Chapter 9: Gnocchi

The regional vice president took Craig by the elbow and walked him into the glass office.

He shut the door, and every customer in the lobby watched Craig's mouth move behind the glass.

Ten minutes later the vice president came out alone.

"Ms. Benedetti," he said. "That wire is under review as of this moment."

"Mr. Delaney is on leave until the audit is done. I'd ask you to stay out of this branch."

"For how long?"

"Until I have your account back in your name, or I know why I can't."

He did not say which he expected.

I walked out through the lobby with the manila folder against my chest, and the old man in line tipped his hat.

That night Raf's mother put me in front of a floured board and told me my hands were useless.

Her kitchen was small and hot and smelled of garlic, with a statue of a saint on the windowsill and a radio playing something Italian.

"No," she said, slapping my wrist. "You're pressing. Roll. Roll like you love it."

"I'm rolling."

"You're strangling it."

Raf leaned in the doorway with a glass of red wine, trying to look as if he were not enjoying himself.

"She heard about the bank before I did," he said.

"My cousin cleans there," his mother said, and rolled a rope of dough with one hand.

"Everyone knows. You made a bank manager spill his coffee."

"I made him spill his coffee," I said.

"Good. He's a thin man. A thin man who steals is worse than a fat one."

She taught me to cut the rope into small pillows, press each one with my thumb against a fork, and flick it off.

My first twelve looked like lumps.

The thirteenth had ridges.

"There," she said. "That's gnocchi. The rest is only patience."

She set another board next to mine and went to stir the sauce, and I heard her mutter to the saint on the sill.

"She likes you," Raf said quietly.

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