LOVE AT FIRST DATE

Chapter 8: Her Surprise

After the maitre d' had inquired "Two?" and Tony had answered "Three," Michelle felt it safe to conclude that her surprise was indeed in the form of a human being, just as she had suspected after he'd taken that call in the living room. But only now did she find herself suddenly beginning to feel a little jumpy about making whomever's acquaintance, only a matter of mere minutes away. Her human surprise was obviously somebody significant, like Tony's mother or father, with whom it would be critical for Michelle to make a stellar first-impression.

But the second that Tony's "Three" had made it official, Michelle began to seriously wonder exactly how prepared she really was for so monumentally important and nerve-wracking a meeting. Their earlier conversation about how fast the relationship was moving suddenly felt like the understatement of the century. Michelle wasn't even sure if she was appropriately dressed for the occasion. His father would probably like her dress just as much as Tony had, she hoped, smoothing out some nonexistent wrinkles with the moist palm of her free hand. But she wasn't at all confident that it qualified as appropriate MeetingTheMother-wear. If she'd had access to her closet, Michelle would have definitely selected something a bit more serious and sophisticated than a flower-infested handmade frock, replete with a crookedly stitched shoulder strap and at least one noticeably lame buttonhole.

Tony sensed her anxiety and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, smiling over the excessive moisture coating her palm and rubbing off on his own.

"Relax, honey. I'm just gonna introduce you as my colleague for now," he apologetically forewarned her. "Trust me. It'll be better this way… You'll see what I mean."

"Whatever you think is best, dear," Michelle smiled gratefully, immediately feeling immense pressure lifting up from her shoulder straps. No one knew the dynamics of the Almeida family better than he, after all, so she resigned herself to simply relaxing, following his lead, and doing her best to make a decent impression. If whomever she was meeting liked her as Tony's colleague, she'd already have a foot in the door when the time came to reintroduce her as the future daughter-in-law — should that day ever come, good Lord willing.

It was an amazingly short period of time before Tony had commandeered a table originally reserved for another party, rattled an order off to the wine steward, and all but begged the head waiter for "a bunch of different appetizer-sorta-things on the biggest platter they've got back there and as fast as humanly possible." Michelle watched as he now contentedly popped them into his mouth, two at a time, while scrutinizing the menu like a death row inmate deciding on his last meal as a mortal.

"I just needed to get something on the table fast, honey," he explained to her after the husky, empathetic waiter had dashed off to the kitchen and returned at record-breaking guy-speed. "We can order some other stuff, too, if you want."

"I already have what I want," she grinned flirtatiously, finding his knee under the table.

"Don't start, woman," he softly chuckled, knowing that the last thing he needed right now was another ill-timed surge of excitement, with you-know-who about to enter the restaurant at any minute.

"What are you trying to decide between?" Michelle smiled warmly, leaning in a little closer to Tony's menu, thinking she might be able to help him narrow the field down a bit.

"The left page and the right," he murmured, deeply engrossed. Michelle recalled all the food he had consumed at breakfast and wondered why he didn't weigh at least four-hundred pounds.

"Where the hell is that wine?" Tony mumbled, sounding more like he was issuing an assignment than asking a question. Michelle glanced over at the bar across from her, which spanned the entire length of the wall. Sitting side-by-side amid the rapidly growing Happy Hour crowd of predatory singles were two women, one of whom was busily alternating between trying to catch Tony's attention and flinging if-looks-could-kill daggers at Michelle.

"Honey?"

"Hmm…?"

"Do you know that woman at the bar, with the long blonde hair?" she asked, originally tempted to add "with the ample breasts spilling out of the top of the tight pink sweater that looks like it took a minimum of two people to shoehorn her into," but deciding at the last second not to go there.

"Uhh… she used to live in the building a few years back, baby," he said uncomfortably, without even looking up to see which woman Michelle was referring to. He didn't have to; he had recognized Pink Sweater while scanning the room for FBI most-wanteds. It was an occupational hazard and a routine procedure he always conducted upon entering a public establishment. Pink Sweater, in fact, had been his primary reason for commandeering the reserved table, which was further away from the bar than any of the other empty tables.

Keeping his eyes glued to the menu, Tony found Michelle's hand and guided it up to his lips. He tenderly kissed her fingers, then laid her hand, inside his own, conspicuously and squarely on top of the table and in full view of Pink Sweater. Michelle watched the woman promptly respond with a disappointed scowl and a double-dagger shot this time before turning her back in a defeated huff.

Michelle got the picture and gently squeezed Tony's hand in quiet recognition of the gallant, subtle, and even gentle way in which he had gone about effectively cutting Pink Sweater off at the pass.

It didn't come as any big surprise to Michelle that a woman would recognize Tony and attempt to rekindle their acquaintance, even in so aggressive a manner. He had lived in the neighborhood for a number of years and was a single, eligible, and exceptionally handsome man, after all, whom no woman in her right mind was likely to forget, or give up pursuing, any time soon. But not until a second showdown came to pass did Michelle begin to wonder if fending off incoming eye daggers was destined to become a hobby, whether she wanted one or not.

"I think the wine is on its way," she reported, now watching her second contender — a very young, very attractive waitress — overly exaggerate the sway of her hips as she approached their table with an ice bucket lovingly cradled in her arms. Her early-twentysomething eyes were locked dead on Tony, but she somehow managed to pry them loose just long enough to glance at Michelle in horror, as if wondering what a handsome man like him could possibly see in such an aged early-thirtysomething frump like her.

Positioning herself at Tony's side, the young waitress laid the bucket down with a loud, attention-demanding clunk. Failing to receive a reaction from Tony, she then proceeded to go about the more important business of stooping over and aiming her ample cleavage directly in his line of vision, with all the subtly of a starving gorilla perched to pounce on an unsuspecting banana.

"Yeah, that's good," Tony murmured without bothering to look up, appearing more interested in the menu than the wine bottle's label or the contents of young Cleavage's blouse.

Strike one, Michelle inwardly thought as she outwardly gloated, feeling Tony's hold gently tighten around her hand in an obvious attempt to send the young woman a gentle and subtle message. Cleavage reacted with disappointment, though didn't appear the least bit put-off or deterred, straightening back up and hastily uncorking the bottle now.

"Don't I remember you from Denny Cahill's party a year or so ago?" she boldly purred onward.

Her direct question left Tony little choice but to reluctantly look up this time, at which point Cleavage immediately thrust the wine back into the ice and stooped herself over again, provocatively rolling the bottleneck back and forth between her palms in a manner that would make a veteran streetwalker blush.

"Oh, uhh… yeah… Hi. How've ya been?" Tony inquired politely enough, then promptly returned his focus to the menu.

"A little lonely, actually, but I'm, uhh… beginning to feel a little better now," Cleavage shamelessly cooed, briefly glancing at Michelle, curious to see how much of a sweat she had succeeded in working up in the old bag thus far.

"Have you ever considered getting a cat?" Michelle mock-innocently offered, immediately feeling Tony's foot kicking hers lightly under the table as he lowered his head closer to the menu, obviously struggling to squelch a smile.

Ignoring the old battle-ax, Cleavage wrapped her fingers suggestively around the bottleneck, this time quickly, steadily, and seductively grinding the wine bottle up and down inside the ice, creating a familiar rhythmic sound and capturing the attention of a number of male patrons. Michelle's eyebrows arched up. Touché, she thought to herself, filing the ice-humping move in her memory banks with every intention of using it on Tony at some later time. It would either crack him up with laughter or compel him to sexually assault her on the floor of whatever room they were in, either outcome of which would be just fine with Michelle.

Undaunted by Cleavage's relentless moxie and stubborn determination, Tony casually turned his attention to Michelle, gently stroking his thumb back and forth against her fingers tucked snuggly in his hand.

"Umm… sweetheart?" he said warmly into her eyes, allowing his low voice to noticeably morph into a softer, smokier tone. "This is… umm…" He turned and glanced over his shoulder, addressing Cleavage with a quizzical frown. "…Kathleen, is it?"

"Catherine," Cleavage chafed, still mystified as to why a guy as sexy as Tony Almeida would want to waste his time with a decrepit early-thirtysomething when he could just as easily have her early-twentysomething self instead.

"Catherine… Right… Sorry about that, Catherine," he replied unconvincingly, returning his undivided attention to Michelle. "Honey, this is…"

"Hi," Cleavage irritably snapped, conveying her distinct disinterest in exchanging pleasantries with the senior citizen to whom she had already lost enough ground as it was. She impatiently poured a taste-test into Tony's wine glass.

"Umm… You can just leave that, Kathleen. I'll take care of…"

"Catherine!" she icily corrected him again, further galled by the smug smile now plastered across the ancient one's face. "Ready to order?" she barked, whipping her pad and pen out from her apron's waistband, with all the obsequious courtesy and charm of a police officer preparing to write out a summons.

"Note quite yet, Kath… Cath… Not quite yet, but could you, umm… tell me what this is?" Tony asked, pointing down at the menu item in question, knowing that Cleavage would have to stoop over in order to read it, which would angle her cleavage directly at Michelle this time. It was all Tony could do to keep a straight face when Michelle nearly spit her half-chewed appetizer across the table and promptly declared under-table warfare on his foot.

Once Cleavage had finally marched off in an indignant huff, Tony proudly congratulated himself for his exceptionally keen sense of geometric trajectory angles, which also came in handy when shooting pool and criminals.

"I don't even have to assure you that I never went out with her, do I?" he asked, grateful though not surprised that Michelle had handled the entire discomfiting episode with grace, class, and a good sense of humor.

"That's obvious, dear," she smiled, translating his guy-code to mean that he had never slept with the child. "You'd still be in jail if you had."

"Promise to explain to me someday why women even do stuff like that," he said, punctuating his dismay with a brief glance back in Cleavage's direction, almost inadvertently catching Pink Sweater's eye in the process, which would've been disastrous. She'd have definitely seized the opportunity to dash right over, he knew, undoubtedly addressing him at one point or another as "Mighty Joe," therein arming Michelle with sufficient ammo to gleefully torture him for the rest of his life.

New restaurants, he thought: they always attracted every last soul on the singles' circuit like vampires to blood. This is what he got for suspending lockdown and leaving the apartment.

"She's flirting with me right in front of you, like you weren't even alive," he continued in amazement. "I mean… what's to be gained by doing that?"

"It's a queen-of-the-jungle type thing," Michelle explained. "Sort of like the showdowns young alphas have with the leader of the lion den. Only a slightly cattier version of it."

"Geeziz, I mean… did she think I was gonna pretend to go to the men's room so I could sneak off and get her number, or something? That's the part I really don't get…"

"Stranger things have been known to happen, dear," Michelle said with a small smile in a way that compelled him to wonder if she might be speaking from a painful past experience. Now seemed like a good time to pour some wine and steer off the subject altogether.

"Hey," he smirked, nodding down at the yellow shopping bag on the floor between them, "how come you're not itching to see what we bought?"

We bought… His reaction to his own words had surprised him. There was something kind of warm and homey-feeling about it, he thought, imagining for a moment what it would feel like to hear "the house we bought" and "the car we bought" coming out of his mouth some day.

"Oh, my God," Michelle responded with a start, briefly fearing for her sanity as she mentally kicked the tires of her internal snoop-activator. First the band-aid box slipup; now this. She briefly wondered which type of specialist she may eventually have to consult if, heaven forbid, the problem persisted.

But no sooner had she leaned down to grab the handles of the shopping bag when her eyes froze upon the sight of yet another woman across the room heading straight for their table, eyes firmly locked none too surprisingly on Tony. This was becoming a little ridiculous, Michelle thought at first. But as the stunning enchantress continued her graceful approach, Michelle noticed something distinctly different in Tony's behavior: His head was buried in the menu, as usual, but his hand was suddenly nowhere to be found. For a fleeting moment Michelle wondered if, unlike Pink Sweater and Cleavage, maybe she had something to be worried about this time.

It was impossible not to notice her exceptional beauty, even from all the way across the room. The enchantress's features were traffic-stopping; breathtaking; startling to the point that a conspicuous hush fell over the room as she gracefully sidled and zigzagged her way through the sea of tables, on feet that didn't seem to feel a need to connect with the floor beneath them. History's most renowned renaissance masters would've crawled across cut glass to chisel her rare level of beauty into stone for the ages. Never had Michelle herself been rendered quite so awestruck by such an exquisite and artistic vision of human perfection. The woman's eyes alone were so magnetically intense in their cat-like shape and smoldering density that it was difficult to focus in on them clearly.

Forget supermodels: This was the stuff Greek tragedies and waged wars were made of.

This was Olivia L. H. Almeida. The closer she neared, the more unmistakable the family resemblance became, although, oddly enough, Olivia's features were more dissimilar to Tony's than not. His were masculine and hers delicate, of course, but it was clearly apparent to Michelle that Tony must strongly resemble one parent while Olivia more strongly resembled the other. It gave her pause to wonder just how extraordinarily attractive Tony's parents must be in order to have turned out such exceptionally striking offspring. She made a mental note to mercilessly bug him later that evening until he dragged out some family photos.

Arriving at the empty chair across from Tony's, Olivia turned toward Michelle and flashed her a wide, blindingly white smile that seemed to consist of a hundred teeth, accompanied by a genuinely warm and sincere "Hi" in a delicate, whispery voice. But Olivia's expression immediately transformed on a dime, from sprightly and effervescent to tepid and intolerant, the second she focused back on Tony. He still hadn't bothered to say hello at this point. In fact, he had barely even acknowledged her presence, except to mumble for her to sit down.

So fixated on the arresting entrance, Michelle hadn't even noticed the short little stocky sixtysomething man who had puffed through the restaurant directly on Olivia's heels. He pulled out the chair to the right of Michelle and across from Tony, then deftly pushed the sixteen-year-old down into it, using the palm of his hand against the top of her shoulder. Michelle quickly glanced over to gauge Tony's reaction to the man's manhandling of his sister and was surprised to find him completely undaunted. In fact, not even Olivia herself appeared the least bit ruffled or nonplussed by the man's unorthodox seating procedure. It was as if Tony would've seated Olivia the very same way, had he been the one to escort her to the table instead.

"When you're told to sit down, ya sit the hell down, twerp," the little man snarled, pointing a stubby finger directly in Olivia's face, like a father at his wit's end with a belligerent daughter.

"Bite me," Olivia suggested in her whispery voice, flashing a comical 360º eye roll in Michelle's direction. Tony's brow immediately furled, shooting a warning shot at Olivia as he arose from his chair.

"How's it goin', Tone?" the little man smiled as Tony wrapped his arms snuggly around him, exchanging a series of backslaps and bear hugs.

"Good, Lou. How's Ann Marie doing?" he asked, reseating himself and settling back into a casual cross-legged slump.

"I'm headin' over there now so Carmella can get home. She's been up there with the kid all day… Hey, you know kids, Tone. They ain't too particularly fond of hospitals," Lou said, gesturing toward Olivia with a few animated points of his thumb. "Remember this one, when she had to get her tonsils out? Holy geeziz!"

"Michelle…" Tony said, turning toward her, chuckling over the reminder of Olivia's legendary hospital stay, which he was certain the pediatric staff was still reeling from even ten years later. "This is Lou Mongelli... Lou, Michelle Dessler, my colleague..."

"How ya doin', sweetheart," Lou boomed with a warm smile, stooping across the length of the table to crush Michelle's fingers in a firm handshake. "Ya work with this mook at that C.U.T. place… with all them computers? Ya must be one smart cookie… Me? I can't stand them things," he prattled on, as if he had known her for twenty years. "I can't even do that e-mailer business without them things making me feel stupid."

"Oh, they can make me feel pretty stupid at times, too," Michelle giggled, genuinely charmed by Lou's warmth and innate lovableness, though still wincing in pain from his beefy grip.

"Don't mind me. I'm nobody… I'm dead… I'm just here 'til the coroner swings by to make the pickup," Olivia bristled, directing her surly sarcasm solely at Tony as she reached over and gently anchored Michelle's wrist with one hand while prying Lou's grip loose with the other. "You're gonna break something, for cryssake!" she snarled at him with a whine so similar to Tony's that Michelle had to consciously halt herself from laughing aloud.

Olivia seemed delighted by Michelle's response, flashing her an empathetic look as if to say, "I feel so sorry for you that you have to actually work with my disgusting brother… Eeeeew!"

"Nice outfit you're almost wearing," Tony muttered disapprovingly, still not bothering to make eye contact.

Granted, Olivia's physical beauty was timeless and ageless: the sprightliness and vibrancy of youth commingling with the sultriness of a classic vixen made it difficult at first glance to determine if she was sixteen or thirty-six. But her edgy clothing, what very little there was of it, quickly gave her youth away. Only a teenager could pull off showing that much bare skin in broad daylight. Between the black stretchy midriff tightly bound across her breasts and the gravity-defying low-slug jeans, Michelle felt certain that the restaurant would qualify for a Vice Squad raid if Olivia were to so much as raise her hand up to wave.

"Hey, I'm sorry about that, Tony," Lou said in a booming voice, with an accent that unquestionably hailed from the Bronx. He quickly snatched the paper bag he had parked on the table and held it up in evidence. "She done another quick change in the backseat. By the time I caught her in the rearview, it was too late already… I swear, Tone, ya take your eyes off this one for just a second and…"

"Not your fault, Lou," Tony responded, pausing to turn and dead-eye Olivia, who stared back as if he were speaking aloud to her in words. After a moment of listening to his eyes, she responded to his telepathic berating by petulantly slumping down in her chair, crossing her arms, and pouting as though humiliated by having been chastised in front of Michelle, a perfect stranger.

Michelle was as equally amused as intrigued by the Almeida's mode of communication. She and her brother Danny used to share their own language when they were kids, but it was a pig Latin-type language that was communicated verbally. The Almeida siblings, on the other hand, seemed only to need their eyes to transmit their rancorous comments to each other.

"Any injuries?" Tony asked, calmly returning his attention to Lou.

"Nah, this guy in a Beemer swerved when she flashed him, but he didn't hit nothin'," Lou replied. Tony shot another look over at Olivia, this time opting to speak audibly.

"When are ya gonna knock that off, Olivia?" he asked in a surprisingly calm and controlled voice. "Before or after ya put a family of four in the hospital someday?"

"I don't flash families," Olivia sighed deeply and obstinately, wondering when, if ever, her lunkheaded brother was ever going to get her personal flashing preferences straight in that cement-for-brains cranium he called a head.

"Your Pop said to go get the windows tinted, but I just ain't had time, Tony. I'm sorry, man," Lou apologized profusely.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lou. You've got Ann Marie in the hospital, for cryssake. Do it when you get the chance. No rush," Tony reassured him sympathetically. "What've ya got?"

Lou perched his reading glasses, which looked like his wife's, on the end of his bulbous nose and began hurriedly flipping through the pages of his battered little notebook.

"…'kay… lessee… lessee… Here we go. Saturdee… Same garbage, really, Tone… Cigarettes, of course…" he said, pausing to dig an opened pack out of the pocket of his rumpled suit jacket and tossing them into Tony's cupped hands. "That Gerald freak is the one who keeps slipping 'em to her, I know it…"

"He's not a freak," Olivia huffed in defense of her beloved boyfriend.

"Fourteen calls. The ususal suspects… Two of them to that Gerald freak," Lou continued, ignoring the girl's indignant objection to the use of the word. The shoe fit. What could he say.

"Pills?" Tony was almost afraid to ask.

"Nah, turned out she was gettin' them offa that 'net,' but I smashed her top-lap, like your old man said," Lou casually waved Tony's concerns away. "And Miss Marple's been with her every minute that I ain't been around, so…"

"Maddigan,.. Mrs. Maddigan," Olivia corrected him with another overly dramatic eye roll in Michelle's direction. "And how many times do I have to tell you… laptop, not top-lap… Geeziz!"

"Whatever. The old broad sticks like glue to the twerp, Tone," Lou continued. "Army, retired. She's good. Checks all her pockets. Tosses that freak Gerald while she's at it, too. Takes his car apart… The whole nine yards. So he don't even bother tryin' to slip her nothin' no more. He's scared to death of the old broad," Lou chuckled, squinting through the glasses at the back of his list. " … Lessee, lessee… Yeah, okay. Cheeseburger, fries, shake… I counted seventeen fries, but I was doin' about sixty at the time, so I'm probably off by a few. Ya can't never get a good read unless you're bumper-to-bumper…"

"Close enough," Tony assured him.

"I'm comin' in at 900, maybe 930 calories, give or take…" Lou estimated as best he could, checking the flip side of the list to be sure he'd forgotten anything.

"Geeziz," Olivia sighed dramatically, rotating her entire head this time. "I ate the dead cow for you people, all right? Geeziz, what do I have to do to get you cretins off my back!"

"Put on ten pounds and keep it there," Tony snapped, deliberately injecting a little extra harshness into his tone. "That's all you have to do to get your life and your freedom back, Olivia. Tell me when you'd like me to explain that to you another hundred times, huh?"

Olivia slumped deeper into her seat, angrily crossing her arms over her skeleton-like rib cage and assuming yet another sulky pout. It was inarguably the most photogenic pout Michelle had ever seen in all her years of flipping through French Vogue, the covers of which Olivia L. H. Almeida was quite obviously never going to be permitted to grace unless and until she finally retired her purging practices for good. There were hardened inmates being monitored by armed prison guards with less frequency and scrutiny than Olivia was evidently receiving on a 24/7 basis, Michelle thought, sneaking a quick glance at Tony.

"Check the backseat?" he rhetorically asked Lou, wishing he could reach under the table and give Michelle's knee a reassuring squeeze. He missed touching her and felt so isolated from her with Olivia sitting right there. He suddenly ached to be back at the apartment, snuggling with Michelle on the couch, watching The Guns of Navarone and yelling at her not to talk during the movie as he knew in his bones she was going to do.

But he resisted the temptation to try to make any kind of physical connection under the table. He didn't dare give Olivia even an inkling that he and Michelle were more than colleagues grabbing a bite on a working Saturday. If Olivia found out the truth of the matter, she'd be on the phone in a flash with his Mom, who'd be calling him six times a day thereafter, drilling him like a seasoned terrorist interrogator for information about the relationship. Amanda Almeida was at that age, unfortunately for her late-thirtysomething son, where the only thing she wanted in life was grandchildren, just like virtually all of her girlfriends had been cheerily collecting for years.

"Of course I checked the backseat. Whaddaya think, I was born yesterdee?" Lou responded in dismay. "Don't worry, Tone. Ya could bring the forensics boys in and they wouldn't find nothin' back there, I can guarantee ya… And why is that?" Lou turned and sarcastically asked Olivia, who responded by slowly cocking her head at Michelle and crossing her eyes to make her laugh.

"'Cause if I ever find anything between them seat cushions back there," she answered, mockingly imitating Lou's thick Bronx accent, "I'll ram it right down your scrawny little throat, cigarette butts and all, ya lil' twerp.'"

Much to Olivia's delight, Michelle pinched her lips hard and turned her head away from Tony, obviously fighting to conceal her laughter from her colleague. There was something about this curly-headed lady's style that Olivia definitely liked. Her disgusting brother always took himself so seriously, but this Michelle lady was much more laid-back, although in a somewhat stiff kind of way.

But unbeknownst to Olivia, what was really striking Michelle the funniest at this point was the distinct similarity between Lou's detailed report and the classic verbal preliminary that fresh-from-the-field CTU agents submitted to their superiors just before sitting down for a formal debriefing. This segment of the family campaign to monitor Olivia's eating disorder was Tony's contribution to the effort, without a doubt. It was a rather clever plan, Michelle had to hand it to him: Suffocating a freedom-loving sixteen-year-old, every minute of her every day, with a monitoring system more intensive than a suspected criminal would normally receive from an FBI surveillance unit, certainly provided impetus enough for a teenager to modify her behavior in exchange for getting her life back.

"How long ago did she eat," Tony continued his questioning wholly and solely for Olivia's benefit, who couldn't be more chagrined to be constantly referred to in the third person as if she weren't even present.

"Ehh… keep her away from the can another twenty minutes and you're good," Lou guesstimated, consulting his watch. "That freak Gerald ain't pickin' her up for another hour, so it ain't like there's gonna be anything left to puke up at that point."

"I don't know about Gerald driving her home," Tony said with a wince, rubbing his forehead while second-thinking that segment of the operation. He was convinced that he and Michelle were going to end up performing that task, after all was said and done, which was going to destroy the better part of their early evening together. He had already composed a long mental list of the ways he planned to ravage her until it was dark enough to grab his M&M's and fire up "The Guns."

"Ehh, don't worry about it, Tone. 'Miss Marple' will be at the house by then. Not even that freak Gerald's stupid enough to sneak the kid pills or cigarettes when that broad's on patrol. She'll sic the cops on him, Tone, I ain't kiddin' ya. That broad don't mess around and the freak knows it."

"She's a walking violation of my civil rights, as are you, Louis," Olivia complained bitterly.

Not until Michelle heard the name "Louis" did it occur to her that Lou must be the same driver who'd delivered Olivia L. H. Almeida, and after whom she'd been given her middle name, as Tony had earlier mentioned in his brief rundown of Olivia's M.O.

"You ain't got no rights as long as you're living under your old man's roof," Lou reminded her with a snarl, his face instantly transforming into an animated smile as he glanced back and forth between Tony and Michelle. "That's what I tell my girls all the time. My Louisa, she says to me the other day, 'I'm gonna get me a lawyer and sue you, Daddy!'" Lou laughed heartily. "Kids today, I swear… I tell my girls, 'You got the right to remain silent. Period.'"

"Got time for a bite, Lou?" Tony chuckled warmly, genuinely entertained by Lou's wit and delivery. It was more than evident to Michelle that he thoroughly adored the little man. She wondered exactly how long Lou had been with the family, jotting the question down on her mental must-know list.

"Nah, I gotta get outta here before my Carmella meets some sexy young doctor and throws me the hell out," Lou joked, tearing the slip of paper from the notepad and stepping up to Tony's side. He neatly folded and stuffed the paper into the breast pocket of Tony's shirt, then buttoned it, like a Mother Hen, before landing a he-man slap against Tony's chest with a dull thud.

"You be sure to tell Ann Marie that I'm thinking about her, okay?" Tony reminded him.

"Ya kidding me?" Lou chuckled. "That kid's got such a crush on you, she'd fall right outta the hospital bed if I told her that, Tone. I'd be payin' for two busted legs instead of one. Them damn orthopedic doctors… they rob ya blind, I swear. What a racket them guys are runnin'…"

Michelle watched Lou stoop in a little closer, obviously intending to leave Tony with a few guy-to-guy departing words. She immediately ratcheted up the volume on her internal snoop controls and covertly leaned in to overhear.

"Colleague, my ass," Lou chuckled slyly, giving Tony's chest another he-man slap of approval. "Don't worry. The Duchess ain't gonna hear about it from me, kid," he promised, referring to Tony's mother, as best Michelle could surmise. She momentarily panicked, hoping that "The Duchess" was only a nickname and not a real title, promptly adding that question to the very top of her must-know list.

Lou straightened back up and turned to Michelle. "Nice meetin' ya, Melissa. Don't let this mook work ya too hard, y'hear?"

"It's 'Michelle,'" Olivia snidely corrected him as he reapproached her, threatening to personally put her in the hospital bed next to Ann Marie's if she gave "Miss Marple" any trouble tonight.

"Bite me, Louis," Olivia strongly recommended, watching as he waddled away and ignoring the predictable ensuing chewing-out she immediately received from her brother's eyeballs.

Tony reached for the wine bottle to freshen Michelle's glass, convinced that her head must be reeling by now from the overload of insanity spiraling around her.

"Sorry about that, sweetheart," he mindlessly muttered.

Olivia's eyes shot up as Tony's sealed shut in disbelief at the spectacular blunder he'd just committed.

"Well, my, my, my," Olivia cooed gleefully after the initial shock had worn off. She glanced back and forth in astonishment between her disgusting brother and Michelle. Tony's eyes slowly opened again, immediately turning to Michelle for help.

"Excuse me. I think I'll be going to the ladies room now," Olivia shot out of her seat, bubbling with sheer delight, hardly believing her good fortune. She could already feel her life beginning to take a dramatic turn for the better, now that the cards had suddenly and miraculously fallen right into her delicate little extortionist hands. It felt like she had just won the zillion-dollar lottery the way the sardonic laughter had so rapidly built itself up inside her, begging for release, like Mt. Vesuvius just itching to blow.

"Sit down, Olivia," Tony scowled sternly, catching her by the wrist as she breezed past him en route to the ladies room, hoping enough time still remained to purge a few of those cheesburger calories before they had a chance to turn into nourisment.

Tony glanced helplessly at Michelle again, still rubbing his forehead in disbelief. She smiled weakly, arching her eyebrows and lightly shrugging her shoulders. She wanted to comfort him, but feared that Olivia may very well have him over a barrel. She knew that Tony wouldn't allow Olivia to start purging again in exchange for her silence — that he would fess up to his mother himself before he'd let Olivia start calling his shots. But his ultimate desire was to have the best of both worlds: to somehow effectively disarm Olivia while still keeping The Duchess in the dark about his relationship with Michelle.

"What's that you say? You want me to give Mom a call?" Olivia asked the hand that was wrapped around her wrist.

Tony shot another desperate look at Michelle, whose mind was now racing madly to come up with a foolproof counterattack. But all she could think of on the spot was the name of an LAPD detective who worked Narcotics and owed Tony a favor. Pills… Gerald… 'Miss Marple' threatening to call the cops… Who knew? Maybe it was foundation enough for Tony to take and build upon.

"Uhh… I know this is a strange time to bring this up, honey, but I've been forgetting all day to tell you that your friend Pete called around noon… Pete Abernathy? He said you would know what it was about, and that you could reach him at… work, I think he said."

Tony's eyes sparkled.

"Uhh… thanks, honey. I'll call him back in a second," he said, fishing his cell phone out of his jacket pocket as he tugged Olivia down by the wrist, seating her sidesaddle on his lap.

A hush fell over the room again, with essentially every male in the place wishing he were Tony at the moment. A flash of pastel caught the corner of Michelle's eye. Pink Sweater had evidently had all she could take and was stomping toward the door now, full steam ahead. Searching around for Cleavage, Michelle finally located her standing frozen in the middle of the restaurant with a full tray of entrées on her shoulder, trying to figure out if she was being out-foxed by a teensomething or a twentysomething, and why on earth Tony would want an old hag like Michelle as part of their ménage à trois.

"Before ya put in that call to Mom, why don't ya get hold of Gerald first?" he counter-threatened Olivia. "Ask him how much he's gonna enjoy being escorted downtown, in an unfortunate case of mistaken identity, and cavity-searched by an LAPD buddy of mine who owes me a favor, big-time… like, the second I find out you've so much as breathed one word about this to Mom?"

Watching the profile of Olivia's perfectly sculptured jaw drop like a rock, Michelle immediately and proudly flashed the rookie a congratulatory nod. He had more than earned this one.

"You can't do that to Gerald," Olivia scoffed, calling her ugly brother's bluff. "That would be illegal."

"I wasn't planning on going by the book," Tony dead-eyed her with a hardened poker face. He had no intention of going through with his threat, as he and Michelle both knew, but as long as Olivia believed otherwise, she would have no choice but to hand all four aces back over to him.

"You wouldn't dare!" she called his bluff a second time.

"Are ya sure about that?" Tony asked, offering the cell phone to her again. "Why don't we ask Gerald if he'd like to find out how daring I'm willing to get when some sixteen-year-old little snothead thinks she can hold a gun to my head?"

Olivia stared him dead in the eye. Tony stared back, holding his ground. A pimply young busboy fresh from the kitchen dropped a full tray of glasses and quickly began negotiating with Satan to trade places with Tony for just one minute, after which time he would happily turn his soul over to the dark side.

Tony continued to stare Olivia down until she eventually relented. She wrestled her wrist away, got onto her feet again, and dragged herself back over to her chair, plopping into it with a forlorn pout that would compel Francesco Scavullo to rise up from his grave and start lighting her. Olivia was beside herself. She couldn't believe she had just witnessed the richest, ripest blackmail material she had ever possessed slide right through her fingers, like a fistful of jello.

Tony was right, Michelle thought: This was much better than a picture. This was a movie. She reached under the table and gave Olivia's leg a few comforting pats.

"Nothing against you, Michelle," Olivia turned and assured her, apologetically. "My Mom would never torture you, of course. Just… him," she explained, spitting "him" out of her mouth as though it were the crudest pejorative utterable. "You're the only good thing about this entire insufferable, intolerable day…"

Michelle smiled warmly.

"Do you, like, really, actually work with… him?" Olivia cringed, wrinkling her exquisitely sculptured nose in disgust at the mere thought of it. "Or was that whole 'colleague' thing just a ruse to throw me off the trail?"

"I work for him, actually. Yeah," Michelle confirmed.

"Eeeew!… How can ya possibly stand it?" Olivia begged to know.

"Ahh, he's really not so bad… once ya get used to the smell," Michelle grinned. Tony cocked his head to the side, glaring across at both of them.

"If you two are done," he said, picking up his menu again, "do ya think we can order something before I die of hunger over here?… Geeziz…"

Michelle obligingly opened her menu and moved it toward Olivia so they could peruse the entrées together. Olivia appeared more than a little surprised, as did Tony, since eating was obviously the last thing Olivia had any intention of doing. Michelle knew that, but nevertheless pointed to the middle of the right-hand page.

"See this?… This vegetarian curry?" she said. "Take the word of a former fatso. If you were to eat this four times a day for two weeks straight, you'd end up losing weight, not gaining it."

Olivia stared at her suspiciously, in disbelief. Tony buried his head back into his menu, keeping his ears tuned in on the two of them.

"Y'know, one of the biggest fallacies in the world is that supermodels starve themselves to look that way, when actually they don't at all," Work-Michelle began laying out the facts in a warm, easy-going, conversational manner. "Not the smart ones, anyway… Y'know Christy Turlington, for instance? Eats like a pig. Six times a day. Never misses a meal, she says. The new French Vogue has this whole long interview…"

"How is that possible?"

"It just depends on what you eat and when you eat it, etcetera. You just have to learn it, like any other subject you take in school… like adding another math class to the curriculum."

Olivia still wasn't sure she was buying the preposterous notion. The thought of eating that much food and still losing weight was a bit much for a dedicated purger to swallow.

"Read the article," Michelle said, reading her mind. "Those pills?… Turlington says they kill your skin. She goes on and on about it for, like, six or eight paragraphs. She says take those pills for two months straight and your natural glow? Forget it… It's gone."

"She says that?"

"Read it. It's on the stands. I just picked mine up on Thursday… So, anyway, listen," Work-Michelle offered. "Tell me what ya think about this…You order the curry and first see if you even like it. If you don't, you don't eat it. And if you do, but you still don't trust what I'm telling you, I'll go to the ladies room with you and help ya chuck it up afterwards."

Tony was just about to leap in and reiterate the rules at that point, but decided to keep his mouth shut and his eyes on his menu instead, flabbergasted by the interest Michelle had already been able to raise in Olivia, and with the easy, relaxed way she was managing to communicate with her.

Olivia glanced over at Tony in shock, wondering why he wasn't screaming on the heels of Michelle's offer, or barely even paying any attention to their conversation.

"What about… y'know…?" Olivia turned back to Michelle and queried, bobbing her head a few times in Tony's direction.

"Him?" Michelle replied, imitating Olivia's exaggerated emphasis on the "him" word. "What's he gonna do? Shoot me? I'm an agent, too. I have a gun…. Plus, I'm a better shot."

"You're not a better shot, Michelle," Tony muttered in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the menu but feeling the need to keep the record straight. "I have sniper training, you like to forget."

Michelle crinkled her brow, dismissed his statement with a wave of her hand, and rolled her eyes at Olivia as if to say, "Pay no attention to your delusional brother. In a showdown, he'd be dead meat inside of a half-second. We'll hack into his firing range record someday and I'll prove it to you…"

Tony suddenly felt the sensation of that familiar lump thing forming in his throat again as he reached for Michelle's hand under the table. Should tears, God forbid, happen to spill right in front of his ever-irascible baby sister, he would dedicate them up to all the idiots out there who'd ever dated Michelle and, for whatever unimaginable reason, had decided to dump her, or let her slip away. The sheer joy and enormous relief he felt, watching her interact so beautifully and easily with Olivia, and knowing how positive an influence and role model Michelle was going to be for her — hell, she was already in the process of being — had overwhelmed his heart to the point of pain.

As if his willingness to take a bullet for Olivia from the day she was born weren't enough of a lifelong burden, now he had two bullets to dodge till the end of his days. As he squeezed Michelle's hand a little tighter, listening to her prattle on about the ravaging effects of cigarette smoke on the delicate epidermis, he amended his earlier prayer to the testosterone gods. He had begged them to only bestow male offspring upon him and Michelle. But if they insisted upon throwing in a girl or two, that would be okay with him now. Just as long as they all shut up about supermodels, calories, and epidermal glow whenever "The Guns" or "The Duke" was on.