Питер Мэй - I'll Keep You Safe

Neither Ruairidh nor I were affected by the heat or the jet lag. Such was the adrenalin rush of our first day in New York, that we could have stayed up all night. And now we were going to a show on Broadway! I felt like I had just stepped into my own private movie.

The show was called Come Fly Away , an exuberant production starring people I had never heard of. Keith Roberts, John Selya, Ashley Tuttle. The story followed four couples as they searched for love. Amazingly, it was built around a selection of Frank Sinatra songs featuring his actual voice backed live by an orchestra of eighteen instrumentalists. Mr Steiner had reserved us the best seats in the house. Neither of us was a big Sinatra fan, nor particularly interested in dance, and we would never have bought tickets for a show like this, but I was totally spellbound by the spectacle. And when I glanced at Ruairidh I saw that he was, too.

Afterwards, Mr Steiner took us backstage to introduce us to the perspiring performers, radiant and animated, breathless among the flowers that bedecked their dressing rooms after another successful show. They all seemed to know him, and greeted us as if we, too, were stars.

As first days in New York go, this one must have been up there among the best. And it wasn’t finished yet.

After the show it was on to dinner. Torrisi’s was a little Italian restaurant in Mulberry Street at the top of Little Italy. As we got out of the limo Mr Steiner said, ‘This city is full of great and expensive restaurants. But Torrisi’s? For good Italian-American food you can’t beat it. Hard to believe, but it’s a sandwich shop during the day. They do great chicken parm, or turkey hero, and they got some cool beers. Then at night, it transforms itself into this classy little restaurant. Twenty seats. Fixed price. Impossible to reserve a table. You just gotta turn up and hope.’ He grinned. ‘Except that I reserved us a table.’

Inside, booths and tables were set around a red-painted brick wall, with more plain wooden tables and tubular chairs pushed into the centre of the floor. A black-and-white portrait of a young Billy Joel clutching a pair of boxing gloves jostled for wall space with shelves laden with cans of peeled tomatoes and bottles of Manhattan Special espresso soda.

We had just squeezed into our seats beneath Billy Joel, when a voice called a loud greeting from across the room. ‘Hey Jake!’ Mr Steiner turned and looked towards a booth at the far side. Four men wearing expensive haircuts above tanned faces and designer suits that folded neatly over Gucci shoes sat around a table eating pasta and drinking champagne. Amazingly, even though it was dark by now, two of them wore sunglasses and looked like extras from The Godfather .

Mr Steiner excused himself and stood up to hurry over and shake their hands. He almost bowed as the one to whom all the others deferred stood up to shake his hand and slap his shoulder. He was an older man, dyed hair receding, belly expanding into his waistcoat. But no shades. After a few words, Mr Steiner turned and waved us over. It was only as we got nearer that I saw that all their suits were cut from one of the darker and more conservative weaves of Ranish Tweed. Mr Steiner said, ‘Mr Capaldi, meet Niamh and Ruairidh. These are the good folks that made the cloth you’re wearing. In fact, as I understand it, Ruairidh himself might well have woven the very stuff you got on your back.’

Capaldi shook our hands vigorously. ‘Well that just doubles the pleasure in meeting you,’ he said. He felt the cloth at the cuff of his jacket between thumb and forefinger. ‘This is just the most amazing material I’ve ever worn. Like silk with balls. It’s got class. When we was ordering our suits, Jake here suggested we try it. And hey...’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Look at me now. Best-dressed man in New York City. This calls for more champagne.’ He waved a hand in the air, and somehow, as if by magic, fresh chairs appeared and we found ourselves wedged in around their table.

Glasses foamed, and we drank toasts. To Ranish. To Scotland. To Jake Steiner. ‘One day I gotta get to Scotland,’ Capaldi said. ‘But I hear the weather ain’t so good.’

I said, ‘Well, if you ever got too hot, which is most unlikely, you could always cool yourself down with some Capaldi’s ice cream.’

There was a strange and immediate silence around the table. Mr Steiner looked uncomfortable, and Ruairidh jumped in quickly to explain. ‘You’ve heard of the Scottish actor Peter Capaldi?’

‘Sure,’ Capaldi said uncertainly.

‘Well his grandfather came from Italy. Bought a ticket to New York but somehow ended up in Glasgow, where he set up an ice-cream company.’

I held my breath, feeling that in some way I had managed to put my foot in it. Then to my relief Capaldi burst out laughing. ‘Made a big mistake then, didn’t he? Should have come to New York as he planned. Then maybe he woulda ended up wearing a jacket like this instead of peddling the cold stuff like some back-street nobody.’ And he tugged at his lapel.

‘There’s a big Italian community in Scotland,’ I said, but it was clear that Capaldi had already lost interest.

‘Is that so?’

Mr Steiner got to his feet, all smiles. ‘Well, we should leave you good folk to it.’ And he shook Capaldi’s hand. ‘It was a pleasure to see you again, Tony, as always.’

We thanked him for the champagne and retreated with Mr Steiner to our table, where a waiter immediately delivered warm mozzarella on garlic toast, sprinkled with salt and drizzled with olive oil beneath a garnish of sun-dried tomato. Mr Steiner ordered red wine, and when the waiter had gone he leaned confidentially into the table, lowering his voice. ‘You know who that is?’ he said, tipping his head discreetly in the direction of the Capaldi table. That’s Antonio Capaldi. Otherwise known as Tony C. Just about the most notorious mafia crime boss in New York City.’ He pulled a little smile. ‘We make suits for all sorts at Gold’s.’

‘He seemed nice,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’ Mr Steiner raised one eyebrow. ‘Nice.’

We had only just finished our pasta dish when a rammy at the door drew our eyes from our plates. Two men who had just been told that the restaurant was full pushed the maître d’ aside and split up as they weaved among the tables towards Capaldi’s booth. I suddenly realized what it was about them that seemed so out of place. They were wearing coats. In this heat.

The men at Capaldi’s table started to get up as they arrived. But as if by magic, handguns, barrels extended by silencers, appeared from beneath the coats. A flurry of strangely muted shots left all four men at Capaldi’s table blood-spattered and dead. Their assassins turned and walked out of the door as if nothing had happened.

Chaos broke out as soon as the shots were fired, tables overturned, diners diving for cover on the floor. Screams filled the air, even as the killers disappeared out into the night.

Me and Ruairidh and Mr Steiner were left stunned in our booth, food half-eaten on the table. One glass of red wine overturned and dripping on to the floor like blood.

At first I could barely process what it was I had just witnessed. Like a scene from a movie. Lurid and unreal. As if I half expected the director to call, ‘Cut, let’s go again,’ with everyone dusting themselves down and retaking their places. But as the truth of it dawned on me, I began to understand that had these assassins arrived just ten minutes earlier, we would have been sitting at that table with Capaldi and his associates, and would almost certainly have been shot too, lying dead on the floor or spreadeagled across the table.

Screams still filled the restaurant, and somewhere far off in the night I could hear a police siren. I glanced at Mr Steiner. His face was pale but his eyes were shining. ‘You realize,’ he said in a small voice, ‘that the biggest mafia boss in New York has just been shot dead wearing Ranish Tweed.’ He pushed his eyebrows up to wrinkle his forehead. ‘That’s a rare distinction.’