The floor at the top of the stairs is covered with broken glass. There seems to be a lot of it in my life. This batch used to be the frosted glass window of Otellio’s office; it looks smaller, more vulnerable, now. Shards crunch and splinter under my shoes.
Through the broken window, I see Vincenzo slumped in the plush leather chair that always seemed too big for him. He looks like a man who’d lost his wife and his business in one night. Two bottles stand guard on his desk blotter, while a third one patrols the floor on its side. We two friends regard each other, one from the booze world, the other from the dope world; not that different.
“’s beau-ful place, an’ ah’ll fix it,” Vincenzo states.
Jefferson is behind me. “The new license upset him. Will you take charge, just for tonight?”
I glance at the ledger shelf; it’s empty. “Vinny! Where are the books?”
“In-a safe. DiSibio. Said so.”
“Let’s put him to bed.” I go next-door and pull down the Murphy bed.
From the kitchen, I hear raucous cheering.