ROTUNDO'S ITALIAN CAFE
I cannot undue the seamless dwelling where my
thoughts and emotions live : I am squandered and
cast away, spitting a momentary blood, venting a
second's ire. 'Put the dominoes down, Dominic.'
The Italian guy named Rondo said that, serving
coffee to three huge grunts who'd just sauntered
in. They were so obvious, it was funny. Leather
half-boots, where you just know a pistol was
tucked, one guy had a silk Yankee's jacket, with
what appeared to be, for sure, a false lining that
covered zippered pockets for waltzing out with
cash. They were here for the pick, their monthly
allotment of mob-money-rent, a part of the take.
'Hey, Angelo, how's the wife and baby, everything
good?' At which point you just know poor Angelo's on
the line : the well-being of kin and business depends
now on his ponying up the racket money, the protection
dough, the take that's not even his. Bad business, all
Rondo gets up and spills a cup. There's a tussle, a few
punches are thrown, and Rondo's down. I saw this all
from behind The New York Times : big paper, wide open,
in front of my face. 'No, Bud, I don't see a thing.'
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