Armando Lazzari - Dinner With The Mafia

“Wow! Is it really mine? It’s exactly like the ball that son-of-a-bitch Jim stole from me!”

The man’s upper lip trembled slightly, but he managed not to fall completely apart.

“Yef, fon. It’f a prefent for you! I have to be on my way now. Pleafe fay hello to your uncle for me.”

In silence, the man left the way he arrived, leaving Ben happy, but puzzled by the man’s parting words.

“Look! Look what some strange man gave me!”

The Italian Affair Restaurant

“When I say it like that, it seems silly. But believe me, that’s just one example of many random incidents that sound like I'm making them up. Every time something bad happened, some kind of karma would intervene and turn the situation around in my favor.”

Susan listened to everything, but not in awe like most people would have. Ben appreciated this aspect of her personality; the way she accentuated her positive opinion of him as if he were someone special.

“Yeah! Like the scales of justice. C’mon, tell me more. Just one more story to satisfy my hope that there is a God.”

Ben smiled pleasantly and stalled for time wiping his mouth with his napkin, while trying to think of another interesting and original story.

“I remember when I was sixteen and had just got my drivers’ license. I had worked all summer in a fast-food joint to save up for my first car. With that money, I bought an olive green ’77 Buick. It wasn’t the hottest car, but that was all I could afford and the salesman guaranteed that it was good for several thousand more miles. I remember how excited I was to have something that was all mine, that I had earned with hard work. I felt like an adult. Then about an hour later, I felt like a complete idiot. While I was driving, the engine started smoking and then the car took its last breath…and broke down. I went home with my tail between my legs. I was so mad, especially at myself, for letting someone rip me off like that. I didn’t sleep a wink that night.”

“So I guess you went back to the salesman the next day.”

“You bet! But the dealership told me that the salesman had quit and anyway, the title in my name was nontransferable to a different car.”

“Outrageous! You were swindled,” said Susan, shocked.

“Yep. And the worst part was that I couldn’t do anything about it. The proof was in the paperwork.”

“So what was the heaven sent lucky break?”

“A phone call,” said Ben, holding out for suspense.

But Susan tried to answer before Ben, “Don’t tell me that the salesman felt sorry for you and gave you back your money?”

“Nope. Even better than that. The same dealership contacted me to tell me that I had won a contest they had announced, of which I hadn’t the slightest memory of entering. I guess among all the paperwork I had signed, there must have been something about a contest. Anyway, the fact is, first prize was a car that I could have never afforded: a cherried-out, flaming red Mustang!”

“That’s amazing! I’ve never met anyone who’s ever won anything in a contest…unless they were related or the mistress of some manager.” Susan seemed really sincere, even though she appeared to be a chronic pessimist.

“Well,” said Ben “I don’t think that it’s just a question of pure luck. I mean, most people never win contests because they don’t participate. They either give up before trying or just don’t tempt fate.”

Susan felt hurt by his accusation of inertia. “What? I don’t agree at all! I would have signed up for hundreds, if not thousands of contests without having won even a consolation prize. You just got really lucky. That’s all, just luck, honey!”

Calling him “honey”, even if blatantly sarcastic, went straight to his head, giving him a smug sense of satisfaction.

“It’s not as rare as you think, you know. Lots of times in my family, we’ve won unexpected prizes from promotions from some brand of cereal or another.”

“We’re not talking about some little toy for kids. We’re talking about a car and…can I dip some of my bread in your sauce, too?”

“Ah, you want to try the ‘scarpetta’?”

“The what?” she asked.

“The ‘scarpetta’. It’s a typical Roman expression, it means ‘little shoe’, but it doesn’t refer to the shoe you wear on your foot. It’s an imitation of the gesture of the workers who cut and sculpted rock from the quarries. These guys were called ‘scalpellini’, or stonecutters. They shaved the slabs of Piperno stone before carving it, just like we’re doing right here with our bread on our plates.”

“Wow! That doesn't sound quite as tasty as bread and sauce, though. I was just hoping some of your good luck would rub off on me to help me find a new job.” Susan's request wasn't presumptuous in the least.

“Of course! Why didn't I think of it sooner? If it's all right with you, I could ask my Uncle Carmine if he needs a waitress at his restaurant. At least nobody would lay a hand on you there.”

“Really? That would be great! That's exactly the kind of job I'm looking for. Thank you so much!”

In a surge of excitement, she threw her arms around him, almost knocking over the bottle of water on the table. Ben was taken by surprise by the unexpected contact of her prominent bosom, as well as the loud kiss she planted on his cheek.

“You're welcome. If I had known that this was the reward, I would have asked you a lot sooner. So how about this, you can come with me tomorrow to the restaurant and I can introduce you in person to my uncle. When he sees how pretty you are, he'll hire you on the spot!”

“Tomorrow? Oh no, I have an appointment that I absolutely can't miss,” said Susan.

“All right, no problem. I'll talk to my uncle first, then we can make the introductions. How about day after tomorrow? Unless your appointment will take longer than a day?”

“No, the day after tomorrow is perfect. I have an exam at the university tomorrow.”

“Really? You didn't tell me that you study. What are you specializing in exactly?” asked Ben.

“Law. My dream is to become an attorney one day.”

“That's fantastic! Fighting crime on the front line. If you need a hand, just give me a call!”

The Italian Affair Restaurant: at the table next to Ben and Susan

The Observer, Guido “Baguette” Bernard, known for his tall, thin stature and his French-Italian origins, couldn't help but murmur his thoughts out loud. “Holy Mother of God! And now what am I gonna tell the Boss?”

Ben sat in front of his Uncle Carmine, who was taking his time answering.

“So, Uncle Carmine? What do you think? Can you find a job for my friend at your restaurant?”

His hesitation in responding had little to do with not wanting to grant Ben his wish, but more to do with playing for time to come up with a counteroffer.

He was a businessman, after all, whether it meant dealing with a stranger, or his nephew. He lived by a rule over the years; every favor asked of him that he was able to grant, required an immediate payback by the person asking. And the payback had to be, if not greater than the favor, at least equal to it.

“I was just thinking how lucky your friend is. Do you remember Pablo Ruido, the Mexican waiter? Well, just yesterday, he was telling me how homesick he was and how he would love to retire and go back to Mexico. He worked his entire life, and I believe that a man should know when to call it quits and rest. Regarding your friend, this could be just what the doctor ordered.”

Ben jumped up from his chair, beaming with happiness at the opportunity that he could offer Susan, overjoyed at the prospect of keeping the half-promise he had made to her. He started rambling his thanks to his uncle, who, after being pleasantly flattered, interrupted Ben with a hard stare.