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asking customers if the dishes met with their approval.
Occasionally he'd sit for a few minutes and make small talk. It was a gracious
gesture that people appreciated. My turn came. The guy sized me up, figured I
was just a chance customer, and went no further than to ask me quietly whether
I was pleased with the meal and the service.
        Without
answering I pointed to the chair on my right. "May I offer you a glass of
wine?"
        He
was taken aback for a moment; then he satisfied me. With a wave he had a glass
brought to him.
        "I
used to work in a place that served food and drink," I told him.
"Like you, I was treated with respect by the customers. You know what I
mean?"
        The
chef nodded and adjusted his neckerchief. He was about fifty, thin but
muscular. His smock was spotless, and his hands were clean and well cared for.
A winner.
        "Seeing
as how I'd like to get into a different line of work," I went on, "I
asked myself if opening a restaurant might be a good investment. Of course I
like working with people-"
        He
emptied his glass. He didn't have the slightest intention of talking to me.
"I don't know where you worked before, what sort of place it might have
been, but being a restaurateur is a serious matter," he began to explain
in a smart-aleck tone. "One must know the trade and have a broad knowledge
of the wine industry as well. Perhaps a pizzeria would be a more suitable
venture. Good or bad, everybody eats pizza," he concluded as he stood up.
He politely held out his hand and went over to another table.
        "Pizzeria
my asshole," I thought as I kept my eyes on him. I wasn't going to invest
my money in some third-rate business. These days even the Chinese were opening
pizzerias. With the risks I was running to guarantee myself a decent future, I
deserved something better. I needed a good reputation, and only the finest
people could provide me with that. The ones with the fat wallets and the right
circle of friends. I'd open a classy place. Obviously without trying to act the
part of a restaurateur. I'd limit myself to hiring professionals, and I'd be
the boss, dividing my time between the account books and the customers' tables.
It was only a question of money. When you're on the fringes with time in the
slammer, life's an uphill race. And everything costs double.
        I
paid the check and hit the street again. When I got tired, I ducked into a
movie theater. An American picture. Boring.
        I
went back to the widow's. When she heard the key turn in the lock, she ran to
shut herself up in her room. For a moment I was tempted to leave her in peace,
but I was bored stiff and wanted to amuse myself. I knocked on the door. I made
her come back to the living room-on all fours.
        Ferruccio
the bull didn't contact me for a week. On Saturday I cased the superstore again
to verify the schedule and movements of the armored truck. But it was the only
time I managed to shake off the boredom. The city spat me out like a foreign
body, and my only distraction was restaurants. Two a day. I only went into the
ones that seemed top-notch to me.
        
        
        Same
McDonald's as last time and same car. Anedda drove fast in traffic, constantly
checking the rear-view mirror. He was always on the look-out.
        "I
found the right people," he announced. "Three Spanish anarchists, two
men and a woman. On the run from another robbery. And no way to beat the rap."
        "Who
else?" I pressed him.
        He
chuckled. "Two Ustashi Croats. War criminals. But perfect shots."
        I
shook my head. "It won't work. They'll never agree to work together."
        "Oh
yes they will," Ferruccio shot back. "They're real desperate, and they
need the cash. Besides, they don't have to work together. The Croats will be on
the roof and the Spaniards in the car retrieving the money bags."
        It
rang true. Not a bad idea. "And even if they croak, nobody's going to