Conspiracies abound.
Cowboy Jones had just finished reading another news piece about more rich people who were now unable to pay mortgages on their big, white houses. This followed a depressing morning where he’d heard a journalist refer to a Connecticut girl, a Cornell graduate, as “middle class”. Um, yeeeah. He needed good, solid food and – especially since it was a Thursday – he headed to Ranelli’s.
Thursday at Ranelli’s can mean nothing less than lasagna with free seconds. Alternate layers of pasta, cheese, and other assorted loving goodness. Did anyone mention the free seconds? Free seconds may be the ideal cure for economic Valhalla in America. Remember, he thought, to drop a line to President Obama at whitehouse.gov about his progressive, new plan.
After solving the urban parking riddle, he always looked forward to seeing if Sarah was working behind the counter. She was the sort of woman whose smile was worth working for. Hmmmm…. Spicy Italian Sausage Sub; Italian Meatball Sub with Romano; the ham, salami, swiss and provolone extravaganza known as the Ranelli’s Po-Boy. But it was Thursday. Lasagna Thursday. With the free seconds. Just like it might be abject heresy to miss the Spaghetti Special on a Tuesday. She took his order and he leaned forward to crane his neck around the register, looking for Rick Ranelli in the back.
He picked up the recent Black & White and Birmingham Weekly, wondered casually at how seriously to take Black & White’s claim that it was “Birmingham’s City Paper”, and sat down at a table in full view of CNN. It was immediately apparent that another tiny drama was playing out at the tables below the television.
The two kids directly under the TV had long-since finished eating. At least one of them looked just cool enough to have known about lasagna Thursdays. But they weren’t smooth at all. The guy with his back to the wall was slumped over the table, rolling the shakers around in his hand, trying much too hard to look uninterested. His partner-in-crime leaned back, earbuds in, but obviously ignoring the music, trying to listen in on the conversation behind him. Cowboy bet there wasn’t even any music.
The expensive suit at the other table – probably a Cornell graduate – looked like the kind of man who could tell you the exact make and model of his shoes. He sipped a drink and excitedly explained something to his companion. Who was probably a musician of some sort, Cowboy thought, watching the way the kids kept eavesdropping. In the know people all knew who Sam Ranelli was. And they may have known that Ranelli might have funded this establishment, at least in part, on overseas goods smuggled into good ol’ America in the belly of his oversized bass drum. At least the musician had the good sense to be downing the world-famous Lil’ Richman, well-stuffed with five kinds of meats and two kinds of cheeses. Whoever he was, he clearly knew his stuff.
Rick Ranelli called his number. Mmmm… Half-price lasagna.