Mafia Chic (8 page)

“This could be very big for me.”

“Don’t you find his show a little…”

“What?”

“A little…oh, I don’t know, a little scandalous? A little over the top?”

I held my breath. I really liked Robert, and I wasn’t looking to have our first argument. But he smiled at me and squeezed my hand again. “I’m a big boy. Yes, there’s a little…more of that kind of stuff than I’d like, to be sure.
Come on, you’re looking at the boy raised on Main Line politeness. But face it, Teddi. Without journalists like Turner shining the light in the darkness, where would we be? Look at Watergate. Look at all the good journalists do. If we have to go for ratings once in a while, it’s just a sign of what the public wants. Regardless, Teddi, I plan on playing by the book.”

“Well then, I guess we should be celebrating. Good for you!” I lifted my glass of red wine in a toast. He lifted his, and we clinked glasses.

“You look beautiful tonight, Teddi.”

“Thanks.” I had borrowed another elegant dress of Di’s by a Japanese designer I had never heard of, but whom Diana had discovered in a fashion magazine and then pestered her father to ship back on yet another trip of his to Japan. Frankly, though she complained about her “veddy, veddy” British upbringing, I was willing to guess that in his own stiff way, Mr. Kent, earl of something or other, was wrapped around his daughter’s finger, just as my father and my Poppy were wrapped around mine. The bonus? In my family, Jimmy Choo shoes and fake Rolexes. In hers? Dresses so expensive one barely dared to sweat in them.

“So does this restaurant feel like home to you?”

I looked around at waiters bustling out of the kitchen with heaping plates of pasta. “Very much like home.”

“I’ll have to come in to Teddi’s. I wanted to go there for lunch today, but I didn’t know if there was…I don’t know, a protocol for showing up when the woman you like very much owns the place. I worried maybe you don’t like cooking for people you know.”

I looked across the table at him, melting a little. “That is really so sweet. I don’t think anyone else has ever thought
of how I might feel in that situation. It is kind of weird when people I know come in. Not family—they come in all the time, and tip big. I think they’re convinced if they don’t eat there that Quinn and I will starve. But it does feel weird sometimes when an acquaintance or friend drops by. I feel more pressure in the kitchen. Anyway…Teddi’s isn’t authentic old Italian. It’s more a New York bistro. Romantic. Classy. Though in the bar, there’s a nod to the Old World and Quinn’s and my families.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, the main dining room we had faux-painted, and there are fresh flowers on every table, that sort of thing. But in the bar, we have old black-and-white pictures of both our families in frames, hung so close together there’s barely any wall showing. There are pictures of our parents and our grandparents. There’s a picture of Ellis Island. A picture my grandfather took of the Statue of Liberty the first time he saw it.”

“I can’t wait to see the pictures. The whole place. I guess that’s why I chose this restaurant—truthfully I asked around at work. I wanted to take you someplace you’d love.”

“Well, this place is terrific. My father would feel right at home here.”

He laughed. “What is your father like?”

“Oh…Dad is kind of hard to explain. He’s obsessed with sports—for gambling reasons. He’s loud. A little gruff. He’s terrified of my mother, and at the same time they go toe-to-toe. He likes to pretend he doesn’t hear her, so growing up, his face was always buried in the racing sheets and the newspapers. He didn’t talk much. I think he had an allotted word requirement of twelve a month. If I called home from college and he happened to answer the phone, he’d
say—” I lowered my voice to affect my father “—‘Hi…let me get your mother.’ Note that was six words. He said it twice a month when I caught him on the phone and we were at twelve.”

“I bet he’s a softie underneath it all.”

“Oh, absolutely. When I was fifteen and my appendix almost burst, he drove me to the hospital, didn’t want to wait for an ambulance. Then he visited a church for the first time since his wedding day and said confession and six rosaries. The surgery was cutting it close. They thought my appendix might burst right on the table, and the recovery was none too fun. My father, they tell me, never left the hallway outside my room. Not once. He didn’t come in to see me, either—at least not when I was awake—but I sensed his presence out in the hall. Sort of like a rottweiler guarding his family…. Now that I’m older, he and I talk a bit more. I’m his princess.”

“And your mother?”

“Annoying. Overbearing. Big hair. Big heart.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the sneaky Agent Petrocelli watching us over his glass of…I guessed club soda.

“Robert, I’m going to the ladies’ room.” I stood. As I left my seat, he rose out of his seat. Manners. I liked a man with manners.

Walking back to the bar area, I stopped right in front of Agent Petrocelli.

“Stop following me around.”

“What makes you think I’m following you?” He played with the cocktail straw in his soda.

“Look, keep this up and I’ll—” I stopped. I’d what? Call the cops? Make sure he slept with the fishes? What?

“Look…I’m just doing my job, Teddi.”

“Don’t call me Teddi. That’s what my family and friends call me.”

“I know. You’re Grandpa Marcello’s Teddi Bear.”

“You fucking bastard.” My voice trembled, and I could see the customers near us leaning in and listening attentively.

“Look…I have a job to do. And so do you, apparently.”

“Fuck off.” I turned to go, heading toward the ladies’ room. My back was to him when he said the words that would wake me in a cold sweat for days to come.

“Did you know your pal, Diana Kent, aka Lady Di, is very close to having her green card revoked?”

I turned. “Are you threatening me?”

“No. Just stating a fact.”

I felt dizzy. Diana was my best and only true-blue friend. I couldn’t even picture my world without her. And what about Tony? He would be devastated. Maybe I had been wrong in not telling Poppy about the FBI tailing us. He could fix something as simple as a green card. Couldn’t he? How many politicians did he have in his pocket? I took a deep breath. “Keep away from her. From us.”

“I’d like to, but that package she passed off to your cousin Tony two weeks ago makes that impossible. You might want to think about talking to me, Teddi. Off the record, of course. I’d hate to see your friend shipped back to rainy old England.”

The restaurant swam round me. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. So I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed a drink on the bar and threw it in his face.

“Va fa napole.”

Go to Naples, Agent Petrocelli. Go to hell.

I
f sleep was difficult before, it was impossible now. Every day, I half expected immigration officials to come pounding on our apartment door and haul Diana away. What did Agent Petrocelli mean by “revoke” her green card? I racked my brains trying to think of the best plan to keep her here, and more, I tried to figure out what the hell this FBI agent was so fired up about.

On Friday night, Di had decided to stay home and nurse a slightly sore throat. When I got home at twelve-thirty in the morning, she was waiting with champagne, had turned on George Michael full blast (much to my musical chagrin) and ordered take-out Chinese. The joys of New York City. Chinese takeout at one o’clock in the morning. We ate, cross-legged on her bed, as she kept getting up to clean her closet and decide on just the right outfit for her first official date with Tony on Sunday.

“Robert’s coming to dinner, too, you know.”

“That’s right! I completely forgot. Let’s go on a double date after dinner. It will be so much fun.”

“No. Too high school. You go on your first real date with Tony.”

“Is your Robert ready for Sunday dinner with all those Marcellos hovering around him?”

“Please. No man could be ready for this. But I asked him over to dinner because Poppy Marcello made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Robert said he’d be—and I quote—‘delighted’ to meet my family. Personally, I feel like it’s too soon.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll love him. Intelligent, handsome, smart and now a producer.”

“He’s also as WASPy as they come. He may faint when the heads come out.”

“Give him a little credit. If I can eat lamby brains, he can. It’s like that show. What’s it called?”

“I have no idea. There’s a show with lamb brains on it?” I actually got to watch very little television beyond the late-night talk shows and
Law & Order
reruns. I thought of getting a TiVo until I realized I didn’t even have the time to watch taped TV.

“What the hell is it called? Oh, yes.
Fear Factor.
”

“What do they do? Terrorize people?”

“Mmm-hmm. They make them eat disgusting things.”

“Like lamb’s head?”

“No, worse. Live maggots and raw cow testicles.”

I looked down at my Chinese food. “That’s disgusting. Can we not talk about this?”

She put down her chopsticks and moo goo gai pan, and went back to her closet. “What do you think of this?” She held up a black-knit sweater dress by Calvin Klein, which I happened to know looked terrific on her.

“Good choice,” I said without much enthusiasm.

“Teddi? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“There is something wrong. I can feel it. I can see it. Something’s been on your mind since your date with Robert. When I stopped in for early supper last night, Quinn said he thought you were lovesick.”

“Please. Quinn doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“It’s a shame he’s such a slut. He really is delicious.”

“Quinn? Yeah. You are the only beautiful woman since puberty to turn him down flat, you know. He considers you the Mount Everest of conquests.”

“I know. He’s always so utterly well mannered when he thinks I am watching him. When he doesn’t, he’s up to his old tricks. ‘Can’t teach an old dog,’ that sort of thing. But I’m afraid this is one mountain the very good-looking Irish-Italian charmer will not climb, if you catch my meaning. Meaningless sex…no longer for me. I like a little substance there. Quinn is a playboy through and through.”

“I hear he’s unbelievable in bed. The waitresses compare notes at work. You would think they were talking about the Dalai Lama or something.”

“What the hell kind of analogy is that? A holy man of sex? Please. Just because Quinn may know where a G-spot is doesn’t make him good in bed. It takes more than technique.”

“Oh, trust me. He has more than technique. He makes every woman feel beautiful.”

“So are you?”

“What? Beautiful?”

“Oh, of course you are. Why do you ask?”

“Di…focus once again. What are you talking about?”

She thought a moment, lifted her chopsticks, then found her train of thought. “Are you lovesick?”

“No, Di, I am not. I like Robert, but you know me. I’m a little cautious… Hey, do you happen to know…if you married my cousin Tony, would that automatically make you a U.S. citizen?”

She laughed, putting down her food to go pull out her scarves and start to sort them. “No, silly. Besides, I like being an English citizen. Even if we Brits can’t make good bagels. And who’s talking marriage?”

“No one. I just wondered. I can’t imagine if you ever went back to England, Di. I need you.”

“Well…I need you, too, silly girl. But I don’t plan on departing on the
QEII
anytime soon.” She looked thoughtful. “Something’s wrong, and I know just the cure for what ails you. Back in a jiff.”

She dashed out her bedroom door, leaving me to stare at her open closet, clothes thrown on the floor in haphazard piles. No matter how much organizing she did tonight, it would be a mess inside of three days. I wondered what my cousin would think of a woman who thought gravy was something brown you put over turkey and mashed potatoes and wouldn’t know how to clean a house if her life depended on it; Di was a stark contrast to his own mother, Aunt Tess, who seemed to go through life wearing thick, yellow rubber gloves with a bottle of Formula 409 strapped to her hip.

“Here we go.” Di practically sang as she floated back through the door with a pair of cannoli perched on a plate.

“What’s this?”

“I bought another box of these pastries for Tony. I’m not saying he’s spending the night on Sunday, but just in case, I wanted to surprise him.”

“Di…these will be soggy and disgusting by Sunday, let alone Monday morning.”

She looked crestfallen. “Damn. Will they? I know…I’ll trot on down to the car and bring them to him tonight. He must be there.” She walked across the hallway to my room and peered out the window. “There he is!”

Coming back, she pulled a sweater out of her closet. “I won’t be long. Why don’t you eat one while I’m down there?”

“Sure thing. Italian pastry and chicken and cashews. What an inviting combination.”

“Washed down with champagne, don’t forget! Besides…is there
anything
that really goes with these god-awful, half-sour pastries?”

I shook my head. “Hang with Tony long enough and he’ll have you eating them with little lamb heads for lunch every day.”

“God, you are a sick girl…. I’ll be right back.” I heard her walk down the hall, fuss in the kitchen and then exit our apartment.

I stared at the cannoli. They weren’t as authentic as the ones I dragged home from Brooklyn, but they didn’t look half-bad. I stuck my finger into the ricotta and brought it to my mouth. A chocolate chip perched precariously on the tip of my index finger. Delicious.

And then, mid-bite, I had a revelation.

The box of cannoli.

The hand-off to Tony.

I stared at the pastries on the plate. That was what Agent Petrocelli saw. Or thought he saw. Di delivering a package to Tony. Could our little ruse to ditch my cousin the night of my first date with Robert now mean Diana would be sent packing across the Atlantic?

I stood and walked into my room. I found my purse and fished out the card for Special Agent Petrocelli. The man I’d thrown a Scotch and soda on.

I had two choices. I could either convince Mr. FBI that Diana was completely innocent, even as she now made happy plans to date my cousin, or I could tell Poppy Marcello everything and watch as he made me pack up all my belongings and move back home to Brooklyn.

With trembling hands, I picked up the phone and dialed the number Mark Petrocelli gave me.

Feeling like a secret agent myself, I made plans to meet Mark Petrocelli in Central Park.

While Diana was still sound asleep, I bundled into a jacket on Saturday morning, threw a scarf around my neck and hailed a cab to leave me at the carousel in the park. My cousin Tony only watched over me in the evenings—when, in Poppy’s mind, killers and perverts roamed the city like wild jackals—so I was certain no one had followed me. I wore sunglasses, channeling, as Di would put it, my inner Pussy Galore.

Mark Petrocelli was pacing by the carousel. Even though his back was to me, I knew it was him. My heartbeat quickened, and I willed it to slow down, practicing my yogic breathing. A lot of good it did me. My nerves got the better of me, anyway, and my teeth chattered involuntarily. To top things off, I could feel myself blushing. Why did he have to be so good-looking? Why couldn’t he be doughy, balding, with bad teeth and pockmarks?

I walked over to him and cleared my throat.

“Teddi.” He smiled as he spun around. “Good morning!”

Wind whipped my hair around my face. “Can this be an off-the-record conversation?”

“Sure. Let’s walk.”

We strolled side by side through the park, to anyone else looking like lovers who’d met for a Saturday walk.

“Look…you have to believe me. Di and I have nothing to do with the family business. You need to stop following us.”

“If you have nothing to do with the family business, why are you so important that you have a bodyguard?”

“I don’t.”

“I see your cousin Anthony and your uncle Lou outside your apartment at all hours. I’ve seen a few things, Teddi. You also happen to own a largely cash business, a restaurant. In a family that…let’s just say might—just maybe—have an interest in laundering money.”

My restaurant. That’s what had gotten them interested in me in the first place.

“My restaurant is squeaky clean. You can bring a van full of IRS agents to climb up my ass, but I am telling you, they won’t so much as find a penny out of place. My accountant is not a family accountant. He is an anal little man with a Harvard degree and a nervous penchant for chewing on the ends of his pencils. If he even
hears
the word
Mafia
he breaks out in a cold sweat. My partner, Quinn, is also squeaky clean.”

“He’s in thirty thousand to his bookie, Teddi.”

“And next week he’ll break even. It’s the story of Quinn’s life. He bets the ponies during racing season…
legally,
I may add. And does amazingly well at the track. He blows it all during football season when he allows whatever woman he’s
banging to tell him which team has the prettier uniform. If that’s the worst thing you have on Quinn, you’re in trouble. As for Teddi’s…he runs it honestly—because I’d have his balls on a dinner plate if he didn’t and he knows it, no matter how charming he may be.”

“I wouldn’t want to mess with you, Teddi.” Agent Petrocelli looked over at me and grinned. “You would have kicked ass at Quantico.”

“Listen to me…my restaurant is clean. Quinn may be a Gallo, but he’s not a made man.”

“You ever see the lunch crowd there? The dinner crowd? It’s fifty percent wise guy.”

“They think Quinn and I will go under if they don’t eat there. They order the most expensive things on the menu.” I saw him smirking and I stopped walking and squared off with him. “You think it’s easy to have a successful restaurant in this city? Well, it’s not. That place is full of wise guys who are simply being nice to us. It has nothing to do with whether or not we’re legitimate.”

Agent Petrocelli just kept staring at me. He wouldn’t respond, which was making me uncomfortable.

“Look…this is all a misunderstanding. You can’t send Di back to England. Do you realize that what you’re doing is as bad as what you think my family does? You’re taking lives and playing with them. Di and I are just chess pieces to you in some big game to get my family.”

I put my hands on my hips. He clenched his jaw and looked over to the left, away from me. Could Agent Petrocelli have a conscience?

“That’s not true, Teddi.”

“Finally…you’re saying something. It
is
true. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“How would you feel if someone followed you around just because of who your grandfather was?”

“I know more about that life than you think I do.”

“Sure you do.”

“My grandfather, Teddi, was a big-time gambler.
Big.
He makes Quinn look like a piker. He’d bet ten grand on the coin toss of the Superbowl.”

“My grandfather always picks heads.”

“Mine picked tails.”

I smiled, despite wanting to hate him.

“My father…he hated that life. When things were good…they were pretty terrific. He lived the high life. Best table at the best steakhouse on Long Island. New Cadillac every year. And when the odds turned on my grandfather—and they always turn—things were bad. My grandfather was always looking over his shoulder. My dad hated that uneasiness. So what did he do? My father became a cop. He was so honest, he never took so much as a free doughnut. He raised me to set my sights on the bureau. Helped I was built like a linebacker with a 4.0 GPA. But I believe in what I do. Or I couldn’t do it.”

“Well…” I softened slightly. “I suppose that’s better than doing it because you’re simply a prick.”

“Does Angelo Marcello know you talk like that?”

“No. And if he knew I was talking to you…”

“I know. I appreciate you called me. I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize your safety.”

“Please…it’s yours that would be in danger.”

“You’re a piece of work. I’d say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.

“Believe it or not, it’s a compliment. Your grandfather is one of the last of a dying breed. He’s a tough old guy…and principled in his own way. You’re pretty tough yourself.”

“Maybe.” I started to walk again. We walked in silence for a while, falling into a rhythm in our footsteps. Finally, I broke the quiet. “I think I know why you believe Diana has something to do with the family. But that package you saw her deliver to my cousin contained cannoli, Agent Petrocelli—”

“Call me Mark.”

“It was cannoli, Mark.”

He stopped walking again and turned to face me. “Cannoli?”