A visit to the Tombs in lower Manhattan was hardly his idea of a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon, he thought as he threaded his way through Little Italy, passing the clam bars and tourist traps. As usual on weekends, the maître d’s were all out on the sidewalk in their black vests and suit jackets, doing the hard sell. A short, thick man with a waxed mustache saw Lee coming and broke into a broad smile, gesturing toward the entrance as though he had been expecting him and was delighted to escort him in as his honored guest. As Lee gave a quick smile and ducked past the restaurant, the man called out to him. “Best calamari in Little Italy! Glass of wine on the house! Come check it out, my friend!” He had never eaten at any of the dozens of Italian restaurants and pastry shops lining the narrow cobblestone streets. He always figured them for rip-off joints and mobster hangouts. Little Italy was probably hurting after the World Trade bombings—every other place downtown was. Turning down busy Mott Street, he walked into the heart of Chinatown, past the tea parlors and trinket stalls and card tables of old men playing mah-jongg on the sidewalk, the carved tiles clicking like loose dentures.
