Chicago Joe’s in the Book

I go to my office and check my messages. There is one from Mr. Everything. He is the only attorney in Vegas who can walk right by Tom Foley’s secretary and into chambers, no announcement, no waiting. He is the most brilliant lawyer I have ever watched practice. He is older, handsome, brilliant, witty, and powerful. Justices from the Supreme Court court him. He can seduce a jury by the end of his opening statement. He calls me from time to time under the auspices of business. I rarely make an excuse with him. He fascinates me.
I call him back and make arrangements to meet him at Joe’s, Chicago Joe’s, the best Italian food in Vegas, a hole in the wall with as much of my personal history in it, as some people have in their bedrooms. When I invited John there, what, three years ago, and fed him my spumoni, he filed for divorce from his Kansas wife within seven days. Of course, I had also given him that copy of The Tropic of Capricorn, a few days before.
When I get there, Mr. Everything is waiting. “I don’t wait for many people, young lady.”
“Oh, but the question, Mr. Everything, is, how long will you wait?”
He stands and kisses my cheek. “As long as it takes,” he says.
The waiter comes and Sean orders for us, antipasto, rigatoni with meat sauce, garlic bread and, of course, a bottle of red wine. The food is so good. The service is impeccable. If the waiters were any better, they would rub your feet while you ate your dessert.
“So, is your trial over, or are we drinking to a special occasion?” Sean asks, toasting my glass.”