Mafia Chic by Erica Orloff Page A

Sider or Central Park Wester would come into Teddi’s. Quinn would suck up to their table perfectly, then mock them in the kitchen with his gift of mimicry. I hated this kind of person and couldn’t imagine Robert coming from such stuffed shirts. I guess I prefer my father, with his shirts always smelling of cigarettes and Aqua Velva, and his basement craps games when he let me blow on the dice.
    Robert continued. “I was off at prep school by the time I was fourteen. Parenting always seemed like an inconvenience to my mother—whom, I might add, I always called Mother and not Mom. I knew better than to ever interrupt her four o’clock martini.”
    “Doesn’t sound very happy.” I thought of my boisterous clan. I don’t think anyone in our family had ever drank a martini. Or said “droll.” “Fuck” was my father’s favoriteword. And when the men were alone, that was followed by “asshole” and “bastard.” What does droll mean, anyway? And prep school? I was lucky they let me move out when I was twenty-four. And then only with my own Italian security detail.
    “No…not terribly happy. Though, I suppose, it was all I knew. It was all my friends knew. Disinterested parents who took us on fabulous vacations—along with our nannies so they didn’t have to bother with us too much.”
    “Was there anything you liked, I mean really liked about your family?”
    “Well, it’s taken me a while to see some of the good stuff. They encouraged me in school, and I really have my father’s connections to thank for getting me in the door at Global News.”
    “And you like what you do…?”
    “Thrive on it. And though my parents aren’t the most demonstrative people in the world, in their hearts they wanted nothing but the best for me. My grandfather made his fortune, and his father before him made his fortune. And my father inherited it all, but he did say to me that I should go and do something on my own, not just follow in his footsteps. When I said I wanted to be a journalist, my mother acted like I’d said I wanted to join the French Foreign Legion.”
    I laughed. “And your father?”
    “In front of Mother, he mumbled something about being careful not to embarrass the family…. But in private? He took me into his study for a cigar and told me to go for it. He said his great-grandfather was a bootlegger who liked to fly planes and had an affair with a ballerina—scandalous way back then. My father applauded that I wanted to dosomething on my own. Something different—and he said my great-grandfather would have approved.”
    “Good for you!” I lifted my little sake cup and saluted him.
    “Now, fair is fair. You seem very mysterious, Teddi. What about you?”
    I tossed back my sake. “I was abandoned by my family and raised by wolves.”
    “Must have made all the medical and scientific journals.”
    “In fact, I did.”
    He laughed and poured me another sake. And that’s when my mouth opened and huge contents of my brain began spewing out. I plead, as I said, the sake. And also, something about the way he talked about his great-grandfather warmed me more than the hot sake. I sensed he would understand the sort of grudging love you have for a family of eccentrics and law-breakers.
    “Actually—” I lowered my voice “—I kind of am from the Marcello family.”
    “Not the Marcellos?”
    “Well, as a matter of fact, yes, you could say that. The. As in the Marcellos.”
    “Holy shit!” Robert leaned back in his chair.
    I envisioned the date being over. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But he surprised me.
    “I never put two and two together. Your last name is Gallo. They’re sort of known in the same…uh…you know the same sort of context.”
    “Yeah. When I said I have one of each…I guess you could say I have one Gallo parent and one Marcello parent. One of each.”
    “How do you like that for a journalist? They’ll take away my master’s degree for that bit of ignorance….