“Did you see that?” Charlie asked.
“What?”
“That waiter.”
“What about him?”
“The way he looked at me. At you, too.”
“Charlie, don’t get paranoid on me.”
“Tommy, a guy just busted into our hotel room that nobody was supposed to know about, looking for two guys whose names he didn’t know, but he knew about the hotel, and he knew our names. Now you’re telling me I’m paranoid?”
“Okay, now we’re in another hotel under new names, and we’ve got ID to back them up, right?”
“Right.”
“So how could anybody know about us?”
“I still think he looked at us funny.”
“Shut up and order.” The waiter was coming back.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a heavy accent, “what is your pleasure?”
“I’ll have the spaghetti bolognese, Tommy said.
“Pizza margharita,” Charlie said.
“And a bottle of the chianti classico.”
“Of course, sirs, and welcome to our restaurant.”
“Thanks,” Tommy said as the man walked away. “He’s new on the job; he’s just trying too hard, that’s all.”
“Maybe.”
The waiter was back in a moment, and he was holding a camera. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, “but I have a new camera, and I wonder if I could take your pictures, you are both so very handsome.”
Tommy started to speak, and then the flashbulb went off in his face. When he could see again, the waiter was gone.
“Jesus,” Charlie said. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’ll admit, this is very screwy,” Tommy mumbled. “I think we ought to get out of here.”
Gaetano was on the phone to his night boss. “I got them,” he said.
“What are you talking about, Gaetano?” the boss asked. “You’re not on until tonight.”
“The two men you want for five hundred dollars. I got them.”
“Where?”
“At Figaro, where I work, on West Forty-fourth Street.”
“Keep an eye on those guys, Gaetano. Somebody’ll be there very quickly.”
“Don’t worry, I took their photograph, too.”