Part 31 (2/2)
”Two of them are back with their parents. I a.s.sume they're getting psychiatric care, but they aren't in the system so we don't have files on them.”
”What about the eight-year-old boy who was sold by his drug addict mother?”
”He's on my girlfriend Tracy's caseload,” Allegra said, ”so I got the whole story. The child's name is Phillip. Phillip Bowen. He was placed in a foster home in North Kingstown and will stay in foster care until his mother gets out of jail, which won't happen anytime soon, from what I hear.”
”By the time that b.i.t.c.h sees suns.h.i.+ne again,” I said, ”Phillip will be all grown up.”
Charlie dropped our orders in front of us with a clatter of plates and tableware. Allegra picked at her salad. I inhaled the burger.
”Tracy says Phillip's physical injuries are healing,” Allegra said, ”but his emotional health is another story. He goes to counseling once a week, but it's going to take a long time.”
”I imagine so.”
”Mulligan?”
”Um?”
”Do this job as long as Tracy and I have and you kinda get hardened to things, you know?”
”I do.”
”And Tracy's always been a tough customer. But she couldn't even talk about Phillip without tearing up.”
I didn't have a response to that, so I finished my coffee and reached for the check.
”Can you stay a little longer?” Allegra said. ”I thought maybe we could sit for a while and talk about Rosie.”
45.
Mason, looking relaxed and deeply tanned, popped into my cubicle Tuesday morning and dropped a shopping bag on the desk.
”A present,” he said.
I reached in and pulled out a black T-s.h.i.+rt. It had a blue surfboard on the front and the words ”Surfin' Malibu U.S.A.” on the back.
”Why, thank you, Thanks-Dad,” I said. This would come in handy if I ever decided to wash the Bronco. ”So how'd it go?”
”Great,” he said. ”I rented a town house right on the beach. Met a couple of fun-loving girls. And I took surfing lessons from a former ASP World Tour champion who called me 'dude.'”
”What else?”
”Don't tell anybody,” he said, ”but I got a tattoo.” He took off his suit jacket, draped it over the cubicle divider, rolled up his left sleeve, and displayed a small blue tattoo of a sailboat on an angry red patch of forearm. ”I've got to hide it from Dad,” he said. ”He'll hate it.”
”Judging from the grin on your face,” I said, ”I don't think you've told me the best part yet.”
”Quite right.”
”So?”
”I'll tell you over dinner. I made reservations at Camille's for eight this evening. We'll celebrate.”
Camille's was the finest Italian restaurant on Federal Hill and had been for almost a hundred years. It was also the place where Vinnie Giordanno fell face-first into his plate of vongole alla Giovanni last year after two gunmen put one bullet each in his head.
”Don't worry, it's on me,” Mason said. ”And just a suggestion: You might want to skip lunch.”
”I will.”
”Oh, and don't forget to wear a jacket.”
Mason had arranged a small private dining room for the occasion. After we perused the menu and placed our orders, he selected a hundred-dollar bottle of wine for each of us: something called Antinori, Cervaro della Sala, Chardonnay, Umbria, for me; Poliziano, Asinone, Vino n.o.bile di Montepulciano, for him. I'm no wine drinker, so I figured this was a good time to follow my doctor's orders. I told the waiter to hold the wine and bring me a bottle of San Pellegrino.
And then the food kept coming and coming and coming.
Appetizers: portobello strudel and shrimp Santiago. Soups: pasta e f.a.gioli and escarole with bean and Speck ham. Salads: scungilli and cold antipasto platter. Pasta: linguine carbonara and rigatoni con formaggio affumicato. And finally the entrees: veal steak Giovanni for him and swordfish al cartoccio for me.
After they were served, Chef John Granata popped in to shake our hands and ask if everything was satisfactory. We a.s.sured him it was. My ulcer wasn't so sure. I popped a couple of omeprazole tablets and washed them down with San Pellegrino.
I kept trying to steer the conversation to Mason's big news, but he was having none of it. ”After we dine,” he said, and filled the s.p.a.ce between us with small talk about surfing, Malibu, and the sorry state of the newspaper business.
I managed to eat about half of what was put in front of me. Mason, who was built like a Popsicle stick, cleaned his plate. If he weren't so well-bred, I think he would have licked it. We skipped dessert and went straight for the after-dinner drinks, cognac for him and decaf for me. After they were delivered, Mason clinked his gla.s.s against my cup and sipped.
”So, Thanks-Dad,” I said, ”don't you think it's time you told me what we're celebrating?”
Mason laced his fingers behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and said: ”Nailed it.”
”Could you be more specific?”
”I got seventeen p.o.r.n stars on the record.”
”Great.”
”I knew you'd be pleased.”
”I'd be more pleased if you told me what they went on the record about.”
”Let me tell it from the beginning,” he said.
”Sure.”
”At first I didn't think this was going to work out. The first six p.o.r.n actors I located declined to talk to me, and most of them were quite rude about it. One even took a poke at me.”
”That how you got the split lip?”
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