When am I going to have time to think about Vincenzo’s money? Not yet. “Mrs. Otellio,” I say. “I’m sorry to tell you there has been a mistake with your reservation. I am unable to seat you.”

“Stone,” she growls; but she recovers fast. “It was table 21. Perhaps you should check your list again.”

Then it strikes me. I wouldn’t have stuffed crumpled money in my pockets. Vincenzo wouldn’t either; he can’t throw away paper without folding it in half. “When Vinny brought the money to the office last night, what did you do?”

Her eyes widen briefly. “I’m here to meet a friend. Perhaps you’ve seen him? Broad-shouldered; brown eyes; brown hair with a touch of gray.”

“Breathing whiskey? Over there.” I point out the cheap suit at the bar. “And I hope you’ll leave with him. Good riddance.” Stiffly I offer her my arm.

“Oh, Emilio,” she rolls her eyes. “I’m not touching that arm.”

While I stand swaying like a gored ox, her date comes to the rescue. He’s a decent fellow after all.

The poor schmuck.