Maryanne, her suitcase broadcasting her split with Vincenzo, steps up to the podium. Smiling no more than she needs to, she says, “I’ll have Table 21, please.”

The most exposed table in the house. I scan the waiting area. The old timers who know Maryanne aren’t here yet. Thy rod—Romans punished miscreants by beating them with rods. Some people live to punish me, so I will punish them. Comfort? We’ll see.

“Mrs. Gillette, our favorite Fullerette! How good to see you again.”

“Emilio!” She hisses. “Have you gone blind? I’m …”

“You’ve brought some Fuller brushes for us to look at? Yes, I see you have your sample case. Allow me.” I pick up her suitcase and walk toward the elevator.

“Mr. Fabrizio,” she grates, following.

I push the call button. “How lucky you’ve come. I read that the army is commandeering factories to make brushes for cleaning guns.”

The doors open; we get in the elevator. “I’m going to have you fired.”

I push 3, for Vincenzo’s office, and smile. “But, you’re already fired.”