“Gentlemen, how’s it gonna look if you sue?” Mary fought the urge to check her watch. She had so much else to do and was getting nowhere fast. “Your club is mostly male, right?”
“Yeah, it’s true.” Her father shrugged his soft shoulders. “What are you gonna do? Dean was a man’s man.”
“It’s ’cause of the Golddiggers,” Feet explained, and Tony-From-Down-The-Block sighed like a lovesick teenager.
“Weren’t they somethin’ else?”
Mary gathered the question was rhetorical. “As I was saying, your club is mostly men. Isn’t the Sinatra club mostly women?”
Feet interjected, “It’s not a real club, like us. They call it the Sinatra Social Society. They don’t even have bylaws, just parties.”
“Their name don’t even make sense,” Tony-From-Down-The-Block said. “It has too many s’s. You oughta hear ’em. Sounds like snakes with dentures.”
“Women,” Feet said, but Mary let it pass. A flicker of regret crossed her father’s features. He knew where she was going, and she went there.
“Pop, let’s say you take the Sinatra club to court and even that you win. How’s that gonna look? A group of men beating up on a group of women? Is that really what you want?”
Her father blinked.
Feet and Tony-From-Down-The-Block exchanged looks.
Pigeon Tony dropped his cookie into his coffee. Plop, went the sound, and a pignoli nut bobbed to the black surface.
Mary pressed on. “Is that what Dean would have wanted?”
“No, he wouldn’t want that,” her father said, after a minute.
“But we don’t like people insulting Dean,” Feet said.
“Plus, we gotta set the record straight,” said Tony-From-Down-The-Block, and Mary got an idea.
“Tell you what. Why don’t I call Bernice and ask her to apologize. Then you get what you want and nobody gets sued. You can even put it in the newsletter.”
“You sound like your mother,” her father said with a wry smile, and Mary laughed, surprised. Her mother would have sued. Nobody loved a good fight more than her mother. She’d take on all comers, armed with a wooden spoon.
“Bernice Foglia will never apologize,” Tony-From-Down-The-Block said, and Feet shook his head.
“She buried two husbands, both from heart attacks.”
“Let me try, gentlemen. Let’s not get crazy.” Mary needed to resolve this fast. She had three hundred things to do. Her slim BlackBerry Pearl sat next to her on the table, its e-mail screen dark and its phone set on Silent. She hated being tethered to the device, but it was corporate oxygen nowadays. Mary touched her father’s hand. “Dad, why don’t you take the money you’d use on a lawsuit and do something positive? Something good, in Dean’s memory. Something that honors him.”
“I guess we could buy somethin’ for the playground,” said her father, cocking his head.
“Or sponsor a softball team,” said Tony-From-Down-The-Block.
“Or have a party,” said Feet, and on the end, Pigeon Tony looked up.
“O andare al casino.”
And for that, Mary didn’t need a translation.
Fifteen minutes later, she had ushered them out of the conference room, hugged and kissed them all, and walked them out to the reception area. The elevator doors slid open, and the Tony trifecta shuffled inside, followed by her father, to whom she gave a final hug, breathing in his characteristic spice of mothballs and CVS aftershave.
“I love you, Pop,” Mary said, surprised by the catch in her throat. It was paranoid, but she always wondered if it would be the last time she would see him alive. The man was perfectly healthy, but she couldn’t shake the thought. It was a child’s fear, and yet here she was, over thirty, with no excuse except a congenital flair for melodrama.
“Love you, too, honey,” her father said softly. He patted her arm and stepped back into the elevator. “I’m so proud a you-,” he was saying when the stainless-steel doors closed, leaving Mary facing her blurry reflection, wearing an unaccountably heartsick expression and her best navy blue suit.
“Mare?” said a voice, and Mary turned, recovering. It was Marshall Trow, their receptionist, walking from the hallway in a blue cotton shirtdress and tan espadrilles. Her usual smile had vanished, and her brown eyes were concerned. “I just put a friend of yours in your office. I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting.”
“No problem.” Mary switched her BlackBerry back on, and e-mail piled onto the screen, making a mountain she could never climb, like an electronic Sisyphus. “What friend?”
“Her name is Trish Gambone.”
Trash Gambone is here?
“You know her, right?” Marshall blinked.
“Sure, from high school. Here?” Mary couldn’t process it fast enough. Trash, er, Trish, Gambone personified every slight she’d suffered at St. Maria Goretti High School, where Mary had been the myopic straight-A president of the National Honor Society, the May Queen, and the all-around Most Likely to Achieve Sainthood. During the same four years, Trish Gambone had flunked Religion, chain-smoked her way through Spanish I twice, and reigned as the quintessential Mean Girl.
“She said she had to see you and it was confidential. She was beside herself.”
“Upset?”
“She was crying.”
“Really?” Mary felt her heartbeat speed up. A classic fight-or-flight reaction, but she didn’t know which to do.
“I wouldn’t have taken her into your office, but I couldn’t leave her here, hysterical.”
“No, sure, you did the right thing.” Mary slipped the BlackBerry in her pocket, where it began to vibrate like crazy. If it were in her pants, she’d be having a really good time.
Marshall handed her a thick stack of phone messages. “These are for you. I put your mail on your desk, and don’t forget you have the Coradinos coming in fifteen minutes, then the DiTizios and Mrs. Yun.”
“Thanks. Get my calls, please?” Mary hurried from the well-appointed reception area, passed the gold-plated Rosato amp; Associates sign, and hustled down the hallway, where her best friend Judy Carrier called out from her office.
“Mary!” Judy’s lemony blond head popped through her doorway. She had large, sky blue eyes, chopped chin- length hair, and a gap-toothed grin, which somehow looked good on a face as round as a dinner plate. “How about hello? Time for how-was-your-weekend.”
Mary was about to burst with the news. “Guess who’s in my office right this minute.”
“Who?” Judy had on a hot pink T-shirt, yellow cargo pants, and kelly green Dansko clogs. Read, dressed like the colorblind.
“Trash Gambone.”
“That bitch!” Judy’s eyes flew open. “She’s here?”
“In the flesh.” Mary appreciated that Judy reacted with the appropriate hate, even though she’d never met Trash. Only a true girlfriend would hate someone on your say-so. In fact, that’s what girlfriends were for.
“She’s a jerk,” Judy added, for emphasis.
“A skank.”
“A slut. What does she want?”
“I have no idea. Marshall said she was crying.”
“Goody!” Judy clapped. “Maybe she’s in trouble with the law?”
“We can only hope.” Mary almost cheered, then caught herself. “Wait. I feel guilty.”
“Why? She deserves it.”
“I thought I was nicer than this, but I’m not.”
“It’s human nature. Delight in the pain of your enemies. The Germans have a word for it. Schadenfreude.”
