CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Two weeks later I’m sitting in Dani’s, across from Tony Shahbaz, who’s invited me to lunch. The restaurant is two blocks from Tony’s office, and it hasn’t changed its décor or menu since Nixon was President, a time whose virtues the owner, Daniel Testaverde, can frequently be heard extolling. Autographed photographs line the walls in rows of dingy frames. Pictures of anchormen; politicians; minor celebrities; some living, some dead, all make homage to Danny and pay tribute to simpler times. It’s always busy and, whatever time of year, always too warm.
Tony asked me to lunch, ostensibly to see how my suspension is going. Given my status as persona non grata in the office, I think the choice of Dani’s is curious. I can see several people glare at me as I walk to the b
