Mafia Chic

“Entering lobby. The cute doorman is on duty tonight. Winking at him—”

“Stay focused on the mission at hand!”

“Sorry. Oh, this is so Cold War, so On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Staying focused. Mr. 12B just gave me a very sexy look. I’m walking. Can you hear my heels clicking? God, I love these boots. Walking…walking. Mrs. Melman from the third floor just gave me the evil eye. Like I’d want to hit on that flabby, balding husband of hers.”

“Focus, Di!”

“Okay then…at the revolving doors. Time for you to come down to the lobby.”

I dashed out the door, locked it, then made my way down to the lobby. I listened to my phone.

“Walking across the street. See your cousin Tony. Waving and smiling to him.”

Now I could hear traffic sounds, cabbies beeping their horns, then muffled conversation and her replies to Tony.

“You must be simply starving out here.”

Mumble, mumble from my cousin.

“Well…I know how you find these positively delicious. Just wanted to say hello and bring you a dozen… No, it was nothing. Nothing at all for one of my favorite, most favorite chaps.”

Mumble, mumble.

“Oh…you like this outfit? Just threw it on…. You know, Tony, one of these days we have to go out for dinner and get to know each other better.”

Mumble.

“Smashing, then. You know, you’re looking terrific. You working out?”

Mumble.

“Tony…I’m a little cold just standing still here. Positively shivering. What do you say we take a walk around the block? Get the blood pumping.”

Mumble.

“Grand!”

And that was my cue. I dashed out the door, much to the bemusement of the doorman, who, I think, was on to our charade—this wasn’t the first time we’d gone to such ridiculous lengths. I made a sharp left and raced around the corner for a cab.

Flawlessly executed. Or so we thought.

But it turned out that Di’s pastry hand-off was to have devastating consequences.

I plead an overflow of sake. The piping-hot liquid must have, like some alcoholic Drano, busted through my brain’s tiny capillaries and rendered me stupefied. So stupefied that I revealed more than I usually do on a first date.

Robert Wharton was dressed like a power player. Maybe that was it. I was overwhelmed by his expensive suit and silk tie, and his dimpled smile and flawless TV-teeth. His manners, as he pulled out my chair for me.

Or maybe it was just the sake.

“So do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked, leaning in to better hear me, his face illuminated by a single candle in a Japanese-inspired lantern on our table.

I had been mid-lift of a delicious piece of eel on the ends of my chopsticks. Oh, God, here comes the obligatory family discussion, I thought. I dropped the eel in the little dish containing my soy sauce.

“A brother. Actor. He lives in Hollywood.”