The Wrong Man

38

Peter Ramini kept his head down as he navigated the restaurant on the west side. Could be that he’d know some of the regulars, and he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He stayed along the bar, avoiding the diners. The smell of espresso hit his nose and caused him physical pain. It had been more than four years now since his diagnosis, and caffeine was absolutely forbidden. He’d tried the decaf espressos and it was like muddy water. It was worse than forbearance.

He managed to avoid any hellos and made his way back to the kitchen. Inside, Donnie was stirring a pot of tomato sauce and chatting up the staff. Jesus, if this guy wasn’t eating, he was cooking.

Donnie caught Ramini’s eye and met him in the corner. It was private enough, and this conversation wasn’t going to take long.

“Always with your hands in your pockets,” said Donnie, sizing Ramini up. “You’re among friends, Petey.”

Ramini frowned. “Anyway,” he said.

“Anyway, I talked to Paulie, like we said.” Notwithstanding the clanking of pots and pans and the shouts among the chefs, Donnie knew the rule. You could never be too careful. He leaned into Ramini as best he could with his girth.

“Take out the lawyer,” he whispered. “And his lady friend. And don’t come back with more problems.” Donnie cupped his hands over Ramini’s cheeks. “His words, not mine, Petey.”

Ramini nodded. His stomach did a flip. But it was the right call. There was nothing more to discuss. He left the restaurant the same way he came.