How Could She Refuse? -1-

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Stranger things have happened than falling in love at first sight ...


 
  How Could She Refuse?  9

by Lainie Lee


An Expanded Drabble

 

The Little Italian Bistro near Grand and Wooster in Soho served pastry, frittatas and coffees for breakfast; sandwiches, pizza and panini for lunch; chicken, seafood, lasagna and other pasta dishes for dinner; and calzones and more pizza for late night suppers. The chefs came directly from Italy to the kitchen, didn't speak English that well and tended to shout in Italian when unhappy. The original owner's widow, Audrey Feliciano, and sons, Andrew and Felix Jr., ran the place like a fiefdom; they could always find a job for the relative of a cook, waiter or busboy and they sent two happy planeloads of employees and family back to Italy for month long vacations each year. But employees were expected to work hard and show loyalty.

The staff always knew the foibles of the regulars, what they usually ordered, where they wanted to sit, what little extra service would net the biggest tip. Tourists had never really discovered the place; patrons came mostly from the surrounding shops and business with some people walking up from the Civic Center for a Panino Cubano at lunch. Senior, family and student discounts in midweek kept things busy most of the time.

Little Felix worked the morning crowds six days a week, manning the cash register and bossing around the waitresses, three of whom were a daughter and two nieces. Later, Andy and the waiters would take over until Mamma Audrey showed up to run the show into the late evening. Four grandsons were too young for much responsibility and so worked as busboys and kitchen helpers while they learned. Other Feliciano cousins filled in as needed.

Half of the front wall of the restaurant rolled up into the ceiling and small white tables covered with red-checked cloths spilled out under green canvas awnings in good weather. It doesn't get much better, weather-wise, than a sunny morning mid-October in New York City.

 
On Tuesdays, Davey Towers had one of those gigantic early morning lecture classes everyone hates. In a month of attending classes at the CUNY campus in Tribeca, he'd yet to find a reason to actually be awake for the lectures. Accordingly, he took a bus every Tuesday to the school, dozed through an information dump he didn't need since he'd already read all of the class materials, and at 8:50 a.m. escaped to take the long walk home to the apartment he shared with two wannabe indy musicians in the East Village .

On his first such trip, he'd taken the side streets to avoid heavy traffic and crowds and so had discovered the Little Italian Bistro at possibly its slowest time of the week. Since then, coffee and a "mixed" fritatta with crusty bread had become his Tuesday morning custom.

The "mixed" frittata was an L.I.B. specialty. The menu listed it with quotes and if anyone asked, the waitresses would say it was because the mix was different every time it was made. It usually had spinach and cheese of some kind, with potatoes, onions and little bits of the highly spiced chicken sausage Cugino Alonzo made up once a week. Frittatas came in a three egg (al uomo, manly) and two egg (a la donna, ladies') version. Not knowing any Italian, Davey ordered the smaller ladies' portion since he had already eaten a granola bar and piece of fruit on the early bus ride and it saved him sixty cents.

Davey always carried several books with him, not just his college text books but books on other subjects that had caught his interest plus fiction and the occasional graphic novel. As long as the restaurant wasn't crowded, no one tried to hurry him and the busboys would even refill his cafe americano cup with regular coffee for as long as he wanted to sit and read. He liked to take a small table along the north wall near the big opening and linger for an hour or so, reading quietly. With two musicians for roommates, he enjoyed the relative peace of a restaurant in the mid-morning lull.

Davey would read anything, up to and including romance novels donated by his mother. She prepared a sack of books for him to take back to Manhattan on his weekly visit. His parents had moved to Queens from central Pennsylvania two years before when his father inherited a small printshop. Uncle Brodey had made a good living printing small runs of public domain books for libraries and collectors until he had passed away from a cerebral hemorrhage. Much of the Brodey imprint turned out to be Victorian erotica, a fact that caused Davey's mother some embarrassment. In an effort to insulate her only child away from the family business, she kept him well supplied with other sorts of books.

So it was that Davey sat in his favorite spot, sipping coffee and reading a romance novel on that Tuesday morning. The October weather was still warm enough that he wore shorts, white sneakers without socks and a gray sweat shirt hoodie. His legs looked tanned and smooth and well-formed from walking all over lower Manhattan. Waiting for the early morning bus, he'd kept the hood up but had thrown it back during class showing medium-length hair, nearly to his chin, cut in no particular style.

He didn't notice the three men in business suits at the table directly across the restaurant from him. He pushed his dark blond hair out of his face and kept reading.

 
Shortly before Davey arrived, the three men had taken a spot close to the door under one of the windows facing downtown. The older man, Frank La Nez, had heavy but well-formed Mediterranean features, a prominent nose and wide-set brown eyes under very thick black lashes. He looked like a businessman who might know someone who could get you Broadway tickets that otherwise weren't available.

Of the younger men, one stood a head taller than either of the others. Ermundo Bellafonte had fought in the Ultimate Wrestling League under the name Elephant Man. Since retiring because of a pinched nerve in his back, he'd lost fifty pounds. His face hung loosely in soft folds, giving him a sad expression like a hound dog. He'd picked up the nickname Packy, short for pachyderm, during his wrestling days.

The third man, Larry Hodge, did not look Italian, though one of his grandmothers had come from Genoa. He had sandy brown hair, blue eyes and the sort of blunt good looks that made people trust and like him. He wore a mustache, a bushy thing that hung over the corners of his mouth and made him appear amusing and amused.

Lots of people called Frank La Nez, Frankie the Nose. He didn't mind. The implication that he had something to do with the mobs in New York City could be useful and in fact, happened to be true. Frank's legitimate business interests included an importing company that specialized in products of the smaller Mediterranean countries. He also owned a furniture factory in New Jersey, a part interest in a cab company in Hartford and apartment buildings all over the tri-state area. He also owned a downtown hotel where he lived in what he called the sub-penthouse, the next to the top floor.

The Hotel Del Amo sat about nine blocks from the Little Italian Bistro, near the lower east corner of Tribeca, an easy walking distance for a man in his early fifties. Three mornings a week, Frankie the Nose had Packy drive him and Larry to the L.I.B., the three of them ate a late breakfast, then Frankie walked home, alone or with Larry, depending on whether he needed to give private instructions to his personal assistant.

Larry kept the details of Mr. La Nez's life from becoming distractions. He paid personal bills, arranged appointments, talked to lawyers and accountants and listened when the older man wanted to complain about something.

Packy drove cars and loomed over people when necessary. He was good at both.

That morning, Frankie had his usual, potato and onion frittata with prosciutto and mozzarella, al uomo, of course. Larry had a spinach frittata with cheeses and Packy had "the works" meaning a four egg mixture with three kinds of meat, plus cheese, potato, onion and peppers. They all had coffee and crusty bread and Packy ordered a fruit cup which he shared.

Frankie had a piece of melon halfway to his mouth when Davey entered the restaurant. He sat there a moment, the cantaloupe dripping an orange stain onto his sleeve.

"Boss?" said Larry.

Without looking at Larry, Frankie dipped the piece of melon in his coffee and popped it into his mouth.

"That's different," said Packy. He tried it. "Hmm, not so good," he decided. "Maybe with honeydew?"

Larry looked where Frankie was looking and frowned.

Frankie reached out and touched a passing busboy. He spoke quickly in Italian, ordering more coffee and cinnamon rolls for everyone. "You guys want cinnamon rolls, don't you? They put almonds in them here."

Packy licked his lips and nodded. He loved cinnamon rolls but would never order them himself.

Larry relaxed his expression into a grin. "Something sweet would be good."

"Certamente, what you said," agreed Frankie, glancing toward Davey again. A small smile seemed to play around his lips and eyes. "How come you can never make money buying into a restaurant like this one?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

Larry surprised him. "Place like this, got to be run by family or it won't work. They looking for investors, that means the heart of the family is no longer in the business," he said.

Frankie nodded, impressed. He smiled, pleased that Larry had picked up some business sense working for him. Frankie's real job for organized crime in New York was finding legitimate investment opportunities. He'd long ago decided that restaurants were only good for money laundering, not profit taking. "You're a smart kid, Larry. I knew I kept you around for some reason."

Larry laughed, enjoying Frankie's teasing him. He had a real fondness for the older man and a personal respect that had nothing to do with his employment.

"I'm not smart and you keep me around," Packy pointed out, wanting to get in on the camaraderie.

"You're my sister's husband's uncle's grandson. Pure nepotism, Ermundo," said Frankie with a straight face.

Packy laughed, pretty sure that nepotism meant family connections. Frankie liked to tease him with big words. From someone else, it would have stung but when Frankie did it, Packy noticed, he could always figure out the word from the way it was used.

A waitress came by with coffee and to confirm their order for rolls. Larry and Packy watched her ass as she walked away. Frankie watched Davey order his breakfast, the way he held his hands, the title of the book he was reading, the way he pushed his chin-length hair out of his face.

The cinnamon rolls came. They did indeed have almonds inside, also raisins, and a sour cream icing. They were six inches across and five inches tall. Frankie laughed to see them, he always forgot how big they made the rolls at L.I.B.

Packy's eyes got big then small as he swore to himself not to eat the whole roll. Unless of course, Frankie and Larry ate all of theirs.

Larry flirted with the waitress, telling her how excellent her rolls were, partly in Italian, managing to imply that he was actually speaking of her thighs.

The waitress giggled and escaped. She'd never been told her legs were heavy in such a sweet way before, she decided.

Frankie frowned. "I meant to ask her if she knew the blonde in the corner over there," he said. He looked at Davey to show who he meant.

Larry looked, too. "Boss, that's a guy."

"No," said Frankie. "I thought that at first, too. But it's a woman. Look at the book she's reading, watch her hands play with her hair. And she ordered a la donna; it's a tall, skinny girl."

"Um," said Larry.

Packy looked over at Davey, too. He said nothing. If the boss thought that was a girl, it was okay with Packy.

Frankie gazed at the object of his infatuation. One of the reasons people called him 'The Nose' was because of his infallible intuition. And his intuition told him that this skinny blonde with the boyish good looks would make him very happy.

"Go over and ask her..." said Frankie. He stopped.

"Ask her what, boss?"

"Ask her if she'd like to come up to my hotel room and read to me," said Frankie. He smiled.

Packy stared at him. He decided that Frankie must be blushing because he could see his nose getting darker, just across the bridge.

Larry looked worried.

Frankie stood. "Have her there by three," he said. "I've got meetings with the hotel staff till then." He glanced across at Davey and headed out of the restaurant, not looking back. Larry would get the check.

Packy and Larry sat quietly for a while. They watched the boss walk toward the corner of Grand and Wooster and start across, heading south, further downtown. Larry sipped his coffee and seemed lost in thought.

Packy puzzled through the byplay, glancing at Davey who chose that moment to cough into his hand and wipe it absently on his short pants. Despite the length of shapely, tanned leg, the gesture didn't look feminine. "That is a guy, isn't it?" Packy said to Larry.

Larry stood. "Boss says the kid is a dame, he's a dame. We'd better go persuade her to get dressed for her date."

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Comments

Gotta Love The Flunkies!

Packy and Larry remind me more than a bit of the stock hoods in the old Superman tv series. They might be bad guys, but hey, that's their job, and it's only a job.

Ha!

I loved those guys, they were everywhere around Hollywood back then, especially on the series filmed in Culver City.

Hugs and memories,
Lainie

Finally

The drabbles whet my appetite like the smell of a cinnamon bun. Here's the first actual bun, and it was worth the wait.
I love the detailed exposition that makes me feel like I'm there and I'm deliciously torn between savoring each sentence and devouring the next.
All characters also feel like real people; the writing makes me care about them and curious about what they'll do next.

- Moni

That Boss Is Something Else [:=)

What he wants, he gets. He has his flunkies to help too. Now where is Al Pacino the Godfather?
May Your Light Forever Shine

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

I could almost smell those rolls too

and I live in the North of England! I just love the way you describe your characters and the Italian Bistro, its family and its atmosphere are totally believable.

I didn't read all the drabbles but maybe I should revisit.

Susie

Drool

I started this before breakfast meaning to just give it a quick scan to compare it to the drabbles. Before it was over I was drooling all over myself from the descriptions of the food! You did such A good job I could smell the food, and hear the glasses and plates clacking in the background. This scene really came alive!!!!

hugs!

grover

PS: Even though I know what's going to happen next, I don't have any of the details. It's almost like that watching a train wreck thing and not being able to look away. :)

You know...

I didn't describe the sounds or smells of the restaurant but I wrote that sitting in a small coffee shop near a busy street. I could hear and smell the restaurant around me and maybe that came through somehow.

Love and cinnamon,
Lainie

What About Entering

joannebarbarella's picture

For the Summer Romance contest? :-)
Joanne

It's October

In the story, it's fall. And ... I dunno, usually I'm not eligible for these contests since I know Erin's home address. This one is being run by Sephy, though. And there's already some tough competition in this contest. And I'm not going to be done before the contest is over. So, I guess not. Thanks for suggesting it, though.

Love and romance,
Lainie

very worth it

laika's picture

"Do I really want to start reading the same story all over again?" I thought as I started reading this...

Why yes, I apparently do. This expanded view of the opening drabble is clear, detailed, interesting.
All the better for my previous exposure to these folks.
~~~hugs, Laika

This IS better,

I read this and then learnt about the drabble, so I went and read them and this IS better. The drabble wasn't bad, not bad at all, but this expanded version gives you so much more and has so many more possibilities. So do keep them coming, I look forward to reading the rest of the story, IN FULL,
Love and cuddles,
Janice Elizabeth

Brava, Lainie Lee...

The drabbles, coffee and part of a cinnamon roll (sadly, not as good as those described) were part of my morning routine for a while there. They put a smile on my face for several hours without fail.

So, imagine my glee when this morning's BCTS treasure included "Parte Una" of the expanded tale.

You have a gift for storytelling, and I'm with the previous commenters in believing we were in the room, watching, smelling, hearing, what happened. That's a great gift and I'm pleased you chose to share it with us.

Even though we all know (or at least think we do) how this story ends, the journey will be better than the destination, to coin a cliché.

Shhh!

I'm only paying them scale. :)

Love and lemon drops,
Lainie

Mums the Word

Da two-a-dems is bums.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

You had me giggling and

You had me giggling and interested very early on here with the most obscure piece of accidental auto-feminisation I've ever heard of: saving sixty cents by ordering a two egg Frittata while being ignorant of Italian: wonderful stuff.

I haven't and won't read the drabbles, but await without foreknowledge the unfolding.

XX
AD

I'm glad

I'm glad you laughed at that, I sure did writing it. :) Sometimes writers imagine people cracking up over some obscure joke that tickles them but they have to know that not everyone will get it -- otherwise it wouldn't be obscre, would it? And sometimes, that makes it even funnier. Which is a danger, too many of those and the writing is as opaque as a wall. I'm glad I gave you a giggle.

Love and mixed-up frittatas,
Lainie

This Is So Cute!

terrynaut's picture

It's a shame you won't finish in time to submit it for the summer romance contest.

That's okay though. I'll eat it up anyway. :)

Thanks a bunch for the delicious treat.

- Terry

My plan

I plan one, two or three thousand word segment every five or six days. That's about my speed right now. I realize that means a long time before the end of the story and I'll post more frequently as I can. But this kind of tight, dense writing takes a lot of concentration, I need five or six hours at once to get it down, then another long session to revise and several smaller ones, at least, to proof and I like to wait at least a day before doing that.

Right there is four days, and time is so slippery, usually one or two extra days slip in before you notice.

I don't think this is going to be 28.5 segments like the drabbles, I expect to combine some of them into one segment later on. But twenty chapters makes forty to fifty thousand words.

Love and tick-tocks,
Lainie

Image problem

Your title graphic shows up as a big black rectangle in my browser, but I can highlight it to read the words.

a sort of pinky colour

Text is a sort of pinky colour on a dark blue box here in my Firefox 2.0.0.16 on XP.

Oh and the story is pretty wonderful too!

Pleione

Same for Me

Firefox 3 on XP

Fixed Now

Someone must have fixed the color codes. Was displaying as black on black, but now it's fine. Pink on Blue. Oh, that's IE on XP.

The color codes were fine

erin's picture

I wrote that box in HTML. It's just that for some versions of IE, they have to be in MS-HTML. Now MY versions of IE worked fine, I think it's just that MicroSoft noticed that they were in compliance with industry standards and had to change the code to let people know that Small&Squishy is an IMPORTANT company. Phooey.

Hugs,
- Erin

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

Microsoft is notorious...

Puddintane's picture

...for encouraging, indeed insisting, on proprietary techniques to ensure that the only way everything works well together is if all of it uses Microsoft tools and operating systems, but by now they're so tangled up in squirrelly ways to do things that hardly anything works except on the machine it was created on.

Feh.

I ignore Microsoft in my own coding and use the W3C standards exclusively. If anyone wants it to work in flaky environments, they're perfectly free to use a real OS and a real browser, thereby curing many ills.

Puddin'

-

Cheers,

Puddin'

A tender heart is an asset to an editor: it helps us be ruthless in a tactful way.
--- The Chicago Manual of Style

Well written.

Wow, very well written. Maybe even too well.
Nice work.