Critical

13

Michael flipped his cell phone closed and gritted his teeth. He was in the lavatory on the mezzanine floor of Downtown Cipriani in SoHo. Before he'd fled to the restroom from the intimate private club on the second floor to escape the pounding disco music, he'd been with two of his buddies, entertaining three chicks from New Jersey. His phone had buzzed, and since it was Angela, he'd taken the call but, unable to hear, he'd fled to the john. Now he wished he hadn't.

With great restraint, Michael resisted the temptation to pound the graffiti-covered wall, which was smart, since the wall was lath and plaster, not plasterboard.

"Fuck!" Michael shouted as loud as he could. Within the confines of the small room, the expletive careened around the walls in an explosion of acoustical energy, making Michael's ears ring in protest. He gripped the sides of the only sink and tensed his muscles as if he were about to rip it off the wall. Slowly, he let his eyes rise up and stare at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. His product-coated hair was standing on end as if ten thousand volts of electricity had gripped his body and his eyes looked like those of Dracula.

He then breathed out. He was furious but under control. His bitch of an ex had just thrown another problem at him, as if he were some pissant lackey. If he weren't already in up to his eyeballs, he would have simply told her with glee to go screw herself, but that was not possible. He had to handle it, and the only way was to go out to Queens and again grovel at Vi

Suddenly giving in to his urges, he pounded the wall, but he was smart enough to use his palm, not his fist, so that the force of the blow was delivered over a wider area. Still, his hand tingled when he pulled it away.

Even calmer after the blow, he opened his phone. With trembling fingers, he punched in Vi

"Tell me you are calling me with some good news for a change," Vi

"I got to talk to you," Michael said, with as much equanimity as he could muster.

"Tonight?" Vi

"The sooner, the better," Michael said. "Sorry to bother you, and I wouldn't have done so it if wasn't important."

"Well, suit yourself, Mikey but don't dillydally. The later it gets, the less tolerant I am for screwups, if that's what you are coming to tell me."

Michael put himself in high gear. He dashed back to the club, which was all but empty, save for his two friends and the three Jersey girls, since it didn't start to rock until after eleven. He told them he had an important meeting but that he'd be back. He then dashed down the fire-escape stairs that were used as the entrance to the club, jumped in his Mercedes parked across the street, and motored off. Since he was so far downtown, he took the Williamsburg Bridge and then the expressway all the way to 108th Street in Corona. In just slightly more than twenty minutes, he had the Neapolitan in sight.

Michael had calmed down significantly during the short drive. He'd even pondered what plan B might be if Vi

Just outside the door, he stopped, trying to think up an appropriate intro. Vaguely, he thought he'd try to appeal to Vi

The restaurant was filled with birthday party revelers. The ceiling was clogged with balloons, and streamers were everywhere. The tiny dance floor was littered with confetti, and a large ba

When Michael looked at Vi

As he neared the table, he finally caught Vi

"Paolo, my friend," Vi

Paolo stood up. "Not at all." He hustled out from behind the desk and disappeared into the kitchen, pulling the office door closed in the process.

"Okay, Mikey," Vi

Michael started by saying it was the kind of problem that only Vi

To Michael's relief, Vi

"It is," Michael replied with amazement and not a little confusion.

"Oh, what a tragedy," Vi

"Do you know this individual?"

"Oh, yes," Vi

"I can't guess," Michael said. He was astounded and thankful at this unexpected but fortuitous situation.