it. I like to do things in style. It’s good for the soul.”
They parked the car in an underground lot on East Fifty-eighth Street, removed Nashe’s bags from the trunk, and then walked around the corner to the hotel. Nashe asked for two single rooms with a connecting bath, and as he signed the register at the desk, he watched Pozzi out of the corner of his eye, noting the small, satisfied smirk on the kid’s face. That look pleased him, for it seemed to indicate that Pozzi was sufficiently awed by his good fortune to appreciate what Nashe was doing for him. It all boiled down to a question of staging. Just two hours before, Pozzi’s life had been in ruins, and now he was standing inside a palace, trying not to gawk at the opulence that surrounded him. Had the contrast been less striking, it would not have produced the desired effect, but as it was, Nashe had only to look at the kid’s twitching mouth to know that he had made his point.
They were given rooms on the seventh floor (“Lucky seven,” as Pozzi remarked in the elevator), and once the bellboy had been tipped and they were settled in, Nashe dialed room service andordered lunch. Two steaks, two salads, two baked potatoes, two bottles of Beck’s. Meanwhile, Pozzi was marching into the bathroom to take a shower, closing the door behind him but not bothering to lock it. Nashe took that as another good sign. He listened for a moment or two as the water sizzled against the tub, then changed into a clean white shirt and dug out the money he had transferred from the glove compartment to one of his suitcases (fourteen thousand dollars wrapped in a small plastic shopping bag). Without saying anything to Pozzi, he slipped out of the room, took the elevator down to the ground floor, and deposited thirteen thousand dollars in the hotel safe. Before going back up, he made a little detour and stopped in at the newsstand to buy a deck of cards.
Pozzi was sitting in his own room when Nashe returned. The two bathroom doors were open, and Nashe could see the kid sprawled out in an armchair, his body wrapped in two or three white towels. The Saturday-afternoon kung fu movie was playing on the television, and when Nashe poked his head in to say hello, Pozzi pointed to the set and said that maybe he should start taking lessons from Bruce Lee. “The little dude’s no bigger than I am,” he said, “but look at the way he handles those fuckers. If I knew how to do that stuff, last night never would have happened.”
“Are you feeling any better?” Nashe asked.
“My body’s all sore, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“I guess you’ll live, then.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I might not be able to play the violin anymore, but it looks like I’m going to live.”
“The food will be here any minute. You can put on a pair of my pants if you like. After we eat, I’ll take you out to buy some new clothes.”
“That’s probably a good idea. I was just thinking it might not be so hot to push this Roman senator act too far.”
Nashe tossed Pozzi a pair of blue jeans to go with the Red Sox T-shirt, and once again the kid seemed to shrink down to the sizeof a little boy. In order not to trip over himself, he rolled up the bottoms of the pants to his ankles. “You’ve sure got a handsome wardrobe,” he said as he walked into Nashe’s room, holding up the jeans by the waist. “What are you, the Boston cowboy or something?”
“I was going to let you borrow my tux, but then I figured I’d better wait and see what your table manners are like. I wouldn’t want it to get ruined just because you can’t keep ketchup from dribbling out of your mouth.”
The food was wheeled in on a rattling cart, and the two of them sat down to lunch. Pozzi worked on his steak with relish, but after several minutes of steady chewing and swallowing, he put down his knife and fork as if he had suddenly lost interest. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. “It’s
They parked the car in an underground lot on East Fifty-eighth Street, removed Nashe’s bags from the trunk, and then walked around the corner to the hotel. Nashe asked for two single rooms with a connecting bath, and as he signed the register at the desk, he watched Pozzi out of the corner of his eye, noting the small, satisfied smirk on the kid’s face. That look pleased him, for it seemed to indicate that Pozzi was sufficiently awed by his good fortune to appreciate what Nashe was doing for him. It all boiled down to a question of staging. Just two hours before, Pozzi’s life had been in ruins, and now he was standing inside a palace, trying not to gawk at the opulence that surrounded him. Had the contrast been less striking, it would not have produced the desired effect, but as it was, Nashe had only to look at the kid’s twitching mouth to know that he had made his point.
They were given rooms on the seventh floor (“Lucky seven,” as Pozzi remarked in the elevator), and once the bellboy had been tipped and they were settled in, Nashe dialed room service andordered lunch. Two steaks, two salads, two baked potatoes, two bottles of Beck’s. Meanwhile, Pozzi was marching into the bathroom to take a shower, closing the door behind him but not bothering to lock it. Nashe took that as another good sign. He listened for a moment or two as the water sizzled against the tub, then changed into a clean white shirt and dug out the money he had transferred from the glove compartment to one of his suitcases (fourteen thousand dollars wrapped in a small plastic shopping bag). Without saying anything to Pozzi, he slipped out of the room, took the elevator down to the ground floor, and deposited thirteen thousand dollars in the hotel safe. Before going back up, he made a little detour and stopped in at the newsstand to buy a deck of cards.
Pozzi was sitting in his own room when Nashe returned. The two bathroom doors were open, and Nashe could see the kid sprawled out in an armchair, his body wrapped in two or three white towels. The Saturday-afternoon kung fu movie was playing on the television, and when Nashe poked his head in to say hello, Pozzi pointed to the set and said that maybe he should start taking lessons from Bruce Lee. “The little dude’s no bigger than I am,” he said, “but look at the way he handles those fuckers. If I knew how to do that stuff, last night never would have happened.”
“Are you feeling any better?” Nashe asked.
“My body’s all sore, but I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“I guess you’ll live, then.”
“Yeah, I guess so. I might not be able to play the violin anymore, but it looks like I’m going to live.”
“The food will be here any minute. You can put on a pair of my pants if you like. After we eat, I’ll take you out to buy some new clothes.”
“That’s probably a good idea. I was just thinking it might not be so hot to push this Roman senator act too far.”
Nashe tossed Pozzi a pair of blue jeans to go with the Red Sox T-shirt, and once again the kid seemed to shrink down to the sizeof a little boy. In order not to trip over himself, he rolled up the bottoms of the pants to his ankles. “You’ve sure got a handsome wardrobe,” he said as he walked into Nashe’s room, holding up the jeans by the waist. “What are you, the Boston cowboy or something?”
“I was going to let you borrow my tux, but then I figured I’d better wait and see what your table manners are like. I wouldn’t want it to get ruined just because you can’t keep ketchup from dribbling out of your mouth.”
The food was wheeled in on a rattling cart, and the two of them sat down to lunch. Pozzi worked on his steak with relish, but after several minutes of steady chewing and swallowing, he put down his knife and fork as if he had suddenly lost interest. He leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. “It’s
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