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My mind reels, alarm bells going off. “Why do you have two companies? And why is this the first I am hearing about it?”

Uncle Louie checks for nurses or eavesdroppers before he says, “Uno per me, uno per Cesare.One for me, one for Caesar. You know, Uncle Sam. I kept the ship afloat with this dual business model for many, many years. Served many masters, including my country. Nothing wrong with the model.”

“Unless the IRS comes after us.” I look around the hospital room for a paper bag. I choke on the imaginary smoke of my job as it goes up in flames.

“Take it easy.” Uncle Louie hands me the Styrofoam cup with ice water. “Sip this slowly.”

I drink the water. It goes down ice-cold like the truth. “I wish it were a highball.”

“Me too.” Uncle Louie goes on. “The Elegant Gangster is a company I use to resell whatever marble I don’t use on the jobs. Call them remnants. What were we gonna do? Return them?”

“Who is we?”

“Googs and me. He distributes what we don’t use.”

“Uncle Louie, it’s called double-dipping.” I wipe my dampforehead on my sleeve. Uncle Louie makes money on product that he has already sold that does not belong to him. It belongs to the customer. Now I understand why he buys double and sometimes triple what he needs for an installation. I thought he overbought because he was afraid there wouldn’t be enough stone to finish a job, but he knew what he was doing. So I clarify, “The marble is paid for twice.”

“I bill separately. What are you worried about? I’m a typical small business. You call it double-dipping. I call it refusing to waste precious natural resources.”

“How do you report the additional sales?”

“I do not. The sales were made on international waters. Free and clear of all tax liability.”

“But the ship docks in New Jersey! Where does the money go when you collect it?”

“There are a couple of accounts offshore in the Cayman Islands.”

“Oh God.” I feel faint.

“Hey, I have overhead. Taxes are a yoke. I pay them handsomely on round one; why would I be compelled to pay them twice? Caesar wasn’t stupid and neither is Louie Cap. I got a big nut. You think my home with all manner of accoutrements is cheap? Me and my wife have all the luxuries. You see your aunt. They call her Diamond Lil for good reason. And steam rooms aren’t cheap.”

“You could’ve joined a gym! You didn’t have to build one! Does Aunt Lil know about the Incomparable Gangster?”

“Elegant,” Uncle Louie corrects me. “No. I never troubled her. Not that she took an interest. I wanted her to have a cushy life with no worries. It was the least I could do. She had enough of a burden. We weren’t blessed with children, so we had fun. I couldn’t do enough for her. I filled her life with jewelry, chandeliers, cars, and her own walk-in closet. And trips.”

“You didn’t splurge, really. You went to Florida once a year.” I rationalize my uncle’s behavior, rehearsing a rap for future depositions. “You didn’t even rent a car. You put the Impala on the Auto Train.”

“Because Florida was the only place Lil would go. She’s a rut person. Down south, on Miami Beach, we’re known as the Predictables for good reason. We booked the same room at the Fontainebleau Hotel, number 317 with an ocean view, every year since 1979. The routine was such: Lil sunned from eleven to three. At three, she went into the room to watch her story, after which she showered and dressed for dinner. I can tell you what she ordered for dinner at Mirabella, their in-house restaurant, because it never varied. A whiskey highball with three cherries. Lamb chops crisp. Creamed spinach on the side. Chocolate flambé for dessert. Every time they torched the pudding her eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning and Santa Baby delivered another diamond ring. I wanted to show Lil the world, and we got as far as Miami Beach.” Uncle Louie lays his head back on his pillow. “I wanted to show you Italy, kid. Ah well.”

“We are going to Italy.” I go to the window for fresh air. I inhale the air in sips.

“I had a love in Italy.”

“A few, I bet.”

“Nope. Only one. A tomato called Claudia.”

I have tried to enlighten my uncle on the fringe elements of sexism, but he is incapable of change. He calls pretty womentomatoes, idiots areartichokes, and ascungilliis a creep. He calls a difficult person aschiaccianoci, a nutcracker, and anyone who bores him with a story and can’t get to the pith is apatata, a potato, but I’ve also heard him call anyone with homely features apatata.

“Claudia was a beauty?”

“At the time, she wasitfor me. I saw her in the Piazza Alberica in Carrara. I made her tell me the story of the statue. Some lady with a bird. That’s how I got to her. Pretended I was interested in local history. I’d like to see her again.”

“You’re a married man.”

“I wasn’t then. It doesn’t count if you loved someone before the one you love. It’s like a free space in bingo. Look, Lil is my wife, but that doesn’t mean she was the only nugget in the mine.”

“Ugh.”