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“I have found,” said Milo, “that less is not more. Tagliatelle.”
“Perfect. And you, signor?”
“The same.”
Marco hurried back to deliver the good news to his wife. Soap Opera came over with bread, butter, and olive oil. “What would you like to drink, please?” Perfect English, marked accent.
Milo said, “Pitcher of iced tea, two glasses.”
“Immediately.”
When the tea arrived, Milo had Giovanni Aggiunta’s passport flipped to the I.D. photo.
“Has this gentleman ever been here?”
The waiter peered carefully. “No, sir.” His eyes shifted to the name beneath the photo. “Aggiunta. Like the shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Expensive shoes.” He looked down at his own dusty black lace-ups and smiled.
“Are they sold locally?”
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe Rodeo Drive?”
“Super high-end, huh?”
The waiter whistled.
Milo put away the passport. The waiter’s curiosity had been stoked but he knew better than to push it. “Anything else,Capitano?”
“We’re fine, thanks. What’s your name?”
“Bartolomo.”
When we were alone, I said, “Cobbler to the Stars.”
“All those shoes in the closet,” he said. “All I had to do was examine the labels.”
He poured tea for both of us, lifted his glass, put it down. “Here I was writing him off as a boy-toy and the guy turns out to be a serious businessman. Probably has an office in Century or B.H. Probably has a business phone.”
I said, “The house is still no great shakes.”
“You keep coming back to that.”
“Fashion’s all about promotion. Someone representing a high-end manufacturer in L.A. would be entertaining conspicuously. That place doesn’t fit.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m just guessing,” I said, “but it’s possible he’s got a token job.”
“The dumb son.”
“Or just a son not interested in the family business. Alternatively, what if he got into some sort of trouble back home so they sent him here with a housing allowance, a leased car, and a fund that paid all his bills?”
“Trouble,” he said. “With someone like Meagin.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
