At Mr. S.’s recommendation, a number of his business associates had begun to patronize the tailor, and he had found financial security and a good life in the new world. It was understood between the tailor and Mr. Savarese that the tailor would not offer to cut a suit for anyone else from a bolt of cloth from which he had cut a suit for Mr. Savarese.
Shoes were something else. Mr. Savarese was a good enough businessman to understand there was not a sufficient market in Philadelphia to support a custom bootmaker, no matter how skilled, so he had his shoes made in Palermo on a last carved there for him on a visit he had made years before attending the funeral of a great-aunt.
Mr. Savarese did not own an automobile, and rarely drove himself, although he took pains to make sure his driver’s license did not lapse. The Lincoln sedan in which he arrived at Ristorante Alfredo was owned by Classic Livery, which supplied limousines to the funeral trade, and which was owned, in much the same sort of arrangement as that which Mr. Savarese had with Mr. Baltazari vis-à-vis Ristorante Alfredo, by Mr. Paulo Cassandro. Mr. Cassandro, as now, habitually assigned his brother, Pietro, to drive the automobile he made available for Mr. Savarese’s use.
Mr. Savarese, as now, was habitually accompanied by Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselli, a tall, heavyset gentleman in his middle thirties.
When the Lincoln pulled to the curb before the marquee of Ristorante Alfredo, Mr. Rosselli, who was riding in the front seat, got out of the car and walked around the front to the sidewalk. He glanced up and down the street, and then nodded at Mr. Cassandro. Mr. Cassandro then got from behind the wheel and opened the rear door for Mr. Savarese.
By the time Mr. Savarese reached the door of the restaurant, Mr. Rosselli had pulled the door open for him. He stepped inside, where Mr. Baltazari was waiting for him. They shook hands. Mr. Baltazari was always very careful when shaking hands with Mr. Savarese, for his hands were very large and strong, and Mr. Savarese’s rather delicate. Mr. Savarese played the violin and the violoncello, primarily for his own pleasure, but sometimes for friends, say at a wedding or an anniversary celebration. It was considered a great honor to have him play at such gatherings.
Mr. Baltazari led Mr. Savarese and Mr. Rosselli to the table, where the maître d’hôtel was standing behind the chair in which Mr. Savarese would sit, and a waiter (not the wine steward; that sonofabitch having this day, of all goddamned days, with Mr. S. coming in, called in sick) stood before two wine coolers on legs.
Mr. Savarese sat down, and the headwaiter pushed his chair in for him. He looked up at Mr. Rosselli, who was obviously waiting for direction, and made a little gesture with his hand, signaling that Mr. Rosselli should sit down.
“What are you going to feed me, Ricco?” Mr. Savarese asked with a smile.
“I thought some cherrystones,” Mr. Baltazari said. “And there is some very nice swordfish?”
“I leave myself in your hands.”
“I have a nice white wine . . .”
“Anything you think . . .”
“And some nice Fiore e Fiore sparkling . . .”
“The sparkling. It always goes so well with the clams, I think.”
Mr. Baltazari snapped his fingers and the waiter who was standing in for the goddamned wine steward who’d chosen today to fuck off twisted the wire holding the cork in the sparkling wine off, popped the cork, and poured a little in a champagne glass whose stem was hollow to the bottom and cost a fucking fortune and was only taken out of the cabinet when Mr. S. was in the place.
Mr. Savarese tasted the sparkling wine.
“That’s very nice, Ricco,” he said.
“Thank you,” Mr. Baltazari said, beaming, and then added, to the headwaiter, “Put a case of that in Mr. S.’s car.”
“You’re very kind,” Mr. Savarese said.
The waiter filled Mr. Savarese’s glass with the Fiore e Fiore, and then poured some in Mr. Baltazari’s and Mr. Rosselli’s glasses.
Mr. Baltazari then raised his glass, and Mr. Rosselli followed suit.
“Health and long life,” Mr. Baltazari said.
Mr. Savarese smiled.
“What is it the Irish say? ‘May the sun’—or is it the wind?— ‘always be at your back.’ I like that.”
“I think ‘the wind,’ Mr. S.,” Mr. Rosselli said.
“I think it’s the sun,” Mr. Savarese said.
“Now that I think about it, I’m sure you’re right,” Mr. Rosselli said.