“EXCUSE ME, YOU MUST BE NICKY, AM I RIGHT?” “Excuse me, you must be Nicky, am I right?” At Tony’s barbecue, Lou suddenly finds himself facing a large woman with an impressively wide chest, four double chins, eight dangling corollas of fat around her face, a lacquered hairdo, a shiny black dress with a big blotch across the stomach (that was Nunzio’s fault, after he tried some acrobatics with one of the slabs of beef from the prizewinning butcher Tano Falsaperla and Sons), and shoes that look like fifties convertibles. “I’m Mindy’s mother,” the woman says. “My brother Sal tells me you know my daughter.” It may not happen to everyone, but when you’re in a state of intoxication, it can be quite pleasant to be confused with someone else. Lou nods and, dodging arms, glasses, and plates with some difficulty, follows the convertibles across the lawn. Suddenly the convertibles stop and Lou senses the presence of a scented body. The scent isn’t perfume, it’s naturally occurring.
