Class Act

“He be Antonio Datilla,” Dino said.

“The Don?”

“The actual Don. Hisself.”

“And the other guy?”

“Sal Trafficante, his consigliere. He’s known as the Don’s brain.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Not the first time I’ve seen him here,” Dino said.

“I see two guys in suits, across the aisle from the Don’s table,” Stone said. “Two guys who look like they’re unaccustomed to wearing suits.”

“They would be the Don’s version of the Secret Service.”

“Hence the bulges under their jackets.”

“I wish, just once, somebody would try to stop by the Don’s table and say hello,” Dino said. “I’d like to see those two spring into action.”

“Then why don’t you stop by on your way out and check their response time.”

“I would, if I thought they knew I’m the police commissioner,” Dino said. “If they didn’t recognize me, I might catch a couple of rounds.”

“Don’t you go anywhere near that table, Dino,” Viv said firmly.

“I’m just speculating,” Dino said.

“If you do, I’ll take you outside and beat you up. Your guys would never try to stop me.”

“Speaking of your guys, Dino,” Stone said. “Where are they?”

“They’re standing around outside, smoking cigarettes and waiting for something terrible to happen.”

“You stole that line,” Stone said. “It’s from Alex Atkinson’s article on Spain, in the September 1963 issue of Holiday magazine. I think he was referring to Franco’s Guardia Civil. I remember, because I gave you the piece to read.”

“Whatever,” Dino said

“Come on, Stone,” Viv said. “Who remembers stuff like that from September 1963?”

“There’s a tiny corner of my brain that involuntarily stores that sort of information,” Stone said. “Nothing I can do about it.”

Tara was laughing into her Scotch. “You people know each other too well,” she said.

“The paella looks good,” Viv said.

“In that same article,” Stone said, “Atkinson says he once ate a paella in Valencia that almost certainly contained the left forefinger of a rubber glove.”

“I’m skipping the paella,” Tara said. “What else is good?”

“If it’s on the menu, it’s good,” Dino said.

“I’ll have the paella,” Stone said to the hovering captain. “I want to see what I can find in it.”

“Lotsa stuff,” the captain replied smoothly.

Tara ordered fish, the Bacchettis ordered the paella, and Stone chose a big white Burgundy to accompany everything.

It was around eight-thirty before they considered the dessert menu. Stone noted that the Don and his consigliere were on about the same schedule, and the two of them were on their second bottle of wine.

“I didn’t know Mafiosi came to restaurants like this one,” Tara said. “I always think of them dining in dimly lit clam houses.”

“No,” Dino corrected her. “Dimly lit clam houses are where they shoot each other.”

“I stand corrected,” she replied. “I’m glad they’re not doing it here.”

“The night is young,” Dino said.

Then a woman entered a corner of Stone’s vision, wearing a fur coat. She shucked it off and gave it to the coat-check woman, revealing a low-cut green dress Stone had seen somewhere before.

Dino had seen her, too. He beckoned the captain and waved him close to his ear. “Who’s the lady with the cleavage, dining with the Don?”

“I forget her name,” the captain said, “but I know she’s a singer, because she’s appearing at the Café Carlyle, around the corner. She has another show at ten.”

The consigliere stood to greet her, but not the Don. He allowed himself to be pecked on the cheek, then waved her to a chair. Someone brought her a glass of champagne, and she ordered a dessert.

“Why are you two staring?” Viv asked. “Anybody we know?”

“Vaguely,” Stone said.

“Vaguely, my ass,” Dino chipped in.

“I’m trying very hard not to turn around and look,” Tara said.

“Don’t worry,” Viv replied. “You’ll catch her on our way out.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Tara said, “after that table-wide reaction.”

“Her name is Hilda Ross,” Stone said, “née Rossetti. The captain was right; she’s a singer.”

“Stone knows her better than he should,” Dino remarked.