The closest refuge is The Topaz. After checking the alley for DiSibio’s thugs, I head into it and let myself in the back door. In the men’s room I check the mirror. I have a first degree burn on my face, cuts on my hands from broken glass, and soot and burn-holes on my wool coat and derby. It was a preview of where I’m headed when I’m gone. Then Vincenzo will promote Amanda Reynolds to maitre d’, a sensible economic choice. She’ll cost less in wages, since she’s only a woman.
Repaired once again, I step into the hall. Jefferson is walking past. “Mr Fabrizio! I’ve been calling your place all day. I know it’s your day off. But something terrible has happened.”
He leads me to the foot of the stairs. The glass in the frame that holds our business license has been smashed. “Is that all? This can be fixed.”
He points at the license. It’s not faded like I remember; the City brought a new one around. “Owner” no longer lists Vincenzo Otellio; only Carpozi Enterprises.
I go up the stairs to his office.