In my best Snooty Waiter voice, I address the two armed men. “You, sir; and you. I’m sorry to tell you that you must leave immediately. You’ll find our firearms policy posted at the entrance.”
For an instant they look sheepish; then annoyed. Neither of them moves. But, then, they don’t shoot me either. So we may call the first round a draw, so to speak. I look over at Mr. DiSibio, our investor, by whom they seem to be employed. He gazes back from an Olympian remoteness; a bit sad, a bit disappointed, and a bit bored.
“I must insist that you leave, or I shall have to call the police.”
“Don’t do that,” says one.
“It costs the boss extra when people call them about us,” the other added, showing off his larger vocabulary.
“Hamburger, please, with ketchup,” says the first one.
“The same for me,” says the second. He looks at a piece of paper. “And Victorias fill-it, medium rare, with lobster tail.”
‘Filet,” DiSibio says.
I slink away. I must warn Vincenzo; I think our investor is not a nice man.