The Remake by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

was low key, homey. None of that chianti-bottle-with-a-candle-in-it crap, but real southern Italy home-style. Anyway, that’s what Angelo said. R.J. hadn’t been inside all that many southern Italian homes, so he couldn’t say.
    “Ah, Meesater Ehbrooks,” Ferrini crooned as R.J. hit the door. “Buona sera. Meesater Angelo he’s await.” He beckoned toward the back. “Please?”
    R.J. followed Ferrini to a table in the back, separated from the other tables by a small aisle leading to the kitchen. Angelo was already there, sipping a glass of Peroni b eer. “R.J.!” he called out, and then to Ferrini, “Acqua minerale, per favore.” Ferrini bowed and smiled at Angelo and said something in Italian, too fast for R.J. Angelo said something back and made a hand gesture. Then Ferrini laughed and zipped off to the kitchen.
    “You two weren’t laughing at my haircut, were you?” R.J. said as he slid into a chair.
    “Naw, that’s a much louder laugh, and he brings out all the waiters to look. We was just laughing because we’re Italian and we’re talking.” He shrugged. “It’s a culture thing. Don’t go getting paranoid on me, R.J.”
    “Tough to avoid.” R.J. sighed. “Every time I turn around lately I bump into your buddy Boggs.”
    Bertelli shook his head. “I know, I know. Kates has this bee in his bonnet, and he can’t get no honey from it, but he’s afraid it’ll sting him if he lets go.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “Whaddya gonna do?”
    “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” R.J. said. Angelo opened his mouth, then closed it again as Ferrini set a liter of chilled mineral water in a green bottle in front of R.J. “Grazie,” R.J. said.
    “Prego,” Ferrini murmured and quickly left the table.
    “Angelo,” R.J. said, unscrewing the cap of the bottle and pouring a glass full, “my ass is in a sling. I thought this might die down when Kates woke up, but he’s still sleepwalking and it’s getting on my nerves. He’s still after me and it’s a couple of weeks now. That means he’s not going to let go, and since I didn’t do it that means five years from now he’ll still be trying to nail me for Murray Goddamn Belcher.” He sipped the water. “So I figured maybe I should take a look at this thing.”
    Angelo blew out a big breath and shook his head. “R.J., you’re like a brother to me,” he started.
    “Aw, cut the crap, Angelo, isn’t that what the mob guys say before they pull the trigger?”
    Bertelli pointed a finger at R.J. and dropped his thumb. “Goombah, if they found out I was feeding anything to the principal suspect in this case, my ass is grass.”
    “So I am still the principal suspect?”
    “Bet your ass you are, R J. And I shouldn’t have told you that much. Sorry. I tried to steer the investigation another way, and now I’m not allowed near the case anymore.” He shrugged again. “There’s nobody else they like at all. Belcher is in town for like two days, nobody else raised their voice at him. Just you. They got you in the room with the guy, fighting with the guy, mad enough to do something, smart enough to know how—” Angelo shook his head. “Sonofabitch, the more I think about it, the more I like you for it, too.”
    “Knock it off, for Christ’s sake, Angelo.”
    “Sorry, R.J. But they got enough to keep an eye on you, keep hassling you. They don’t got enough to arrest you or they would’ve already.” Bertelli wagged a finger at R.J. “Sometimes I think the L.T. don’t like you much.”
    “No shit,” R.J. snorted. “So what can you tell me?”
    “I think I know how you did it,” Bertelli said.
    “Tell me. I forgot already.”
    “The poison was in the food, from room service.”
    “Then I am pretty good,” R.J. said. “They run that hotel tighter than Fort Knox. How’d I manage it?”
    “You are good, R.J. Very cute. Listen to this.” He held up a finger and waved it in the air as he talked. “Waiter comes off