Sixteen-year-old Rory Wiggins stood at attention in the entrance of Cicero’s Pizzeria. His light-pink dress shirt was drenched, along with the thighs of his khaki pants. Black grease from his bicycle chain branded the cuff of his right ankle.
The hostess, a platinum blond with pink braces, appeared from the kitchen. Her mouth stretched into a smile, and she said brightly, “Mr. Bozzardi will be right with you.”