Page 36 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Frosted glass.
Dark wood.
Brass that has been polished by hands, not machines.
Inside, the lamps throw a low amber that turns people kind.
The booths are deep enough for secrets.
The back corner has a table that has seen more peace and war than most church basements.
The floorboards know where to creak and when to hold their tongue.
I'm early.
I always am.
The waiter with the tired eyes and the perfect tie greets me with the slight bow men give to men who remember their names.
His hair is as silver as the ice scoop.
He looks past my shoulder once to make sure I brought only one man.
Then he calls me by the job when no one else is listening.
“Good evening, consigliere,” he says softly.
“Mario,” I answer. “We will sit in the corner. Two menus for show.”
He smiles like that is the best joke he has heard all day and slides the menus under his arm.
He clears the corner booth with three moves that look like nothing from far away.
A busboy wipes the table even though the table is clean.
The women near the bar glance over and decide nothing is happening.
The room understands its assignment.
I sit with my back to the wall and my eyes on the door because habit’s not a suggestion.
I don't drink.
I let the glass of water sit until it goes warm from the air.
I don't rehearse, because rehearsing lies is an insult to the person you are about to wound.
When she walks in, the room tightens and then breathes.
She sees me and stops for a fraction.
I feel it as if someone took a thumb to my ribs.
She looks softer than she did in the blue dawn of the bakery.
Time has done something to her.
Her hair is down.
