State and local police set up a heavy perimeter around the block to protect the Blessed Mother from looters and rioters that hit surrounding areas with reckless abandon. Gina could hardly keep up with demand for pizza and a gander at the lit iconic image splashed on the wall of her shop.

New business partner Sal “Muscles” Marinara wanted to offer police free food but Gina refused.

The protesters are right, she said. The cops are bastards.

A give-away will be good public relations for the Blessed Virgin, he said.

She doesn’t need good PR. You need good PR. Besides, you told me you hate cops.

That’s beside the point, Gina. I’m a new man, making the best of a bad situation.

Black lives matter, she said.

Sal rolled his eyes.

OK, so how about we give free food to people of color as long as we let Italians go first.

Jesus, Sal, please.

Above the peaceful din of rosary recitation, Sal heard a shrill voice that caught him off guard.

Turn off the light, the voice said.

You hear that?

Gina cocked her head toward the open door.

Turn off the light, the voice said.

Gina pointed.

It’s coming from up there, she said.

Sal ran to the street and craned his neck to see Dillon sitting on the window sill of a second-floor apartment pecking at a pizza crust, looking down and squawking.

Turn off the light, turn off the light, Dillon said.

That sonofabitch of a bird will ruin our business. If anybody listens to him and turns off the streetlight, the Blessed Mother leaves. Then we’re screwed even with the Pizza King dead and his customers flocking here.

Did you say flocking?

Gina muffled a laugh.

Pretty birdie, pretty birdie, Gina said.

Dillon screeched louder.

I look like Al Pacino, he said.

As severe as life had become, Gina had to giggle.

Don’t encourage him, Sal said.

Sal yelled up at the widow.

Polly want a cracker?

Suck my cannoli, Dillon said.

Sal reached inside his jacket.

I’m gonna shoot that filthy feathered fowl.

No, you will not, Gina said. Vic was bad enough. You’re worse. I can’t stand men anymore. Maybe I’ll start looting and shooting.

Chill, Gina, I’m just looking out for our best interests here. What are we gonna do about the bird?

With that, William ambled through the doorway and toward the counter wearing an olive green tank top, camouflaged pants and black paratrooper boots. His tattoos showed an eagle shooting a machine gun and a skull with red eyes wearing a green beret.

I’d like a large plain pizza, please, he said.

Sal squared the shoulders of the gray double-breasted sport coat he wore with a black T-shirt and skinny black jeans.

That bird belong to you?

William gave Sal a killer look bereft of emotion.

He looks like Al Pacino, don’t you think?

Gina tried to ignore the confrontation.

Next customer, please?

Stoop-shouldered and shy, Darryl stepped through the doorway and approached the counter.

William stepped aside.

Hey, man, nice to see you taking a breather from work, William said from behind his mask.

You, too, Darryl said from behind his mask.

Gina peered over her mask, held her check pad and waited.

Small broccoli white double-crust, Darryl said.

We’re closed, Sal said.

Everybody looked at Sal.

Put his order on my bill, William said.

Darryl didn’t know what to say or how to behave.

Thank you, sir, he said.

Call me William.

OK, William.

Sal seethed.

Mary glowed.

And, even from within the confines of the pizza parlor, you could hear Dillon’s voice echo off the narrow sides of the street.

Turn off the goddamn light, he said.