Marino looked up from his side of the table and saw that virtually every man in the club had now grown silent and was looking his way. He flinched nervously but then also noticed that Simolzak, and even Father Mike, were also staring, not at him but past him, toward the door. He turned around in his chair, following their eyes.

Van filled the doorway, staring back at them, a smiling vision of black and white. Her black hair fell in piles along her shoulders and down her back. Her dark eyes rested comfortably on the room before her, measuring them all seemingly without emotion. She had taken Condley shopping that afternoon and now wore a white silk pantsuit and carried a black patterned Gucci bag. Even the Thai women of Cezanne’s stared at her in admiration or unmuted envy. Their tired litany of false worship and passion-for-hire seemed as tinny as the go-go drums on the club’s stereo as Van slowly walked to the table, followed by Brandon Condley and Hanson Muir.

“Vietnamese,” whistled Simolzak with a devouring look. “My God. I haven’t seen anything like that in years.” He stood, taking her hand and giving her his chair. Van sat slowly, with deliberate grace, as he then scrambled to a nearby table and retrieved another chair. For a moment she was silent, as if gathering herself. Then she nodded to Father Mike.

“How are you? My name is Van.”

“Well, I must say,” answered Father Mike, rising to take her hand, “you look like an angel, come upon us from above. Nice to meet you, dear.”

Simolzak spoke softly, dropping reality on the table like a hand grenade. “And you remember Brandon Condley, Sal?”

Marino spun quickly, finally recognizing Condley. “I’m out of here,” he said, rising to leave.

“The hell you are,” said Simolzak with a sudden fierceness, standing up and slamming Marino back into his chair. Marino stood again. Simolzak slammed him down again.

“Stay in that chair.”

Marino tried again. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

Simolzak slammed him down yet again, now holding him there. “Brandon needs to talk to you.”

“I said, get your hands off me, mung ball.”

Marino was reaching for an ankle holster. Simolzak smoothly chopped the smaller man’s wrist with a fist and took his pistol away from him. “Oh, you’ve been in jail too long, Sal. You’ve got to be faster than that.”

“Give me my gun, fucker,” growled Marino.

The larger and stronger Simolzak easily restrained him, slamming him one more time into his chair. “Salvatore, I’m buying you dinner tonight. You should at least be polite.”