As it turned out, the “Winner’s Circle” was the restaurant we’d observed earlier (a curious affair, indeed, for it was as if someone had chopped the legs off Seattle’s Space Needle and simply mounted it above the bleachers, antennae, beacon and all). Nor could it be said that it—or our escorts—were unaccommodating; indeed, we were treated only with respect as they led us through its luxurious appointments and seated us, at last, across from De Santo himself (I knew it was he because he wore a polyester suit and yellow-tinted glasses—as well as a white cowboy hat as big as a serving tray—and who but the person in charge would dress such as that?). Neither was he alone, for Luther sat on his left side while someone I can only refer to as The Jockey (as he remained silent throughout the occas
