Free The Concealers by James J. Kaufman

Forlini’s, Baxter Street. Quit screwing around. You free or not?”
    Preston could not help but smile. He could picture Tommy, the master of mixed metaphors, sitting in a restaurant, beefy, broad shoulders, tie loosened around his size twenty-inch neck, staring into Preston’s eyes. Tommy’s bluntness made Preston feel warm. Just what he needed.
    â€œBe there in fifteen.” Preston heard Tommy hang up.
*  *  *
    Preston entered through the door leading to the restaurant—not the bar—and found Tommy sitting alone at the end booth on the right side beneath an Italian painting. Tommy leaned forward, his five-four solid frame pushing against the table, and warmly crushed Preston’s hand with his own as Preston slid into the booth.
    â€œGood to see you, Tommy. You’re looking great. How do you do it?”
    â€œ
Genetikets,
” Tommy replied.
    â€œWhat?” Preston said.
    â€œY’know, family. And olive oil.”
    Preston finally smiled as he figured it out. They ordered wine, talked for a while, and then looked at the menu.
    â€œWhat would you like, Tommy?”
    â€œLinguini and clams shells.”
    Preston started to laugh but caught himself.
Close enough
. “I guess I’ll have the veal parmigiana.”
    After talking with Tommy for more than an hour, and downing two bottles of Chianti and a marvelous dinner, Preston felt the best he had all day. He told Tommy all about his stores, how he had assembled a remarkable sales team and hired a new vice president of finance, and how well the company was surviving under the circumstances. He talked about Marcia and told him about their son.
    â€œHey—that’s great. P.J. How d’ya like that? The ‘Joseph.’ That comin’ from where I’m thinkin’?” Tommy clapped his hands and then opened and lifted them, palms up.
    â€œIt is, in honor of Joe,” Preston said.
    After the waiter cleared the main course, Tommy put his huge hands on the white tablecloth and looked into Preston’s eyes. “I’ve gotta important situation to ask you about,” he said.
    â€œSure. Go ahead, Tommy.”
    â€œAs I told ya, Missy and me got married in Vegas.”
    â€œWhere were you married?”
    â€œI just told ya.”
    â€œI mean, in a church or what?”
    â€œThe Wedding Chapel, ya know, not the Little White one. We went for the Viva Las Vegas. Real classy. Missy’s mother, Mrs. Scarlatti, came all the way from Lyons, New York, and some of Missy’s showgirl friends were there. My friend Frankie Vittarone from Chicago was my best man, and his guy, Jimmy, and a few of their friends were there, too. Oh, and Harry showed up and followed through.”
    â€œHow about your family, Tommy? Were they there?”
    â€œThey’ve never been there. The ones there were my family.”
    Tommy had dropped out of high school and taken a job working at the Corner, a neighborhood bar where the patrons became his family and teachers, and the lessons learned were how to bet and fight, and the rules for survival. His de facto home was a far cry from the tourist image of Niagara Falls. Tommy had gone to Vegas to start a new life and become a better man.
    Preston pictured the scene at the chapel in Las Vegas, those present, and how important they were to Tommy and Missy. Other than introducing Marcia to Tommy and Missy at dinner during a business trip to Las Vegas, and arranging for Missy to have an audition as a dancer at the MGM Grand, Preston had had no contact with either of them since Joe’s funeral, an omission Marcia had reminded him about frequently.
    Preston thought about Harry. He still hadn’t even met the man.
    â€œWhat did you mean about Harry showing up and following through?”
    â€œWe didn’t know Harry until Joe’s funeral. He didn’t say a lot, but I tell ya . . . he was close to Joe, and he’s a stand-up guy.