Episode the Fourth (expect about one a week from now...):

“It’s getting kind of crowded in here,” I observed. “I know it’s not a social call, so what is it that brings you out from under your particular rock?” Eyebrows scowled at me while his mind followed the outlines of the words. “I ain’t tawkin’,” he essayed. I smiled again. “Nice try. The somewhat disarrayed woman on whom you are resting your clodhoppers believes you are trying to steal something she values.” Bruno thought about that for a full minute. “Naw,” he said.

“It’s a recipe for her family’s most famous condiment,” I prompted. Was that a dim flicker of recognition in his eyes? “In fact,” I continued, “if you don’t start telling me some very interesting, and, by the way, true stories, I will ring up McSweeney’s All-Night Deli, order a jar of Innis Major Grey Chutney and feed it to you. A large jar.” Bruno was starting to sweat. “Angus, this is all just a misunderstanding,” he stammered. “You don’t know, man. I can’t eat that stuff. I-I-I gave it up for Lent!” He looked vaguely pleased with his ingenuity.

I chuckled. “Bruno, Bruno, Bruno. Lent is over. And you’re the only Italian Rastafarian I know. Let’s just celebrate by falling off the chutney wagon again, shall we?” I reached for the phone. Eyebrows gave a despairing wail. “You’re gonna kill me!” he howled. “Look, Angus, wait! I can explain.” I hung up the phone and looked at him expectantly. He looked a little reluctant. “Yes, Bruno?” I prompted. His eyes shifted from side to side. I reached for the phone again. “Look, it’s Sammy the Finger, not me!” he shouted. “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this!” He shrugged. “Well, not that much, anyway.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said. “What’s Sammy’s game? What does the littlest don in the borough want with a recipe for chutney? He can send a mope like you out to lift a jar for him if he wants one.” Bruno sat tight. I sighed and reached for the phone. He swallowed. I picked up the phone and started punching numbers. “Hey, Sween,” I said. Bruno was trembling and shaking, his eyes wide. “I find myself in dire need of some chutney. You still carry Innis Major Grey?” Tears ran down Bruno’s grubby cheeks. “You do? In the family-size jar? How much?” Bruno began to sob brokenly. “OK, send one up with your boy. If he’s here in five minutes I’ll tip double. Oh, and toss in a sturdy spoon, willya?” I hung up the phone and gazed at the shuddering wreck in the chair across from me.