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“I think we’ll be able to get Pete’s brother to speak on your behalf.”
“Will he tell them I’m innocent?”
“No. You’ll need to tell the parole board you’re remorseful. That you’re sorry you killed Pete.”
“I can’t tell them I didn’t do it?”
“They won’t believe you.”
He looked like he was actively trying not to think about that. He said, “I called Brysen. He said you called him. Thank you.”
I nodded.
“He’s very excited about the money. But there won’t be any, will there?”
“No, there won’t be.”
“Don’t tell him that, okay?”
“I don’t expect to talk to him again.”
“This is really over, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid it is.”
****
I made it home by seven-thirty. Ronnie and I met at Osteria De Medici, a family-style Italian restaurant in a strip of storefronts a few blocks from our house on Broadway. I was standing out front, scanning the street in both directions, making sure Hamlet Gilbody was nowhere to be seen.
“Looking for me?” Ronnie asked when he walked up. He wore a very dark pair of blue jeans, ironed and creased, a lavender dress shirt and a white linen jacket. It was about as professional as he liked to get. He didn’t care for ties and thought a full-on suit would intimidate his clients.
After we were shown to a table in the back, Ronnie sighed heavily, and said, “You don’t know how happy I am to be here. Right before I left the office one of my mother’s friends called me. Immediately, I thought ‘oh my God, she’s dead,’ which left my head spinning in all sorts of directions. But no, she called to tell me I’m a bad son.”
“I don’t remember your mother having friends.”
“Well, employee. Chin Li. She runs one of my mother’s dry cleaners.”
“So your mother paid to have you insulted.”
“Basically.”
That meant the situation was getting to her but not in a way that offered any hope.
Our waiter arrived. He squealed when he saw Ronnie and bent over to kiss him on the cheek. His name was Rod. He was fiftyish, tall, with a receding hairline and the complexion of a lifelong alcoholic. He looked down his nose at me, and said, “Hmmm, it’s you.”
He was not a fan of mine. I’d cut him off several times at The Hawk. I knew he’d eventually drink himself to death, I just didn’t want to be the one who served him his last drink.
Ronnie ordered for us. The lemon orzo soup, Caesar salad, prosciutto and penne for me, and carbonara for him. A glass of Napa Valley chardonnay for him and an iced tea for me.
Once Rod walked away, I said, “You know, I can order for myself.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Well, yes.” I hated that I was so predictable.
“Let me know if you want something different and I’ll shut up.”
I decided to let it drop. I’d figured out long ago that, since there was much about my past I didn’t share with Ronnie—well, any of my past—he compensated by ‘knowing’ me very, very well in the present.
