guy.”
“As in repairs TVs?” Quinn, dressed in a fashionable black Versace shirt and pants, stolen by his brother who had, he’d told us the previous week when he came in for dinner, hijacked a truck in the garment district, looked aghast.
“No, you status hound. Not that there would be anything wrong with a TV repairman. It’s an honest living.” When Quinn and I opened Teddi’s, having had this crazy dream for years (we designed menus in high school) we each took out on-the-books loans from our grandfather Gallo, my Poppy Marcello and Quinn’s grandpa O’Reilly on his mother’s side. And I insisted we pay it all back—something we were still doing after two years. Poppy and Grandfather Gallo were completely repaid by both of us, but his grandfather O’Reilly still had a hefty IOU. His grandfather’s many businesses were legitimate, however, and the terms of the loan were generous. Quinn, on the other hand, who definitely went to the Belmont Raceway a little too often for my taste, would have done all our deals illegally. It seemed that everyone I knew believed in cutting corners.
“You looking for honest, Teddi? Why not date a garbage man?”
“That’s exactly what half of the Marcellos claim they do, Quinn. But no…he’s a TV guy, as in on the air.”
“No shit. An actor? What show?”
“Not actor. News. GNN. He does on-air investigative pieces.”
“I never watch the news, though that’s very cool, little cuz. You fuck him yet?”
I rolled my eyes. And though, I suppose, Quinn soundedcrass, no one, other than jealous boyfriends of women he stole away, ever got mad at him for long. It was his grin, his whole aura, as if he knew a joke the entire world wasn’t let in on yet. People liked being around him. He gave off an energy and shared it with anyone in his vicinity.
“What’s his name, at least?” he asked.
“Robert.”
“Bobby, eh?”
“No. Robert… Why is it all Italians shorten everybody’s name? Joseph becomes Joey, Robert becomes Bobby, Charles becomes Charlie and Louis becomes Louie. His name is Robert. And so long as we’re talking, the new waitress is very good. She handled the lunch crowd Saturday as if she’d been working here since we opened. Everyone loved her. So—” I tried to give him my most serious look “—do not…I repeat…do not fuck her.”
“Cammie is gorgeous. Blond—”
“We haven’t had a brunette work here since Christmas of last year.”
“—and delightfully perky, but not cheerleader perky. She has just the right amount.”
“Of perk?”
“Yes, of perk.”
“The right amount?” I slammed down my knife, startling Chef Jeff—not really a chef, but a young kid anxious to learn the restaurant biz—who was lugging in large cans of tomatoes.
“You’ve fucked her already, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say that, but I can tell. I’ve been able to tell since you were fourteen goddamn years old, Quinn. God…pretty soon there won’t be a waitress in New YorkCity who hasn’t worked here and quit. Which may be just as well—we can then hire only male waiters and stop with the soap opera up front.”
“This one could be a keeper.”
“None of them are keepers, Quinn. Because you can’t keep it in your pants.”
“You have no faith in me, your favorite cousin.” He came over to me and kissed my cheek.
“You shouldn’t come near me when I have a knife in my hands.”
“I promise…I swear…this time I will not fuck this up.”
I just shook my head and went back to chopping scallions. “You know Quinn, I’ve known you too long. It’s like the ponies. You can’t stay away.”
“Blame it on my upbringing. But you still love me.”
“Yes, I do. Blame that on mine.”
Robert and I met at a restaurant in Little Italy. He had chosen a place right out of the movies. I felt like Robert De Niro in GoodFellas should have walked in. It was totally authentic. There were no menus. The
“As in repairs TVs?” Quinn, dressed in a fashionable black Versace shirt and pants, stolen by his brother who had, he’d told us the previous week when he came in for dinner, hijacked a truck in the garment district, looked aghast.
“No, you status hound. Not that there would be anything wrong with a TV repairman. It’s an honest living.” When Quinn and I opened Teddi’s, having had this crazy dream for years (we designed menus in high school) we each took out on-the-books loans from our grandfather Gallo, my Poppy Marcello and Quinn’s grandpa O’Reilly on his mother’s side. And I insisted we pay it all back—something we were still doing after two years. Poppy and Grandfather Gallo were completely repaid by both of us, but his grandfather O’Reilly still had a hefty IOU. His grandfather’s many businesses were legitimate, however, and the terms of the loan were generous. Quinn, on the other hand, who definitely went to the Belmont Raceway a little too often for my taste, would have done all our deals illegally. It seemed that everyone I knew believed in cutting corners.
“You looking for honest, Teddi? Why not date a garbage man?”
“That’s exactly what half of the Marcellos claim they do, Quinn. But no…he’s a TV guy, as in on the air.”
“No shit. An actor? What show?”
“Not actor. News. GNN. He does on-air investigative pieces.”
“I never watch the news, though that’s very cool, little cuz. You fuck him yet?”
I rolled my eyes. And though, I suppose, Quinn soundedcrass, no one, other than jealous boyfriends of women he stole away, ever got mad at him for long. It was his grin, his whole aura, as if he knew a joke the entire world wasn’t let in on yet. People liked being around him. He gave off an energy and shared it with anyone in his vicinity.
“What’s his name, at least?” he asked.
“Robert.”
“Bobby, eh?”
“No. Robert… Why is it all Italians shorten everybody’s name? Joseph becomes Joey, Robert becomes Bobby, Charles becomes Charlie and Louis becomes Louie. His name is Robert. And so long as we’re talking, the new waitress is very good. She handled the lunch crowd Saturday as if she’d been working here since we opened. Everyone loved her. So—” I tried to give him my most serious look “—do not…I repeat…do not fuck her.”
“Cammie is gorgeous. Blond—”
“We haven’t had a brunette work here since Christmas of last year.”
“—and delightfully perky, but not cheerleader perky. She has just the right amount.”
“Of perk?”
“Yes, of perk.”
“The right amount?” I slammed down my knife, startling Chef Jeff—not really a chef, but a young kid anxious to learn the restaurant biz—who was lugging in large cans of tomatoes.
“You’ve fucked her already, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t say that, but I can tell. I’ve been able to tell since you were fourteen goddamn years old, Quinn. God…pretty soon there won’t be a waitress in New YorkCity who hasn’t worked here and quit. Which may be just as well—we can then hire only male waiters and stop with the soap opera up front.”
“This one could be a keeper.”
“None of them are keepers, Quinn. Because you can’t keep it in your pants.”
“You have no faith in me, your favorite cousin.” He came over to me and kissed my cheek.
“You shouldn’t come near me when I have a knife in my hands.”
“I promise…I swear…this time I will not fuck this up.”
I just shook my head and went back to chopping scallions. “You know Quinn, I’ve known you too long. It’s like the ponies. You can’t stay away.”
“Blame it on my upbringing. But you still love me.”
“Yes, I do. Blame that on mine.”
Robert and I met at a restaurant in Little Italy. He had chosen a place right out of the movies. I felt like Robert De Niro in GoodFellas should have walked in. It was totally authentic. There were no menus. The
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