CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday, 2 p.m. – 2 days, 1 hour before the wedding
Angie went to the Wings of an Angel restaurant on Columbus Avenue in the North Beach area. It was owned by three older men, ex-cons, who had become good and true friends to her. She sat over a plate of their signature spaghetti, one with a surprisingly delicious sauce. Angie had been shocked to learn the secret, completely non-Italian ingredient they used in it: Spam®. But this afternoon, the noodles might have been string for all the attention she gave them.
“Whatza matter, Miss Angie?” Earl White, one of the owners, sat down across from her as soon as the last of the lunch crowd left the restaurant. Earl was in his sixties, and wore a thick, curly-brown toupee so stiff it looked as if it had been shellacked. He’d onc
