Billy Foster, my best friend from grade school had driven up from San Diego for a visit - he's a bigtime architect now, married with two darlin' kids. We've kept in touch, with breaks through the years, since we were -- heck, since we were born.

I took him to my favorite Italian place on La Brea and ordered for him, I mean, he's straight and we know how straight boys order...

"Uh, I'll have -- uh, what's the special of the house?"

Anyway, I was glad Billy came up to L.A. because I needed some good objective advice with this damn legal mess at Royal Catering.

"Listen to your lawyer," he said over and over.

Mark had strongly urged me to continue with the lawsuit. He was certain I'd win my case and wind up with a hefty settlement at the end of the day. But God, in my heart, I kept seeing old Marinaro's face, his sad, loving, Italian mug behind his desk as he went bankrupt from the bank taking everything he had. My southern roots were yankin' at me to be the better man and walk away.

Besides, Mr. Marinaro had given me a hefty severance as a bonus of almost $5000. Was it too much? Heck, yeah! I knew what it meant, I knew he was practically beggin' me to drop the lawsuit and to keep quiet about Rudy. And in the last six months, Royal Catering hadn't been in as much demand in town -- the competition was gettin' the best gigs.

But Mark, and now Billy, kept stressing what they called, "The bigger picture." Rudy Marinaro was a degenerate who must be stopped. If somebody didn't prosecute him, he'd go on and on till he really did something dangerous to someone -- and I was the guy to "break the chain," Mark said.

I wanted to say, "okay, you guys come with me to the office and you look into that innocent old man's eyes and say, "you're screwed, old man."

I gave Marinaro years out of my life -- and he took me in, gave me a job when I first got to L.A.-- helping me make the move, the transition here, easy. Yeah, Rudy is a sick man who needs help. Maybe I could recommend therapy?

They laughed.

And I know they're right.

*****

As Billy and I walked to our cars, he kept at me.

"What're you paying a lawyer for, Andrew -- if you're not gonna take his advice?"

But my mind was made up.

I knew it. I listened to Billy; I understood his point, I even agreed with him on a lot of levels. But what can I say? I'm from Atlanta, Georgia. And in the south -- well, that's where they invented the term, "pig-headed".

I was gonna walk away from this whole thing.

I had my money-- maybe I'd use it to start my own company. I'd pay Mark with it, I'd have a big party and get my investors lined up. I'd already spoken to all of my "fans" from Royal Catering. Some of them seemed very interested in investing.

I was saying good-bye to Mr. Marinaro. I could sleep at night.

Because I was saying "get lost" to Rudy Marinaro.