Heads You Win

“Frankly, you’re too good to be working in a pizza parlor,” said Alex, ignoring her reprimand. “But with my help we could build the brand, turn it around, sell it on, and then set you up in your own restaurant.”

“Great restaurants aren’t run by chefs, Alex, but by first-class managers, so before you risk one cent of your money on me, you must find an experienced manager.”

“Good managers are two a penny, Mama. Great chefs are a far rarer commodity.”

“What makes you think I’m a great chef?”

“When you first got the job at Mario’s, I could always get a table, at any time of day. Now there are queues outside from eleven o’clock in the morning. And I can assure you, Mama, they are not queuing to meet the manager.”

“But it would be such a risk,” said Elena. “Perhaps you’d be wiser to put your money on deposit in a bank.”

“If I did that, Mama, the only one making a profit would be the bank. No, I think I’ll risk a little of my newfound wealth on you.”

“But not before you find a manager.”

“Actually, I’ve already got someone in mind.”

“Who?” demanded Elena.

“Me.”

*   *   *

Elena stared at the gold-embossed invitation card that Alex had put on the mantelpiece for all to see.

“Who’s Lawrence Lowell?” she asked as he sat down for breakfast.

“You remember Lieutenant Lowell. He was the officer in command of my unit in Vietnam. Frankly I’m surprised he even remembered my name, let alone found out where I lived.”

“Aren’t we coming up in the world?” Elena teased, as she poured him a cup of coffee. “I don’t suppose there’ll be that many pizza parlor managers among his guests. Will you accept?”

“Of course I will. I’m the manager of Elena’s, the most exclusive pizza house in New York.”

“Exclusive in this case means there’s only one.”

Alex laughed. “Not for much longer. I’ve already got my eye on a second site a few blocks away.”

“But we’re not making a profit at the first one yet,” Elena reminded him as she put two eggs on to boil.

“We’re breaking even, so it’s time to expand.”

“But—”

“But,” said Alex, “my only problem is what to buy a man who has everything for his thirtieth birthday—a Rolls-Royce, a private jet?”

“A pair of cuff links,” said Elena. “Your father always wanted a pair of cuff links.”

“I have a feeling Lieutenant Lowell just might have several pairs of cuff links.”

“Then make them personal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have a pair made with his family crest, or his club’s emblem, or even your old regiment.”

“Good idea, Mama. I’ll have a pair engraved with a donkey.”

“Why a donkey?” asked Elena, as the egg timer buzzed to indicate four minutes.

*   *   *

“Are you sure?” said Alex as he looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

“Couldn’t be more sure,” said Addie. “It’s all the rage. By this time next year, everyone will be wearing wide lapels and bell bottoms. You’ll be the toast of Broadway.”

“It’s not Broadway I’m worried about, but Boston, where I suspect it still won’t be the fashion even the year after next.”

“In which case you’ll be a trend setter, and all the other guests will envy you.”

Alex wasn’t convinced, but he still bought the suit, and a frilly sky-blue shirt that Addie insisted went with it.

*   *   *

The following morning Alex rose early, but instead of heading straight for the market to select the day’s toppings, he went to Penn Station, where he bought a return ticket to Boston. Once he’d found a seat on the train, he placed his small suitcase in the overhead rack and settled down to read The New York Times. The stark headline shouted: NIXON RESIGNS.

By the time the train pulled into South station four hours later, Alex was wondering if President Ford would pardon the former president. He grabbed a cab and asked the driver to take him to a sensibly priced hotel. Despite his newfound wealth, Alex still considered it a waste of money to pay for a suite when you could sleep just as well in a single room.

Once he’d checked into the Langham, he took a shower before trying on the two suits he’d brought with him. In one, he felt like Jack Kennedy; in the other, he looked like Elvis Presley. But on the cover of Vogue on his bedside table was a photo of Joan Kennedy wearing a sky-blue ballgown, which Vogue was predicting would be this year’s color. Alex changed his mind yet again. One last check of the time on the invitation, 7:30 for 8:00 p.m. He left the hotel just after seven, hailed a cab, and told the driver the address.

After driving around the Common, Alex noticed that as they climbed higher toward Beacon Hill, the houses became grander. They came to a halt at the entrance of a magnificent town house, where he was met by two security guards, who gave him a long hard look before demanding to see his invitation.

“Maybe he’s part of the cabaret,” one of them said, loud enough for Alex to hear as the cab turned into the long driveway and continued on its journey up to the front of the house.