I thought you liked Robert.”

“Well, that was before he was so serious as to send you a dozen red roses.”

“It’s not serious. It’s a very nice gesture, though, don’t you think?” Diana was suddenly acting quite strange.

“Yes. What am I saying? Of course!”

“Thanks. I thought so, too. He’s coming here for lunch.”

“Lunch? Splendid… And what about our FBI agent?”

“
Our
agent? He’s not our agent. He’s the enemy, Diana. Don’t forget that.”

“Well, it’s easy to forget that when you’re looking at biceps that are like…well, like big massive hunky biceps.”

“Articulate.”

“Thank you.”

“Is Tony telling you he doesn’t like Robert, Diana? Is he turning you against this whole thing?”

“Tony would do nothing of the sort. He’s said a dozen times he just wants you to be happy.” She sounded very hurt.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse Tony of anything. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m really happy, Diana. Tell me you’re happy for me.”

“Delirious.”

“Thanks. Love ya.”

“Love you, too. Hugs and kisses, x’s and o’s.”

I hung up the phone. Diana sounded…disapproving. Melancholy. It was Tony, I was sure of it. Maybe her dating one of the Marcello clan wasn’t that good an idea after all.

Two hours later, I stood over Robert’s table in my chef coat and checked pants, a red handkerchief around my neck, my hair up in a bun, and waited for his veal verdict.

“This is perfect. Unbelievable. Now you’re in big trouble. I’m going to ask you to cook for me at home.” He winked at me and spontaneously reached out his hand to hold mine.

Being a chef is not particularly glamorous. Your skin is constantly exposed to oil and steam, your coat to splatters and stains. Your hair has to be pulled up and in a hairnet or a hat or kerchief. In short, it is not for the cosmetically insecure. For instance, Diana, who I think was
born
wearing lipstick, would sooner break some legs for my uncle Vito than work in a restaurant. Yet Robert seemed oblivious to my less-than-sexy appearance.

“Isn’t that your uncle Lou and cousin Tony?”

“Where?” I feigned ignorance, craning my neck.

“Over there. In the corner.”

“So it is. I told you my family comes in a lot.”

“I should ask them to join me. It would be the polite thing to do.”

Politeness. In my family, there was no such thing as politeness. Everything was everybody’s business. After Sunday dinner, my mother had phoned to say she was quite “taken” with my “beau” because he was on the
Jerry Turner
show. My father, she said (he wouldn’t use up his twelve-word monthly allotment), thought Robert was “a little wormy.” I just rolled my eyes. I consider rolled eyes the Italian version of Diana’s “smile and nod.”

“They’re almost done, Robert. They don’t linger over lunch.”

“Well then, I’ll ask them over to my table for some dessert and coffee. You can’t tell me they pass up homemade tiramisu.”

Actually,
nothing
came between Uncle Lou and his des
sert. But just as he was about to invite them over, Quinn came and sat down in the chair opposite Robert and stuck out his hand. Robert let go of my hand and reached over to shake Quinn’s.

“Teddi’s favorite cousin and partner, Quinn.”

“Robert Wharton. Nice to meet you.”

“Funny, you don’t look insane.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dating Don Angelo Marcello’s
only
granddaughter? Are you crazy, man? The Gallo side is bad enough.”

I slammed my foot into Quinn’s instep. “
Thanks
so much for dropping by, Quinn, but I think there’s an
emergency
in the kitchen.”

“Ow! That’s your territory. So, Robert, can I get you a bit of sambuca?”

“No. I’d fall asleep this afternoon, and I have a big interview with an assistant D.A.”

“You know what D.A. stands for in this family, right?” Quinn asked.

“District attorney?”

Quinn shook his head. “Dumb ass.”

Robert laughed and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “I was going to stay for dessert, but I should really go.”

“Lunch is on me,” Quinn said.

“I couldn’t let you do that. I didn’t expect that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just tip the waitress pretty good. Cammie is mad at me.”

I glared at Quinn.

He shrugged. “Sorry, little cuz, she accused me of flirting with a Central Park Wester last night. Now, other faults aside, Teddi honey, baby, you
know
the trust-fund set is not my type. They, on the other hand, are irresistibly drawn to
the bad boy. But they’re worse than Main Line Philly. So boring.” He affected a yawn.

I shook my head in exasperation. “Robert’s from Philly.”

“Oh. Sorry there, Robert. But then again, I can call it like it is because
I’m
not dating you.”

Robert didn’t look the slightest bit irritated. Like everyone, he accepted Quinn’s motormouth because Quinn said everything as if it were an intimate joke between best friends.

“Good thing we’re not dating, Quinn. I’m sure the family would have an even harder time accepting that.”

“Good one, Robert. And you’re right. We kind of wondered for a while if Michael, Teddi’s brother, might be gay. He was always primping in the mirror, had this whole ‘I’m-so-beautiful’ thing going.”

I shook my head. The original mirror freak was talking about
my brother
and the mirror? I looked at Robert. “My brother loves blondes with lots of silicone, so this wondering didn’t go on for long.”

Robert smiled.

Quinn continued, “True enough. So, Robert…I hear you met the family on Sunday.”

“Yeah. It went pretty well.”

“Hmm. Did you find a dead fish in your car after it was over?”

“No.”

“No one left a dead rat on your welcome mat?”

“No.”

“I suppose that’s a start, then. Hey…what are you?”

Robert looked completely confused.

“Italian…Irish…what?”

“White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, my friend.”

Quinn made the sign of the cross. “Buddy, if you can put up with the Gallos and Marcellos for my cousin here, you must be an all-right guy.” Then he stood up, said goodbye and walked over to the bar.

I sat down where Quinn had been. “Well, that’s the opinionated, bigmouthed, arrogant yet adorable Quinn. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. Chef Jeff will likely poison our customers.”

“And you left him in charge of your kitchen?”

“Not for long.” I shook my head, smiling. “He’s just a kid. Nineteen. Wants to learn to cook more than anything. Unless you count body ‘design.’ Spends a portion of
every
paycheck on either a piercing or a tattoo. Don’t think there’s
anything
not pierced. Including you-know-where. Tribal tattoos everywhere. Good cook but can’t remember directions well. So if I say, ‘Put in two teaspoons of oregano,’ and then I’m off doing something else, he’ll forget, won’t ask and add two heaping
tablespoons.
This is okay when we’re dealing with oregano. This was not okay when he added two cups of salt to the gravy instead of a few dashes of sugar. Anyway, he has no family. Lives in a shithole apartment. And Quinn and I are fond of him.”

Robert just stared at me.

“What?”

“Every time I think you can’t be more perfect, you tell me something like this.”

“What, that I hire incorrigible punks with nose and penis piercings?”

“No. That you give someone a chance.”

I shrugged. “Trust me…I’m no saint.”

I stood and then leaned down to kiss him. From across the restaurant, I could see Tony and Uncle Lou’s obvious
displeasure at a public display of affection. I ignored them and went back to the kitchen. Chef Jeff had a small disaster on his hands…carmelized onions that had gone from carmelized straight through to burned beyond recognition.

“Don’t worry, Jeff…just start a new pan of them.”

“Okay. Hey, Teddi…have to show you my calf. Have a new tattoo. Green-and-red dragon.”

“Delightful.”

After the lunch crowd dispersed, Quinn came back and signaled me to come to the bar.

“What’s up?”

“Have a seat, cuz.” He poured me a sambuca, and then he poured himself one.

“What?”

“Pip just called.”

Pip was our name—Quinn’s and Lady Di’s actually—for our accountant. Pip, as in Pipsqueak. Roger Peterson was five foot two in stockinged feet with a tiny build and delicate bone structure that made him look like a real live elf.

“And?”

“And we’re going to have trouble making payroll this month.”

“We’ve been slammed…busy. How could we be running in the red?”

“We’re not turning tables on Friday night the way we should. We’re not getting the late-night crowd. We’re getting family…but they linger. And without them, we’re not filling the place. Now, I know you don’t want to meet Di’s—”

“Don’t even say it.” He was referring to Lady Di’s scheme to have me write a Mafia cookbook and meet with a literary agent she knew.

“You need to think about it. Discuss it with Di.”

“Quinn, if I tell you something, and swear you to secrecy, will you keep the
omerta?
”

Quinn was leaning on the bar, staring straight at me as I sat in a stool. “Look,” he said, “
I
was the one who found a severed hand in your grandfather’s extra freezer. You’re the only one I ever told that to.”

“Good. Then we’re clear….” I downed the rest of my sambuca in a shot.

“Does this have something to do with loverboy? Are you—” he lowered his voice “—pregnant?”

I shoved at him over the bar. “No, I’m not pregnant, you idiot!”

“What, then?”

“The FBI is snooping around.”

“What?” He looked around the place. Everyone in my family could spot a cop or a fed inside of thirty seconds, from their shoes to their haircuts, to their posture. We were raised to know the good guys—us—from the assholes—them.

“He’s not here. This one agent in particular. Family shit. You know how it goes. I think he believes we’re legit, but face it, we both have family on the wrong side of the legal system, and we own the
classic
money-laundering business. If we were selling pizza pies, we’d be in handcuffs, I swear.”

“Pip makes sure every number adds up.”

“Thanks to
me.
You’d cook the books if you could. No…it’s not like they could find anything, anyway. Not here.”

“And what does that have to do with Di’s idea of making this place the hottest joint in town? She’s offered to do some PR…if you do a cookbook….”

“It’s just
not
a good time to draw attention to ourselves.”

“I’m still for it.”

I was silent. I pushed my glass forward. “Pour me another sambuca.”

“Sure thing.” He filled my small brandy snifter and added three more coffee beans. “We need extra luck and prosperity.”

“You know why we are a good pair, Quinn?”

“You can cook, and I can bring the crowds in…. and charm them. Let’s not forget charm them.”

“Yeah, that. And you’re a detail man. You can spot a wineglass with water spots from ten tables away. But also I do the big-picture thinking, and you can’t think past the end of your penis.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He stood upright from where he was leaning on the bar, and I could see his perfectly cut physique shown off to perfection in his black silky T-shirt. “I don’t do all my thinking with my dick, Teddi.”

“Yes. You do.” I said it softly. A little sadly. “Even the ponies. You don’t think I’ve figured out the reason you love them is the rush, the orgasm, when you win, when your filly is turning the last lap and you’re urging her on.”