Option 3 is scary, no doubt about it, and she wonders if she has the balls for it. She thinks she might be able to bring it off, but the risks are horrendous. Failure would mean the loss of the business and, possibly, the loss of Sally Steiner.
It’s a gamble, the biggest gamble she’s ever made in her life. But she underlines the number 3 on her scratch pad with heavy strokes, and decides to go for broke. Jake would approve; she’s certain of that. She starts plotting the details.
Later that day she calls Eddie. Paul Ramsey isn’t there, but her brother assures her that Paul unloaded all the stocks and asked the broker to send him a check.
“Good enough,” Sally says. “And you haven’t had any unexpected visitors-like a guy from the SEC?”
“No one’s showed up,” Eddie says. “What’s going on, Sal?”
“Nothing to worry about. When’s your show at the gallery?”
“In about a month. Cocktail party at the opening. You’ll come, won’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll even tell everyone I posed for your masterpiece. Eddie …”
“Yeah, Sal?”
“I love you, baby.”
He laughs. “What brought that on?”
“I just want to make sure you know.”
“I know,” her brother says, his voice soft. “And I love you, dear, and want the best for you.”
She hangs up before she starts bawling. She goes upstairs to her mother’s bedroom where Becky and Martha are playing backgammon, with the housekeeper shaking the dice cup for both of them. Sally sits with them awhile, watching the game and making them laugh with her ribald comments.
Martha goes downstairs to start dinner, and Sally pulls up a hassock alongside her mother’s wheelchair.
“I won’t be home for dinner, ma,” she says. “I’m driving into the city. I got a date.”
“A date?” Becky says, then smiles happily. “That’s wonderful! But listen, you deserve, you work so hard. A nice boy?”
“Very nice. And very, very handsome.” Then, knowing what her mother’s reaction will be: “A regular John Garfield.”
“Mazeltov!” Becky cries, and adds dreamily, “John Garfield. How I loved that man. So tell me, how did you meet?”
“Through business.”
“He’s got money?”
“Plenty.”
“And what’s his name?”
“Anthony. He’s Italian.”
“That’s all right, too,” her mother says. “I know some very nice Italian people. So where are you going?”
“To an Italian restaurant,” Sally says, laughing. “Where else?”
“You’ll be home early?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”
“He lives in the city?”
“Yeah, ma.”
“So you’ll be driving home alone?”
Sally nods.
“Be careful. Drive with your windows up and the doors locked. You promise?”
“I promise.”
Sally rises, then bends over her mother, embraces her, kisses her velvety cheeks. “I love you, ma.”
Tears come to Becky’s eyes. “I love you, too. I am so lucky, having a daughter like you. Every day I thank God.”
“Yeah,” Sally says huskily, “we’re both lucky. Eat all your dinner and have a nice evening.”
“You, too,” her mother cries gaily. “Enjoy! Enjoy!”
Sally goes to her bedroom to get ready. Another shower, warm this time, with scented soap. She decides to wear her high-necked black sheath, figuring all the floozies Anthony Ricci has been dating probably dress like tarts with their tits spilling out. So she wears her conservative black with a pearl choker. And, examining herself in a full-length mirror, wonders sourly if she looks like the older wealthy woman that Ricci seeks.
It’s a long drive into the city and down to Mulberry Street. But the trip goes swiftly as she runs scenarios through her mind, trying to decide the best way to spin this simpleton. It’s been a long time since she’s come on to a guy, and she hopes it’s like riding a bicycle: You never forget how.
She gets down to Little Italy in plenty of time, but has to cruise around for a while, looking for a parking space. She finally finds an empty slot two blocks away. She slips the loaded pistol into her purse, locks the car, and walks back to Brolio’s. It looks like a scuzzy joint to her, but you never know.
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 elegante.”
“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.”