Pilonski overheard it, two tables away.
It’s a blessing in disguise.
He threw his napkin on the table, almost knocked over Blumenthal’s water.
“I hate that saying, a blessing in disguise. Doesn’t make no sense.”
“I believe in it,” Mascanelli said. “Like Barbona dying, and Barbona’s little brother.”
Pilonski closed his eyes, sorry he even brought it up.
“What about Barbona’s little brother?” Blumenthal asked. “Tony, right?”
“Yep, Tony. He’s world famous now.”
“He ain’t world famous, and even if he was,” Pilonski said, motioning the server for another beer, “it ain’t because Barbona died.”
“Kinda,” Mascanelli said.
“Kinda how?” Pilonski asked, immediately regretting it.
“Follow me,” Mascanelli said, not moving, just talking. “Barbona’s in the hospital, right? His mom is by his bedside every day, Tony can’t go because he’s too young and everyone’s freaked because Barbona has AIDS. Barbona’s mom leaves parboiled pasta for Tony to eat while she’s at St. Joe’s. But Tony’s too upset to eat. He doesn’t even simmer the sauce his mom left for him. He doesn’t eat. He’s like what, 12 at the time? So he makes art out of the damn pasta. Makes an exact likeness of Sinatra out of the pasta.”
“I remember the Sinatra,” Blumenthal says.
“Yeah man, Sinatra, “ Mascanelli says. “So Sinatra comes to town, always has dinner at Giovanni’s. Lukey Dipstick is the valet at Giovanni’s. Obviously, Sinatra is in a limo, Lukey doesn’t park it, but he knows Sinatra is there, right? Police escort and shit.”
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