Randy grinned. He did that a lot, sleepy-eyed, and said, "You missed me, didn't you?"

She decided at that moment to quit screwing around and said, "No, I didn't, Randy. I knocked you on your ass with a Buick Riviera."

Used to saying it that way.

And the cool son of a bitch said, "Oh? I don't recall you driving a Buick. I thought it was a Ford Escort."

It made her mad and Debbie had to take a few beats to get her insides to calm down.

She said, "Why don't you quit trying to be so fucking cool all the time? What're you now, a gangster? You quit sailing around the world? You were always someone else, like you wanted me to think you had a secret life. You did, but you know what I mean. You'd be gone for a few days, I'd ask where you were and you'd go, 'Sorry, babe.' You'll never know how much I hated being called babe. I'm not a babe, Randy."

"Why didn't you tell me? I mean that you hated it."

"Because I was stupid. I actually thought I was in love with you."

"Maybe you still are, deep down."

"Don't, okay? You'd go, 'Sorry babe, but there's a reason I can't tell you at this point in time.' Like one of these days you'd tell me you were with the CIA. Why don't you just try to be yourself?"

Randy said, "I'm whoever I am," making it sound like something he was told on a mountaintop.

He could wear you out. Debbie said, "Randy, that is so fucking dumb, 'I'm whoever I am.' You want to appear wise, you keep your mouth shut. I'm serious. You don't have to base your whole life on bullshit."

Now he was giving her his sincere look, hands folded on his thigh.

He said, "Why do you care?"

Sounding as though he was serious, so she went along with it, watching her step though. She said, "Do you like being an asshole?"

See if that would nudge him.

He let his breath out in a long Randy sigh, staying in his serious mood. "I am sorry for the way I treated you. Really. Even at the time, when you trusted me to invest your money-it was the first time in my life my conscience ever gave me a hard time."

"But you took it."

He said, "Yes, I did," looking past her and sounding contrite.

"Well, would you like to give it back?"

"It's been on my mind," Randy said. "Not while I was lying in the hospital, in pain, but since then."

"While I was in prison," Debbie said.

"The thing is, I want to make it up to you."

She said, "What does that mean?"

And the fucking maitre d' came in the office saying, "Mr. Moraco is here."

They started on their appetizers without Debbie: Johnny dipping his giant shrimp in the cocktail sauce, Terry dealing with his oysters.

He heard Johnny say, "Jesus, there's Vincent Moraco," and Terry looked up.

"Which one?"

"The little guy, with his wife."

"That's not the one used to pay us."

"The one paid us was his girlfriend. She said she was Mrs. Moraco so nobody'd argue with her or fool around. Understand? Or you'd be fuckin with Vincent Moraco himself. I heard the feds're looking for the girlfriend, but she's disappeared."

"They call you?"

"No, but some other guys making the same run I heard were subpoenaed."

"What about the other guy?"

"Vito Genoa. He's the enforcer. Mr. Amilia's take-out guy."

"They're watching us eat," Terry said.

"I know they are. Don't look at 'em."

Too late. Terry nodded to the three standing with the hostess, and smiled. The Moracos and Vito Genoa, looking this way as the hostess was talking to them, did not smile back. Now the maitre d' was there, taking over, talking maitre d' talk to them, schmoozing them over to the bar.

Johnny was saying, "Remember we use to go sledding at Balduck Park? Genoa was the guy use to come by there, act like he was king of the fuckin hill."

"He went to Queen of Peace?"

"No, he was from over in Grosse Pointe Woods. He was gonna wash my face with snow and you jumped him. We were about ten, he was twelve or thirteen, big for his age."

Terry said, "He beat me up."

Johnny said, "And I got a concussion of the fuckin brain, but he never bothered us again, did he?"

"How do you know this is the same guy?"

"The name, Gen-oh-a. High school he was All-City in football two years, with his picture in the paper." Johnny saying, "He's put on a good fifty sixty pounds since then," as Debbie came back and he had to get up.

She slipped into the banquette saying, "I almost had him. I got him to say he'd make it up to me, and that fucking maitre d' walked in."

She said, "There's Randy, coming along the bar. See him? What's your first impression?"

"He looks like a guy runs a restaurant," Terry said, "and eats a lot.

He fills out that suit."

"He's put on some weight," Debbie said, "but the style is still there, the pose."

They watched him reach the Moracos and Vito Genoa, Randy already saying something to them as he walked up, taking Mrs.

Moraco's hand now, still talking, making her smile, the two guys looking at him now not happy, and now Randy was gesturing, shaking his head, acting helpless.

"We're in their booth," Debbie said, "and he's telling them there's nothing he can do about it."

"Maybe an hour ago it was their booth," Johnny said, "not now. Any restaurant, a busy night, they'll hold your reservation fifteen minutes, that's it. You show up late, get in line, man, it's the way it is."

They watched Moraco turn from Randy to say no more than a few words to Vito Genoa and the guy was coming this way, looking right at them.

Debbie nudged Johnny. "Tell this bozo what you just said," and all Johnny could say was, "Shit," without much behind it.

Terry watched Genoa stop in front of Johnny. He placed his hands flat on the table to lean in and get close. Now he took one of Johnny's giant shrimp and popped it in his mouth. Johnny didn't say a word.

Terry said, "Vito? I'm Father Dunn."

Genoa turned his head. Now he brought his hands from the table to stand erect.

"What parish you in, Vito?"

Genoa didn't answer, taken by surprise, or maybe thinking about it. What parish was he in?

"I remember when we were kids you were in, I think, Star of the Sea. Am I right?"

He still didn't answer, maybe wondering what's going on here?

Who's this priest?

"You remember Fr. Sobieski, your pastor? He's been there a long time, hasn't he? I've been serving at a mission in Africa, Vito.

Rwanda. I was there when over a half-million people were murdered in three months time. Some shot, most of 'em hacked to death with machetes." He paused.

Genoa stared at him.

"A week from Sunday," Terry said, I'll be at Star of the Sea, make an appeal for the mission. See if I can raise enough to feed my little orphans, hundreds of 'em, Vito, their moms and dads killed during the genocide. You see their little faces-it tears at your heart."

Vito Genoa finally spoke. He said, "You don't get up right now, Father, I'm gonna drag you across the fuckin table."

It was in Terry's mind that if the guy dragged him across the fuckin table it would mess up his brand-new suit and he'd have to get it cleaned and pressed. On the other hand, if the guy did drag him across the table, in front of a roomful of witnesses, he wouldn't have to slip and fall to threaten Randy with a lawsuit. The opportunity was waiting for him. He would have to put aside the urge to get up and punch the guy in the mouth. He was the victim here.

He said to Genoa, "Vito, you'd lay hands on a man who's an ordained minister of your Church?"

"I gave up going to church for Lent," Vito said. "I won't need to till it looks like I'm gonna die. Okay, then I'll cash everything in at once, tell you all my sins and ask to be forgiven."