He would’ve liked home fries with that, but they were too much trouble to cook and anyway they never tasted as good as diner home fries when he made them at home. The radio in the kitchen was tuned to a classical station; the strains of a Liszt piano sonata competed with the sizzle of the frying pan. The music reminded Gibbons of fancy Viennese pastry topped with swirls of sweet cream and ribbons of icing. He slid the eggs onto a plate, buttered his toast, and cleared the mail off the table. Gibbons drained the last of his first beer and got himself another to go with his meal. But as soon as he cut into his first egg, the phone rang. He watched the yolk ooze out of the wound and considered letting it ring. “What?” he said, picking up the phone in the living room. “It’s me.” Tozzi had a much better connection this time. It sounded like he was calling from across the street. “What’s up?” “You ever hear of a wiseguy called ‘the Hun’?” Gibbons sat down on the couch.
