Razzy’s
Pensacola, Florida

Rick Ragazzi couldn’t believe his luck. Just when the refrigerator repair job was finished—okay, $778—he got the call from his best waiter, telling him he couldn’t make it in tonight. Something about a Jet Ski accident and being in the emergency room at Baptist Hospital. Rick had heard sirens in the background.

Saturday night was the absolute worst to find a substitute, especially an hour before the shift began, which meant Rick had to fill in. And he was feeling like crap, full-blown flu symptoms—fever, headache, muscle ache and a nosebleed that stopped only long enough for him to take orders. As soon as he retreated to the kitchen, it started all over again.

Joey was giving him a hard time about it, calling him a cokehead because he knew it was safe. Rick was no closer to being a cokehead than Joey was to being an altar boy. It was funny until the fourth or fifth time and then his cousin grew concerned. He grabbed Rick’s arm at one point during the evening and took him aside.

“What’s going on, dude? Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“Just a bug,” Rick told him.

Then he realized he was probably inflicting his bad luck on every one of his customers. He’d need to be more careful, though he had already accidentally gotten a finger in someone’s soup. A little boy at table five kept sticking his French fries into Rick’s ear every time he leaned over to serve the rest of the boy’s family. Who knows what else? He didn’t feel good. It was difficult to pay attention. Toward the end of the evening it was difficult to care.

Joey pulled Rick aside again when the dessert crowd came. He made him drink a syrupy concoction that tasted like black licorice and coffee.

“My dad swears by this stuff,” Joey told him. “He claims it’ll cure anything from a hangover to anthrax. I can testify to the hangover. Fortunately, I have no idea about the anthrax.”

“What are you talking about? Uncle Vic’s never been drunk or sick a day in his life.”

“Yeah, right,” Joey said. “My mom says he was quite the party hound before his FBI days.”

Rick couldn’t help thinking that Joey actually sounded, if not proud, then somewhat pleased.

“We just know him as Mr. FBI man,” Joey told him. “Mr. Macho Shithead, Mr. My-Way-or-the-Highway.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Nah. I’m not disappointed. I just wish he’d remember sometimes that he wasn’t always perfect.”

Rick watched Joey get back to his soufflé. And more than ever Rick realized that he’d never be able to tell his cousin about the thousand dollars his dad had sent.