“Anthony Parks? Oh, yeah, Anthony.”
“I’m glad I’m nearest and dearest.”
“What do you want, punk?”
“Flowers. Specifically, a dozen roses. Delivered to West Haven.”
“West Haven? It’ll cost you.”
“Just remember who keeps that pile of junk you call a bike running.”
“Pile of junk? It’s a classic.”
“A classic piece of crap. Tell you what, my shop is selling bikes now. Used, but in great shape. You bring in that rice-burner of yours and I’ll set you up with a Harley at a good price. Women like Harleys.”
“Yeah, you hog riders attract women like honey. But what about this delivery?”
“A dozen red roses.”
“In a vase?”
“Sure.”
“With baby’s breath, delphinium, or bells of Ireland for accent flowers.”
“What?”
“Tell you what. I’ll make it nice for you.”
“Sounds good.”
“What do you want the card to say?”
Oh, shit. A card? “Write this. What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other word would smell as sweet. Doff thy name, and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself.”
“Who the hell are you trying to impress, Anthony?”
“Be quiet and write the card.”
“Then repeat that. I can’t write that fast.”
Saks did, several times, until Don got it right.
“And who is this goddess you’re sending these to?”
“Chrissy. Chrissy Serafini.”
Don whistled. “Serafini? What the hell, Anthony?”
“Shut up. Just send the flowers.”
“Not until I get your credit card.”
Grumbling, Saks thumbed his card out of his wallet and read off the numbers. “What’s it going to be?”
“I won’t charge you delivery. Seventy-five.”
“Highway robbery.”