Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin

thrilled. Speaking of which, I’ve got some news you’ll be thrilled about, too.”
    “Yeah, what’s that?”
    “I took the liberty of hiring a hostess for the front of the house,” said Michael, looking pleased with himself.
    Anthony stared at him. Damned if blood didn’t make a sound; he could hear his own in his ears, a pulsing torrent fighting to drown out the voice in his head, the one telling him to throttle his brother within an inch of his life.
    “You did what ?”
    “Hired a hostess. Admit it, Ant, we need one. You can’t expect Aldo to pinch hit.”
    “This is my restaurant, Mike. My restaurant. My domain. How many times, in how many different ways, do I have to say it?” The more he thought about his brother’s unilateral decision, the angrier he became. “How dare you hire someone without talking to me first! How dare you hire someone, period?”
    “I’m helping you out here, you jackass!” Michael yelled.
    “I don’t need your help!” Anthony yelled back.
    Angelica’s lip quivered. Then she began to cry.
    “Good one,” Michael hissed, picking up his daughter and bouncing her on his shoulder.
    “Call whoever it is you hired and tell them you made a mistake,” Anthony commanded. “Now.”
    “Anthony.” Michael’s tone was cajoling. “Try and think clearly for a moment. This is something we need.”
    Anthony bit down on his tongue.
    “I can’t unhire her. It’s someone from the neighborhood. Someone who desperately needs the work.”
    “Who?”
    “Lorraine Fabiano. Remember her?”
    Anthony drove the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. “You better be shitting me.”
    “Why?”
    “Do you remember her nickname from high school, Mike?” Anthony asked as he tore his hands from his eyes, staring his little brother down. “Do you?”
    Michael looked uneasy. “No.”
    “Let me remind you, then: it was Insane Lorraine.” Anthony took a step toward his brother, who clutched his baby daughter tighter. “Is it coming back to you now?”
    Michael swallowed. “Kind of.”
    “Kind of. Maybe this will help. She had a crush on me, remember? Used to hang around in front of the house, leave love notes for me in the hands of Mom’s Saint Francis statue? Is it coming back to you now?’
    Michael’s face fell. “Fuck.”
    “Fuck is right. So put Angelica down and get on the horn right now. Tell Insane Lorraine that you’re very sorry, but you made a mistake and the position is filled.”
    “Anthony.” Michael’s voice was gently admonishing. “Don’t be so friggin’ hard-hearted. Her pop died a couple of months ago and she came back to Bensonhurst to help out her mother.”
    “Oh, you mean Insane Lorraine Senior?” Michael ignored him. “Let me ask you something—did you ask her where she’s been the past ten years?”
    Michael looked uncomfortable. “No.”
    “So how do you know she wasn’t, oh, spending time in a mental hospital for burying cats up to their necks and chopping off their heads with a lawnmower?”
    “Did she do that?” Michael spluttered.
    “I have no idea. The point is, you know nothing about her apart from the fact she’s ‘from the neighborhood.’”
    “She needs a job. I was trying to do a good deed.”
    “Then hire her as your nanny. Or better yet, your cook.”
    “Let’s just give her a chance, Anthony. Okay? It could end up helping us—you—out.”
    “Or, we could end up losing customers when she strips off all her clothes and does the hokey pokey on top of the bar.”
    Michael looked apprehensive. “Did she—?”
    “Yeah, she did, Mike. Mr. Leotardo’s tenth grade geometry class.”
    “I was still in junior high,” Michael mumbled, hanging his head.
    “Convenient. You want to play Good Samaritan? You train her.”
    Michael’s head snapped up. “What?”
    “You heard me. You hired her, you train her. And if we need to, you fire her. We clear?”
    “Ant—”
    “We clear?”
    Michael was sullen as he balanced