On his graduation, Mr. Desidiro spent two years working-he thought of it as an internship-at the Ristorante Alfredo, another of Philadelphia's more elegant Italian restaurants, on whose liquor and restaurant licenses Mr. Cassandro was also listed as owner.
Two months before, Mr. Desidiro had been named manager of La Bochabella. He had told his cousin Paulo that it was his plan that La Bochabella would become known as the best Northern Italian restaurant in Philadelphia, catering to the social and economic upper crust of Philadelphia.
He wanted to raise prices sufficiently to discourage the patronage of those who thought Italian cuisine was primarily sausage and peppers and spaghetti and meatballs, and that fine Italian wine began and ended with Chianti in raffia-wrapped bottles.
"You got eighteen months, Tony," Cousin Paulo had told him. "Mr. S. thinks maybe you got a good idea. You got eighteen months to make it work."
Mr. S. was what his intimates called Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, and Mr. Desidiro was aware that Cousin Paulo's name on the licenses notwithstanding, Mr. Savarese had the controlling interest in both La Bochabella and Ristorante Alfredo.
Mr. Desidiro thought it was fortuitous that Mr. Savarese had chosen tonight to have dinner in La Bochabella with Cousin Paulo-he came in only every couple of weeks, and then mostly for lunch, not dinner-and he would thus have the opportunity to prove to Mr. Savarese that his philosophy for the successful operation of the restaurant was bearing fruit.
He stepped behind the curtain. Both Cousin Paulo and Mr. Savarese interrupted their meal to look at him.
"Is everything all right?" Mr. Desidiro asked. "Do you like the lamb, Mr. Savarese?"
"Very much," Mr. Savarese said. "The garlic-how do I say this? — is delicate."
"We throw garlic buds, crushed but in their skins, directly on the coals when the leg is still raw," Mr. Desidiro said. "It delicately infuses the meat with the flavor, I think. I'm pleased that you like it."
"Very nice," Mr. Savarese said.
"Yeah, Tony," Cassandro said.
"You know who we have outside, waiting for a table?" Mr. Desidiro said, and went on before a reply could be made. "Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt the Fourth, of Nesfoods International. "
"Yes," Mr. Savarese said. "I saw them. I was going to have a word with you about them."
Mr. Desidiro tried not to show his surprise that Mr. Savarese recognized the heir to Nesfoods International and his wife.
"Yes, Mr. Savarese."
"They have a friend with them," Mr. Savarese said.
"A Mr. Payne," Mr. Desidiro said.
"Yes, I know," Mr. Savarese said. "You should be very careful around him, Tony."
"Yes, sir?"
"He is not only a policeman, but he shoots people in the head," Mr. Savarese said. "Isn't that so, Paulo?"
"That's right, Mr. S.," Paulo agreed.
"You remember that crazy man, Tony, who was kidnapping and then doing sexual things to women in Northwest Philadelphia?" Mr. Savarese asked.
"Yes, I do. A policeman shot him?"
"That policeman," Mr. Savarese said.
"Right in the head, Tony," Cassandro said, miming someone shooting a pistol. "Ka-pow! Ka-pow!"
"Very interesting," Mr. Desidiro said, wondering what a cop was doing having dinner-Mr. S. had said "a friend"-with the guy whose father owned Nesfoods International.
"If Mr. Payne should ask for the check, Tony," Mr. Savarese said, "please tell him that it has been taken care of by a friend-make that 'an admirer.' "
"Right, Mr. Savarese. 'An admirer.' "
"Please have the courtesy to let me finish, Tony," Mr. Savarese said.
"Excuse me, Mr. Savarese," Mr. Desidiro said. "I beg your pardon."
"You should learn to listen, Tony," Mr. Savarese said.
"Jesus Christ, Tony!" Cassandro snapped.
"If young Mr. Payne asks for the check, please tell him that it has been taken care of by an admirer of his father," Mr. Savarese said.
"Of his father," Mr. Desidiro said. "Right, Mr. Savarese. "
And then he had a question, which, after a moment, he spoke aloud.
"And if Mr. Nesbitt should ask for the check, Mr. Savarese? "
"Then give it to him," Mr. Savarese said. "I am not indebted to his father."
"Right, Mr. Savarese."
"You understand, Tony," Cassandro said. "You don't mention Mr. S.'s name?"
"Right. Of course not."
"I'm going to Harrisburg," Matt Payne announced after they had all ordered, at the suggestion of the waiter, roast lamb with roasted potatoes, a spinach salad, and were waiting for the shrimp cocktail they had ordered for an appetizer.
"I didn't know anyone went there on purpose," Chad said.
"I am being sent to Harrisburg," Matt corrected himself.
"Susan lives outside Harrisburg," Daffy said.
"You do something wrong?" Chad said, reaching for the bottle of Merlot.
"Of course not," Matt said. "I am known in the department as Detective Perfect. Yeah, that's right, isn't it? She told me that."
"Shit!" Chad said. "Who told you what?"
"Susan Whatsername told me she lived in Harrisburg."
"Camp Hill," Daffy corrected him. "Outside Harrisburg. "
"What are you being sent to Harrisburg for?" Chad asked.
"They are having a crime wave, and require the services of a big-city detective to solve it."
"Bullshit."
"You remember reading about the lieutenant the Department threw in the slammer for protecting the call girl ring?"
"Yeah."
"Not for publication, I'm tying up some loose ends on that," Matt said.
"A call girl ring?" Daffy said. "Right down your alley. You should love that."
"I'm looking forward to it."
"You really should call her," Daffy said.
"Call who? Any call girl? Or do you have a specific one in mind?"
"Susan, you ass."
"Your pal Susan shot me down in flames, you will recall. "
"If at first you don't succeed," Daffy said.
"I have her phone number," Matt said. "You gave it to me."
"Call her. If nothing else, it'll keep you out of trouble with the call girls," Daffy said.
"I don't know," Matt said doubtfully.
"Call her, damn you. She's a very nice girl."
A very nice girl, Matt thought, who is aiding and abetting four murdering lunatics.
"Are you going to be talking to her?" Matt asked.
"I don't know," Daffy replied. "I can. Why?"
"I don't suppose you would be willing to tell her you were only kidding when you told her what an all-around son of a bitch I am?"
"I wasn't kidding. But, okay, I'll call her and put in a good word for you. If you promise to call her when you're there."
"If I can find the time," Matt said.
"Find the time," Chad said.
"She's really a very nice girl," Daffy said.
Now, if you call our Susan and tell her, or let surmise, that my calling her was your and Chad's idea, and I'm not thrilled about it, that just may allay her suspicions that I might have a professional interest in her activities, and this charade will not have been in vain.
"Ah," Matt said. "Here comes the shrimp. Can we change the subject, please?"
"Take her to the Hotel Hershey," Daffy said. "That's romantic as hell."
"All I want to do with her, Daffy," Matt said, sounding serious, "is get her in bed. I didn't say a word about…"
"You bastard!" Daffy said, smiling at him. "Now I will call her. Susan may be just the girl to bring you under control."
Philip Chason, a slightly built fifty-five-year-old who walked with a limp, turned his three-year-old Ford sedan off Essington Avenue-sometimes called "Automobile Row"-and onto the lot of Fiorello's Fine Cars.