Fair Play (3 page)

Eddie James Jackson. Now there was a name from the past. Jackson was an actor on
The Wild and the Free
when she was still with the show. Theresa managed to convince the soap press he was the daytime equivalent of Robert DeNiro—no small feat considering Jackson had the emotional range of a wood chip, and his character was an alien masquerading as a nightclub owner, sent to earth to hunt new breeding stock for his planet.

Theresa chuckled. “You know Eddie?”

“He's a big hockey fan.” His eyes held hers. “Big fan of yours, too.” Theresa looked away. “Guess I'm just one of many.” Dante smiled.

“Don't,” Theresa admonished, concentrating on her legal pad. Easing the conversation back to business, she posed the question she'd meant to ask before they'd been interrupted. The answer was they were planning to expand both the dining area and the banquet room within the next couple of months.

“What about decor? What have you got in mind there?”

“I don't know.” Michael looked around the restaurant blankly. “Some more paintings, I guess. A couple more pictures.”

“If you want to attract a more upscale clientele,” Theresa began gently, “the restaurant may need a more . . . polished . . . look.”

“Okay.” Michael drained his Pellegrino like a man needing fortification for what might come next. “What else?”

“Staff.”

“What about them?”

“How many, how old.”

“I'm not sure how many,” he admitted. “I'll have to ask Anthony. As for how old, most of them are probably in their sixties now. A few might even be in their seventies. They all started working for my father when they were young men,” he finished proudly.

Sensing that this might not be the time to tell him the staff might need some renovating as well, Theresa turned to the most important issue of all: the menu. “The food has got to be exceptional if you want to draw from the other boroughs.”

“It is.”

“You're sure it is or you hope it is?”

“It is,” he repeated. “You know it is. You've eaten here.”

“That was over a year ago.”
At Ty and Janna's wedding, when you were such a noodge pestering me to dance I wanted to stuff a piece of lasagna in your mouth just to get you to shut up and leave me alone.

“Well, nothing's changed. If anything, the food's gotten better.” He jumped up from the table. “Hang on a minute, I want you to taste something.” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a small dessert plate that he placed in front of her.

“What's this?” Theresa asked suspiciously, staring down at puffy pancakes drizzled with honey.

“Just try it,” Michael urged. “Go on.”

Uncomfortable with being watched, but trapped, Theresa reached for a fork and cut off a small piece of the pancake, popping it in her mouth. It was good. Okay, it was very good. No, she had to be honest, it was great. If he wasn't there she'd scarf down the whole thing.

“Well?” Michael folded his arms across his chest, awaiting her reply.

“BTS,” she declared rapturously.

“BTS?”

“Better than sex.”

Michael laughed. Now
that
was the Theresa he remembered: blunt, funny, unself-conscious . . . obviously, the girl who haunted his dreams was still in there somewhere, lurking behind the crisp, clipped demeanor. Hopeful of bringing out more of her real personality, he leaned toward her.

“Careful. Your roots are showing, and I'm not referring to your hair.”

Theresa's eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Your Brooklyn accent,” Michael said affectionately. “It was there in full force just a moment ago. As for BTS,” he added with a devilish grin, “are you sure about that?”

Theresa's expression darkened. “
Zoccolo! Come sei sciocco,
” she muttered under her breath, just loudly enough for him to hear.

Michael's heart swelled. She'd called him a tasteless clod! In Italian! God, he adored her. “I try,” he replied.

“You succeed,” she snorted, putting her guard back up. She took another small bite of pancake, unable to resist.

“What are these anyway?”

“Ricotta fritters. My maternal grandmother's recipe. I'll have to tell Anthony you enjoyed it.”

“Is he the pastry chef?”

“He's the everything chef.”

“Well, he's got a winner here; I have to hand it to him. No wonder my mother loves the desserts here.”

Michael looked confused. “Your mother—?” He tilted his head this way and that, studying Theresa. “Wait a minute,” he said, light beginning to break behind his eyes. “Falconetti? Natalie and Dominic are your folks?”

“Yup.”

“I never made the connection. They haven't been here for a while.”

“No,” Theresa said, her chest constricting as she thought about why. “My dad's sick.”

“Jesus, I'm sorry to hear that,” Michael said, sitting back down. The way he was looking at her, so full of compassion and concern, was unnerving. She much preferred when he gazed at her like she was a centerfold. “Give them my and Anthony's regards, will you?” he continued. “And if there's anything we can do . . .”

“Thanks,” Theresa said quietly, afraid that if they stayed on the topic of her father, she might tear up. “I need a copy of the menu, if you can spare it.”

“No problem.”

The front door of the restaurant opened and Anthony reappeared, his demeanor still surly.

“Hey, come over here a minute,” Michael called out to him in a coaxing voice as his brother stormed back towards the kitchen.

“Vaffanculo!”
Anthony shouted back over his shoulder before disappearing once again through the swinging steel doors.

Theresa winced. “Ouch.”

“Sorry about that,” Michael apologized, looking mortified that his brother had just told him to do the physically impossible in mixed company. “Anthony can be overly emotional.”

“They have pills for that now, you know.” When her quip didn't even register a smile, she decided to be direct. “Is he going to be okay with my developing a PR campaign for you guys?”

“He'll be fine,” Michael replied in a voice taut with self-control. Theresa didn't want to think about what was going to happen when she left the restaurant. She could already see the headline: HOCKEY STAR DROWNS BROTHER IN VAT OF OLIVE OIL, GOES ON LAM WITH NOTHING BUT DENTURES AND FRITTERS. It was going to be ugly.

“Are
you
okay?” she asked, surprising herself.

“Fine,” Michael replied brusquely. He jerked his head in the direction of her legal pad. “So, what are your services going to cost me?”

She wished he hadn't used the phrase “your services.” It made her sound like a hooker. “Well, normally we'd charge thirty-five hundred dollars a month, but since you're a friend of Janna and Ty's, I'll make it twenty-five hundred.”

“So that would be thirty-thousand for a year.”

“Yes.”

“That's enough for a down payment on a house.”

“Do you want to buy a house, or do you want the best PR services money can buy?” she asked suggestively.

His mouth curled into the hint of a crooked grin. “So you're the best, huh?”

“Buy my services and see.”

Michael chuckled appreciatively. “With a sales pitch like that, how can I resist?” He extended his hand across the table to shake hers.

“You're on for a year, Ms. Falconetti.”

As delicately as she could without appearing impolite, she withdrew her hand from his. “You won't be disappointed.”

Michael found Anthony in the kitchen, at the far end of one of the two long, stainless-steel tables in the center of the room, mincing walnuts on a giant cutting board with a full-size mezzaluna.
It was bad enough Anthony made such a jackass out of himself, storming in and out of the restaurant,
Michael fumed.
But telling me to go screw myself when I'm trying to conduct business? And in front of a woman? That was crossing the line.

The rest of the kitchen staff were happily chatting among themselves while they prepped for that night's menu. Michael's ire cooled temporarily as he took in the swirl of intoxicating scents around him: sauce cooking, foccacia baking . . . nourishing smells he associated with the sweetness of childhood, when both his parents were alive and running the show. Jesus, he missed them. Especially now, when he could use their help dealing with his bullheaded big brother. His eyes shot briefly heavenward.
Mom, Dad, give me the strength not to snap and bust his jaw.

“Anthony.” His tone was a call out, though he hadn't meant it to be. He tried to sound more casual. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

Anthony shrugged, not bothering to make eye contact. “Talk away.”

“Alone.”

“We're working here, Mike. Some stuff's got to be ready when we open at five-thirty.”

“I KNOW,” Michael replied, ignoring the implicit jibe. “All I'm asking for is five minutes.”

“I don't have five minutes.”

“Make it,” Michael threatened.

Sighing theatrically, Anthony put the mezzaluna down. “Yo, listen up everybody.” The staff stopped what they were doing. “Everyone take five so my brother the hockey star can talk to me in private.”

Michael saw the questioning glances exchanged by the staff, but all did as they were told, trooping one by one out of the kitchen. Anthony sauntered over to one of the massive industrial stoves and began absently stirring one of the huge vats of sauce with a giant ladle.

“I'm all ears.”

“Good. Number one, I didn't appreciate your immature behavior when I was trying to conduct business.”

“Business I want no part of,” Anthony reminded him, putting down the ladle and moving along to the wall of ovens, forcing Michael to follow.

“We'll get to that in a minute. Number two: Don't you ever curse at me like that again, especially not in front of a woman. Where the hell were your manners?”

Anthony smirked. “I guess I forgot them.”

“Yeah, well, next time remember them or I'm going to kick your rude ass from here to Hoboken.” Michael watched as Anthony carefully tipped open the door of an oven to check on the foccacia. “Ma always said you shouldn't open the oven while the bread was baking.”

The oven door slammed shut. “Who died and made you fucking head chef, huh?” Anthony snapped.

“Anthony.” Michael's voice was imploring. “Look, I don't want this bad blood between us—”

“Then keep your nose out of the restaurant, Mike.”

“I can't. Mom and Pop made me co-owner.”

“And what? All of a sudden I'm too fucking stupid to run things? I've been running the restaurant for years.”

“I know that. But—”

“But what?” Anthony returned to the table where some walnuts still lay intact and resumed chopping, violently. “Look, why don't you stick to what you do best, and I'll stick to what I do best? You're a hockey player. Go play hockey.”

“I'm also co-owner of the restaurant,” Michael repeated stubbornly. “Besides, Mom wanted to upgrade the restaurant. I'm just trying to honor her wishes.”

“Mom wanted to
expand
the restaurant, not upgrade it,” Anthony countered. “There's a difference.”

“If we're expanding, we may as well upgrade, too.”

Anthony's expression bordered on the mutinous. “No offense, baby bro, but what gives you the right to walk in here and change things around? I seem to remember that while you were off at college and playing for Hartford, I was the one sweating here in the kitchen with Mom and Pop, learning the ropes. You might own half the restaurant, but you don't know shit about what goes into making it run.”

“You're right,” Michael conceded humbly. “I don't.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tray of almond cookies cooling. He went to grab one, but Chef Eagle Eye was already one step ahead of him.

“Eat one and I'll chop your hand off. They're a special order for Saint Finbar's. You know that bastard Father Clementine: He'll count every freaking one.”

“He's still there?”

“Oh yeah.” Anthony frowned. “Still comes in here every Sunday night, too.”

“Know why? Because the food is great.”

“Well . . . yeah.” Anthony shot him a glance that said, “Why state the obvious, you moron.”

“Which is why I had the meeting with Theresa.” Michael took a step closer to his brother. “You're a great cook, Ant. That's why this place has such a huge local following. But don't you think it's time to get the word out?” Anthony continued chopping. “We're sitting on a gold mine here. You know that, or you wouldn't have agreed to an expansion. A little advertising, a little sprucing up, we could probably double the traffic in here within a year. We could pull in the food fanatics from the city. Word of mouth gets around. Before you know it—
baboom!
—you're getting mentions in
Gourmet, Food & Wine
, maybe even a review in the
Times.
Wouldn't you like that?”

“No.”

“No?” Michael echoed incredulously.
“No?”

“No offense, Mikey, but business is fine. We're packed every night. We start trying to pull in all those Park Slope yuppies and before you know it, the regulars won't be able to get their tables. People who have been loyal customers for years are gonna write us off. I don't want that to happen.”