Free Bloodroot by Bill Loehfelm Page A

neighborhood’ll be next.”
    “And then they cry about how great it used to be,” I said. “Like they didn’t grow up in Connecticut.”
    “See?” Danny said. “You and me? We still think alike. And we’re not entirely alone.” He gestured toward the Irish place. “Shanahan’s remains true to the game, bad food, three-dollar pints, no dogs small enough to fit in a handbag, but even he’s had to make compromises. He finally told his bartenders to start making specialty martinis, though he lets them charge fifteen bucks a pop. Three weeks ago, he got free wireless.”
    Danny grabbed the brass handle of Santoro’s oak door and yanked it open. “This place, too, is still cool. A true sanctuary. Same owner for forty years.”
    A bald old man, thick salt-and-pepper mustache twitching under his nose, greeted us on the other side of the door. He wore an immaculate white apron over a shirt and tie. He kissed Danny on both cheeks, vigorously shaking my hand as Danny introduced us. His name was Gino Bavasi. “Ciao, ciao,” he said, over and over.
    To my surprise, Gino and Danny exchanged pleasantries in Italian as we took our table in the back. Gino handed us menus. Moments later, he brought out a pitcher of ice water and filled our glasses. He waddled back to the host stand.
    I opened my menu and scanned the prices. The forty in my pocket might cover a few olives. I remembered what Danny had said about the tab and closed the menu.
    “Gino knows you pretty well,” I said. “You working here?”
    “I live upstairs,” Danny said. “On my own, I can barely afford to walk down the street in this neighborhood anymore, but I do a lot of work for Bavasi, and sometimes for the guy that owns this building, a few other people. I manage the POS, the sound system, security. I’m in here a lot.”
    Bavasi took our orders. Three tuxedoed waiters idled in the bus station. I wondered how it was that the boss waited on our table. Danny ordered for both of us without even a glance at me. I didn’t mind. The menu was mostly in Italian anyway. I eased back, water in one hand and my other arm stretched along the back of the bench, trying to look like I ate in places like Santoro’s all the time.
    “So that’s what you’re doing these days, for work?” I asked. “Sound?”
    “Some,” Danny said. “Video mostly.”
    “No more recording studios?”
    “Nothing there for me but sweeping up. I burned too many bridges getting high. I’m doing private systems, now. It was tough for a while, catching up on the new technology, but Bavasi’s old tech took me under his wing. Al set it up, after I got outta rehab.”
    I was shocked and a little ashamed of how relieved I was at Danny’s answers to my questions. They explained a lot. “So there’s decent money in this?”
    “When Bavasi’s other guy retired,” Danny said, “I took over all his accounts. It’s pretty profitable, making sure the yuppies can hear their Norah Jones in every room in the house. Making sure they can hear precious Toby’s every breath from his thousand-dollar crib. Setting up their multimedia entertainment systems. I can charge a fortune to show up at the condo and follow the owner’s manual. They’re proud to get overcharged for it. I think in their heads, techs are the new servant class.”
    Bavasi brought over a bottle of red wine, poured us each a glass.
    “So you work for Al?” I asked.
    “No, I work for me,” Danny said. “Like every man should. Al throws me a job every now and then, some things we do together. Bavasi’s my main source; he knows everyone in this neighborhood. It’s strictly word of mouth.” Danny reached into his jacket pocket. “But I do have these.”
    He handed me a business card.
    “Impressive,” I said, taking the card. There was a laughing devil in one corner and a weeping angel in the other. I read the card aloud. “Far Beyond Technology. I like the name. Good play on words.”
    “You get it?” Danny