Page 48 of Doozer

“Marco, it’s time for you and me to sit down and have a chat, don’t you think?”

“Clearly you do,” I said, dryly.

“Please, son. This is important to me,” he said.

“If it’s so damned important to you, why not just call and ask me to meet with you instead of having Gia set up some phony family lunch?”

“Would you have said yes if I’d invited you? Would you have even answered the phone?”

I gave my father a slight shrug.

“Don’t be angry with your sister, she only did what I asked her to do.”

“I’m not pissed at Gia. I’m pissed at you.”

“Please, Marco. Hear me out. We’ve been at war for far too long, but I have something that I hope will bring peace between us.”

“Where’d you find enough paper to write out an apology list that long?”

“Again, Marco. Even if I did write an apology to you, would you read it?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snapped.

“Son, please. Your language.”

“This is why we don’t talk. Because you try to control everything I say and do. I curse, Pop. Get over it. I have tattoos. I ride a bike and belong to an MC. This is who I am.”

“What if it wasn’t, son? What if I could offer you more?”

“More what?” I asked.

“Everything,” my father said, with a passion he usually reserved for when he was in court. “More of everything life has to offer.”

“Pop, I thought I was coming here to have lunch with the family. I don’t have time for bullshit games,” I said, standing to leave.

“Marco, I want to offer you a job. It’s a position that is especially important to me, and one that you will come to see is in your best interest to take.”

“What the hell are you taking about? What position? You’re retired now.”

“Sit down, have lunch with me, and I’ll fill you in on all the details. Once you hear what I have to say, you can decide whether to stay or go.”

“I can decide that right now,” I snapped.

“Marco, please,” my father said softly. His arms outstretched to the table.

Maybe it was the rare expression of vulnerability on his face, but against my better judgement I did as my father asked. Throwing my weight down on the chair like a pissed off teenager.

“Thank you,” my father sighed. “Shall we order first?” He asked, waiving a waiter to our table before waiting for my response.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mancini. It’s always nice to have you with us,” the waiter said, handing us menus.

“I’ll have the Veal Parmigiana and an Arnold Palmer please, Jake,” my father said.

“Very good, and for you, sir,” Jake asked, turning to me.

“I’ll have a beer,” I said. “Something imported and large.”

“Certainly, sir,” Jake said, making a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

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