The American Lady(18)

There was loud talk and laughter from the next table, where a fresh batch of customers had taken their seats amid much shuffling of chairs. As Franco looked across, he realized that the diners were all restaurant owners from the neighborhood. And they were all customers of the de Lucca family company too. So this must be some sort of regular get-together. Meaning it wouldn’t be long before someone came to him with the next complaint—as if he hadn’t had enough of those already today. And he had at least another three restaurants to visit after this one!

Franco put a surly look on his face. Then, all of a sudden, a gust of garlic wafted up to his nose and a moment later, Giuseppa set a plate of pasta down in front of him. He wasn’t in the least bit hungry but dug his fork in all the same so that nobody would disturb him.

Giuseppa took several jugs of wine over to the next table, where they were greeted with whoops of glee.

Fine, then. As long as they were busy getting drunk, they would leave him in peace.

Franco put his fork down. He was tired. None of his previous visits to New York had been such hard work. But this time, wherever he went there was nothing but trouble, day in and day out. And everybody expected him to conjure up the answer to whatever problem they had.

It had started with the very first restaurant he had visited that morning; the owner, Silvester Forza, had refused to take on two of the five kitchen hands he’d been sent, claiming that they were too old. Franco had demanded that he call the men and see for himself that they were barely into their thirties. So what did Silvester want? Children? Franco had said sharply that his father would hardly be pleased to hear that Silvester was acting as coy as a virgin on her wedding night. Was there anyone else, Franco asked, who could get hold of cheaper labor for him? Of course not, Silvester was forced to reply.

The next piece of bad news had come not long afterward. Michele Garello, who owned five of the best restaurants around, reported angrily that three of the kitchen hands he’d taken on had run out on him after just a week. He gave an ultimatum; either he got another three men from the next shipment, he said, or he wanted his money back, adding, “You tell your father that if I have to, I’ll find my own workers over here. I may have to pay them a few more dollars in wages but it won’t bankrupt me.”

Damn it! He would never have said such a thing to the old count in person.

Franco’s next customers hadn’t been all smiles either. One of them had complained that he didn’t need to buy as much wine at one time since his clientele mostly drank beer anyway. Of course he was just angling for a discount, because as soon as Franco mentioned the possibility, the beer drinkers were no longer an issue. The next restaurateur was having trouble with his liquor license. Perhaps Franco could put in a good word for him . . . Franco waved the idea away. “Pay your taxes, and they’ll restore your license. Besides, what makes you think that I have any pull with City Hall in these matters? I’m a foreigner!” Just because he was a nobleman, these people believed that his word was law.

Franco was clutching the fork so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Tomorrow he would have his weekly telephone call with his father. He already knew what he would hear: Don’t let these people get away with anything! Show them that they mustn’t mess with the de Luccas . . . Disgusted, Franco pushed the plate away. As though playing the tough guy would fix every problem!

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like Mama’s spaghetti?” Giuseppa asked, sitting down in the chair across from him and frowning.

“Your mother is one of the best cooks in the whole city,” Franco said, eating a hearty forkful of pasta to show her he meant it. Giuseppa and her mother were not to blame for his troubles after all.

“I could bring you something else . . .”

Why was she looking at him so fearfully? Had he ever done anything to her? Franco frowned and shook his head. “Please don’t bother.”

He had already visited half a dozen customers before Paolo. Everywhere he went, they had given him something to eat—the padrones probably thought they’d have an easier time making their case if they softened him up with a plate of tuna, a slice of pizza, or a dish of zabaglione.

Giuseppa stood up. “I’ll get going then. Papa wanted me to tell you that he’ll be with you in a few minutes. I could bring you a glass of wine in the meantime.”

“Thank you, no, I still have some.” He pointed to his half-full glass.

“Maybe he’s just fed up with drinking his own wine! You should offer the count a glass of Chianti! I bet he wouldn’t say no to that!” one of the men at the next table called over to Giuseppa. Another man elbowed him in the ribs to keep quiet.