Over at the Bimbetova Bungalow, Tony lies on his back in bed; Irina Bimbetova dashes out of the bathroom wearing only black panties and pounces on him. "Watch the balls," he warns her. Boy, he really has a way with the pillow talk. Not. Irina starts kissing her way down Tony's ample stomach, and he blisses out for a moment, but then his head snaps up. "What is the matter?" Irina asks. "Tony's cannoli doesn't want to stand up?" Yecch. He pulls her up, laughing unconvincingly that his cannoli is "tired." Irina baby-voices that she could help, and he says he knows, "just…maybe…" and he trails off. She kisses his nipple. "So how's your job?" he asks, and she gives him a "whatever" look and asks since when does he care about her job, and he sputters, "Can't I be nice?" but she's kissing her way down again. "All right," he shrugs, stares at the ceiling for a moment while chewing his lip, then rolls out from under her and snaps, "You don't wanna talk about your job? Fine," and he hurls a wad of cash at her: "Call somebody who gives a fuck." Oh, that's nice. I mean, Irina bugs, but really. She brushes the money off the bed, saying that she's not a whore and he can "stick the money up [his] ass," and she doesn't know what's wrong with him but he shouldn't take it out on her. "There's nothin' wrong with me!" he interrupts. "I just wanted to talk, that's all!" He buttons his pants, continuing, "For all the conversation I get around here I might as well be a fuckin' dildo." "If you were a dildo, we wouldn't be fighting," Irina murmurs. Uh, I wouldn't go there, Irina; I wouldn't even go to that area code.
Tony snaps, "What does that mean? Huh? You fuckin' refugee, what does that mean?" Irina grabs a lighted candle from the bedside table and chucks it at him, and it almost hits Tony in the head but he manages to swat it away with his forearm, and she grabs the lamp next, but Tony tackles her before she can throw that too and threatens to "knock you out, you fucking Communist cunt," and Irina shrieks and struggles and wrenches free and hits him a few times on the back before storming back into the bathroom and yelling something in Russian. "Yeah, same to you!" Tony yells, rubbing his elbow. "Ya fuckin' burned me!"
Satriale's. Christopher, sporting a reasonably unfortunate v-neck tank top with red stripes on the sides, steals a slice of luncheon meat from the giggling girl at the meat slicer. Percussive he's-in-his-element music plays. He joins the boys in the back, all sitting around the table playing hearts, and tells Tony, "Hesh is outside." "Tell him to come in." "He says he needs a word with you," Christopher says portentously. "What the fuck?" Pussy bitches, picking up the queen of spades. "I've eaten more queens than Lancelot." Ba-dum-bum. Big Pussy Bonpensiero, folks. You've been a great crowd -- drive safely.