Chapter 7. Everything

On Friday at four o’clock, Diana texted him an address. It belonged to a dumpling counter under the railway bridge on Orchard Street. It had eight stools, one ancient fan, and an owner named Mrs. Lu, who had been yelling at customers affectionately since 1991.

Gabriel arrived at 6:58 in a charcoal suit that cost more than the building.

Mrs. Lu looked him up and down. “Jacket off,” she said. “You drip soy sauce on that, you cry, I have to listen.”

He took his jacket off. He folded it over the back of the stool. He sat.

Diana was so delighted she forgot to be nervous. “You’re scared of her.”

“I’m respectful,” he said. “She has a cleaver.”

“You have a cleaver too, metaphorically.”

“Hers is real, and she’s holding it.” He looked at the plastic menu taped to the counter. “What’s good?”

“Everything. Don’t order the spicy wontons unless you’ve made peace with God.”

He ordered the spicy wontons.

Ten minutes later, Gabriel Valenti,