12
IN A QUIET PLACE
He’s starving, as usual.
Horvath stands on the corner a few blocks from the gym, looking around. Red awning across the street, and down the block. Rossino’s is painted in white on the square window. Plate of spaghetti sounds good right about now.
Early dinner. He’s got a headache, so he pops a few aspirin. Call it an appetizer.
The doorway is narrow, two steps down from the street.
He bows his way into the restaurant and looks around. The place is dark with low ceilings. Copper pipes wriggle like snakes overhead. Walls are dark wood, covered in old paintings and family photographs. Old lady eats by herself in the corner. Empty martini glass. She’s wearing a big white hat with an even bigger feather.
There’s no waiter but the cooks are shouting in back.
He sits i
