Friend of the Devil by Mark Spivak

Author:Mark Spivak [Spivak, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-05-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

David dressed early that evening and walked over to the main house. Arriving before seven, he found Alessandra standing guard at the entrance to the dining room. She wore a strapless black evening dress with an open back and a plunging neckline, framed by a necklace of alternating rubies and sapphires.

“You look marvelous,” he said as they kissed on both cheeks, European-style. “Good enough to eat.”

“Thank you. It’s the season. I have to give them their money’s worth.”

“How are you doing?”

“Nowhere near as well as I’ll be doing tomorrow at this time.” She giggled. “I expect to be absolutely wonderful. How about you? How does the work go?”

“He’s a house of mirrors, all right. What did Churchill say about Russia—a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma?”

“How the fuck would I know? I never met the man.”

“Are you going to seat me?”

“No, you can stay up here for now. He’ll want you to see him in action. You can eat after he gets worn out—he’s usually good for an hour or so.”

“Sounds great. I’ll stand behind you, so I can grab your ass if I need to.”

He retreated to a spot where he had a view of the front door and the maitre d’s stand. Diners began to trickle in. As she was seating a party of four, he noticed two clipboards hanging underneath the podium. One had a large green bar at the top of the cover sheet, while the other was topped in red.

“What’s with the clipboards?” he asked when she returned.

“The green list and the red list.” She picked up the first clipboard. “These people get anything they want at any time. As Joseph says, they are the stockholders. If we don’t have a table, we build one for them.”

“I see.”

“On the other hand, this is the shitlist.” She handed him the red clipboard. “These poor souls have sinned against the order of nature. If they call, we’re fully booked. We’re terribly sorry and hope to accommodate them another time.”

David glanced at the sheet of paper, and his eye was arrested by the name at the bottom of the list: Carlos Santillo, written in the chef’s elaborate cursive.

“Any idea what they might have done?”

“Who knows? Who cares? Around here, the less you know, the better off you are.”

“This guy, for example.” He pointed at Santillo’s name.

“Not sure. He was added recently. In fact, he went directly from the green list to the red list, so it must have been something drastic.”

There was a commotion at the front door, and Joseph Soderini di Avenzano exploded into the room. He was clean-shaven and radiant. Attired in a freshly starched, white chef’s coat, he made his way toward them, stopping to acknowledge the greetings of well-wishers and to autograph menus for sycophants. His demeanor was part pope, part Frank Sinatra, part Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments.

“Well, he looks happy,” David whispered as he approached.

“Puppy uppers,” she said with disgust. “Nothing like a nice dose of speed to shake off the Demerol.

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