Tony is already there, thank God, waiting for her at a tiny, two-stool bar to the left of the entrance.
“Hey!” he says, coming forward to take both hands in his. “You made it! Have any trouble finding the place?”
“Not at all,” Sally says, looking around. And then, with feigned surprise: “Tony, I like it. Very pretty.”
“Nothing fancy,” he says, shrugging. “But the food’s great, and you can’t beat the prices.”
Sally sees a typical third-rate New York trattoria. Small, only nine tables, and all occupied except one. Crude murals of Vesuvius, the Colosseum, Venetian canals painted on wrinkled walls. Plastic plants in plastic pots. Checkered tablecloths. Dripping candles stuck in raffia-bound chianti bottles. Paper napkins. And hanging in the air, a miasma of garlic strong enough to scare off a hundred vampires.
Tony snaps his fingers, and a waiter swathed in a filthy apron comes hustling to usher them to the empty table and remove the Reserved card.
“A little wine first?” he suggests.
“Tony, you order,” Sally says. “You know what’s good.”
“A glass of Soave to start,” Ricci says rapidly to the waiter. “Then the cold antipasto, lobster diavolo, linguine, and maybe a salad of arugola and raddichio. With a bottle of that chianti classico I had the other night. The Monte Vertine.”
“Very good,” the waiter says, nodding approvingly.
“Sound good to you?” Tony asks Sally.
“Sounds yummy. You eat like this every night?”
He gives her his sizzling smile, eyes half-lidded. “This is an occasion. Dinner with the boss.”
“Let’s forget about that,” she says, touching his hand, “and just enjoy.”
The food is unexpectedly good. Maybe a little harsh, a little too garlicky, but Sally exclaims with delight over every course, the wine, the crusty bread, the prompt and efficient service.
“You know how to live,” she tells Tony.
“Everyone knows how to live,” he says. “All you need is money.”
“That’s so true,” Sally says. “It’s what makes the world go ’round, isn’t it?”
She gets him talking about himself, his family, his boyhood in Salerno, a motor scooter he owned, a job he had making plaster statues of saints. She bends close to listen to his nonstop monologue over the loud talk and shouted laughter of the other diners, all the deafening sounds bouncing off the low tin ceiling. But, by leaning forward, she gets a whiff of his cologne mixed with the garlic, and she sits back.
She has one glass of the red wine and lets him finish the bottle. He drinks and eats enthusiastically with, she is bemused to note, a corner of the paper napkin tucked into his collar and the remainder spread over his chest, hiding a tie of hellish design.
He insists on tortoni and espresso, and then amaretti with ponies of Strega. Sally takes one sip of the liqueur and then pushes the glass toward Tony.
“You finish,” she says.
“Sure,” he says, and downs it in one gulp.
It’s after ten o’clock when they rise to leave. He pays the bill with cash, Sally sees-no plastic for him-and leaves a lordly tip. They come out into a black, close night, the sky clotted with clouds and a warm, soft mist drifting. They stand for a moment in the doorway.
“Hey,” he says, “I didn’t tell you how great you look. That’s the way a woman should dress. Very
“Thank you,” she says, smiling.
“I mean, a woman doesn’t have to show everything she’s got in public. Am I right?”
“Absolutely,” Sally says, taking his arm. “Where are you parked, Tony?”
“Well, uh, my car’s in the garage right now. Transmission trouble. I cabbed down.”
She knows he’s lying; the poor shlumpf doesn’t own wheels.
“Then we’ll take mine,” she says brightly. “It’s only two blocks away; we won’t get wet.”
They skip, laughing, through the mizzle until Sally tugs him to a halt alongside her silver Mazda RX-7. “Here we are,” she says.
He looks at the car with astonishment. “This is yours?”
“All mine. You like?”
“C’mon, get in,” Sally says. “You can drive.”
They slide into the bucket seats. Tony caresses the wheel with his palms, staring at the dash. “Radio, air conditioner, cassette deck,” he says. “Even a compass. You got everything.”
“All the comforts of home,” she says lightly. “I also own a Cadillac, but this baby is more fun to drive.”
“I wish-” he starts, then suddenly stops.
They sit in dimness, windows opened a few inches to let in moist night air. The windshield is beaded with mist, and illumination from streetlights is broken into watery patterns, as irregular as pieces from a jigsaw puzzle.
“If you had your druthers, Tony,” she says quietly, “what kind of a car would you like?”
“A Jaguar,” he says promptly. “The XJ-SC Cabriolet. You know the car?”
“I’ve seen it. A beauty. You have expensive tastes.”
“Yes,” he says sadly, “I do. Maybe someday …”
“Maybe sooner than you think,” she says. “Do you mind if we sit here a few minutes? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” he says. “The night’s young.”
In spite of all her rehearsals and imagined scenarios, she finds it difficult to state or even hint at what she wants. But Tony is no great brain, she tells herself, so she figures her best bet is to come on as blunt and obvious as possible. Then she can gauge his reaction and play him from there.
“That cousin of yours,” she says. “Mario. What do you think of him?”
Ricci shrugs. “He’s okay, I guess. Sometimes he thinks he’s my father. He knows what he wants.”
“Yeah,” Sally says with a short laugh. “He wants me.”
Tony turns to peer at her in the gloom. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”
“The guy is driving me crazy. He’s after me every day. He won’t let up. I don’t know what to do about it.”
“He is after you? I don’t understand. You pay your dues promptly.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Tony? That cousin of yours is trying to get me into bed. He’s told me a hundred times what he wants to do to me.”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. You didn’t know?”
“I swear I didn’t.”
“I thought he might have said something about it. I know how men talk.”
“Mario is not like that. He is very-how do you say it? — very nearmouthed.”
“Closemouthed.”
“Yes, closemouthed. He tells me nothing. Just Tony, do this; Tony, do that. He keeps his secrets.”
“Well, I’m one of them. No way am I going to spread my legs for that guy. He disgusts me. But I don’t know how to make him leave me alone. I’m not going to ask you to talk to him about it.”
“Holy Mother, no! I couldn’t do that.”
“Of course you couldn’t. Because then he’d know I had talked to you about it. He’d get jealous because you’re young and handsome, and he’d think you and I have something going.”
“Yes,” he says, “that’s true.”
“Tony,” she says, putting a hand on his thigh, “what am I going to do?”
“You told him you don’t want, uh, what he wants?”
“I told him a hundred times, but he won’t take no for an answer. He just keeps after me. Calls me almost every day. Sends me letters. Dirty letters-you know?”
Tony nods. “He is acting like a fool. If a woman says no to me, I say goodbye. There is always another.”
“You think I haven’t told him that? But it hasn’t done any good. I’ve got to get him out of my life, but I don’t
