“Lazio players wear skirts.”

“You take that back.”

Carlo puts his hand to his ear. “Which team has won more derbies again?”

“Oh, that’s it.” Renato’s face is scarlet. “Let’s go!”

Renato stands and throws a paperclip across the room. It hits the back of Carlo’s chair, going nowhere near Carlo’s face, but Carlo falls to the floor as though he’s been shot.

“My eye! My eye!”

Carlo cups his eye with one hand and rolls back and forth as though in great pain. Giuseppe blows his whistle. He races over to Renato, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a yellow card.

“Sit back down!”

“He’s faking!” Renato shouts.

Carlo is smiling now. He moves his hand away and winks at Renato. When Giuseppe turns toward him, Carlo cups his eye and starts grimacing in pain again.

“He’s faking!” Renato insists.

“I said, sit down. Don’t make me bring out the red card.”

Renato, still fuming, sits back down. Carlo gingerly gets back into his chair.

Giuseppe comes back toward me. “They’re insane, both of them. But they are great at what they do.”

“Which is gaming.”

“Yes. But pretty much anything involving computers.”

“They lost to Fat Gandhi, though.”

Both Carlo and Renato turn in unison: “He cheats.”

“How do you know?”

“No one can beat us fairly,” Carlo says.

“Fat Gandhi has to use more than two players,” adds Renato.

I think back to Myron’s description of the room. “He does.”

Both men stop typing now. “You know for sure?”

“I do.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to us,” Carlo says.

“He took away our title,” adds Renato.

“You’ll have your chance at revenge,” I tell them. “Have you started implementing my plan?”

“One hundred thousand euros?”

“Yes.”

Carlo types with a smile on his face. So does Renato.

Giuseppe says, “We’re ready.”

Chapter 17

Esperanza met Myron in the back corner of Baumgart’s.

Baumgart’s restaurant was an old Jewish soda fountain/deli that had been purchased by Chinese immigrant Peter Chin. Wanting to do something both different and wise, Peter had kept all the old touches and added an Asian fusion (whatever that meant) menu and some neon lights and hip décor. Now you could order Kung Bao Chicken or a Pastrami Reuben, the Chinese Eggplant Combo or a Turkey Club.

Peter came over and bowed toward Esperanza. “You do my restaurant a great honor with your presence, Ms. Diaz.”

Myron said, “Ahem.”

“And you don’t completely kick its reputation to the curb.”

“Good one,” Myron said.

“Did you see it?” Peter asked.

“See what?”

Beaming now, Peter pointed behind him. “Look at my wall of honor!”

Like many restaurants, Baumgart’s hung up framed autographed photographs of the celebrities who had dined there. It was an eclectic mix of New Jersey celebrity. Brooke Shields was up there. So was Dizzy Gillespie. Grandpa “Al Lewis” Munster was on the same wall, along with several stars from The Sopranos, a few New York Giants players, local news anchors, a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, and an author Myron had once read.