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busy," sighed Tommy.
    "I gotta see you. Tonight."
    "Tonight? What for? What do you gotta see me about?"
    "I'll tell you what I gotta see you about when I see you," said Sally.
    "So, what—are you gonna swing by here later?"
    "No," said Sally, "I'll meet you next door at the Count's."
    Tommy groaned. "Don't do this to me. Does it hafta be there?"
    "I'm fuckin' hungry. And I'm pressed for time here. I'm in a fuckin' hurry and I got somethin' else I gotta do over there. Kill two birds with one stone," said Sally.
    "Don't make me go over there," said Tommy. "I'm gonna have to talk to Sonny I go over there."
    "Listen," said Sally, curtly, "I've gotta meet a guy over there. Come by around ten, ten-thirty. You're outta there by then, right?"
    "Yeah, yeah, soon's the rush is over. You sure it can't be here?"
    "No," said Sally. "I'll see you later." He hung up.

Nine
    T HE COUNT'S VILLA NOVA RESTAURANT was everything Tommy hated in the world, all in one room. Bad food, bad music, and bad company. It was Embarrassment Central, made worse by the fact that he knew the Count, knew people that hung out there.
    It was a big glass box with a bright green awning. The inside was all green carpeting and brass railings and mirrors. The restaurant was frequented by hordes of blue-haired tourists who chewed with their mouths open and left 10 percent tips, as well as a smattering of local wise guys from Sally's crew, enjoying the benefits of their investment. The place was always packed with groups of theater-goers who came over to Soho in their buses after some off-off-Broadway show; came over to see the Count, whom they remembered from that TV show, the comedy about the vampire who's really kind of a nice guy, looking after the cute kid, that little boy, what was his name?
    The Count still got work. Whenever they shot a gangster movie of the week or a cop show in New York and they needed an authentic-looking Mediterranean-type wise guy, they'd call the Count. Any time you needed a somewhat lovable shylock, a huggable hit man to dress up a scene, somebody to say "dis and dat" and "youse guys" and "yeah, boss" like he meant it, the Count was your man.
    God knows, thought Tommy, standing outside the front door, he certainly dresses the part. Twenty years playing exaggerated wise guys since his vampire show got canceled had spurred the Count to new heights of cartoonish wise-guy attire, a hideous overblown version of the people Tommy had been around, in one way or another, his whole life. Tonight, the Count wore a bright red sport coat, shirt open mid-chest, and gold chains. And of course, he had the watch, the pinky ring, the white patent leather shoes, the cheap, pleated slacks buckling under his gut.
    Tommy looked up at the drawing on the awning of the Count's profile with his vampire cape drawn up around his ears. He sighed loudly and opened the front door. The Count, recognizing Tommy at once, came out from behind the cash register to greet him.
    "Tommy, baby! How are ya? I ain't seen you in fuckin' ages," he said. "How's it hangin'?" He reached down to goose Tommy, but Tommy avoided the Count's wrinkled hand.
    "How you doin', Sonny," said Tommy.
    "Beautiful. I'm doin' beautiful . . . You see me on the tube last night? I was on that cop show, Perps, you see that?"
    "No, I missed it. I was workin'," said Tommy.
    "So, how's your mother," said the Count. "You son of a bitch, I never see you aroun' no more."
    "She's good, she's good," said Tommy.
    "Say I said hello for me, will ya? I been meaning to send her over somethin, some food or somethin'. Jesus, Tommy, it's been fuckin' years . . . What are you doin' over there? Sally said you the chef over there, is that right?"
    "I'm the sous-chef," said Tommy, wincing.
    "Well," said the Count, "Not for long, right, Tommy? One a these days you make your move, you'll be the one runnin' things, right?" He clapped Tommy on the shoulder and winked at him.
    "So," said Tommy, eager to change the subject, "How's