to learning the hotel and restaurant administration profession.
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