“Bertie’s a democrat, Ferris,” Bell said. “In fact, you can color him pink. His father was a butter and egg man on Flatbush Avenue.”

“What I’d like to do, Henry, is to find Bert Kahn,” he told Bell. “Maybe have him work for me and my firm. My dad always said, you’re only as good as the people you work with. So working with Kahn. Or you, for that matter. That would sure show him, you know?”

“You know, I grew up, and my mom hated to cook. She used to feed us fried bologna with ketchup on it for supper. My father would come home, see that crap, and we’d all go out to eat. And do you know where we’d go? A pancake house. On the highway.”

“I like it when you call me Sal. You’re the only one who does, Henry. Except my pop, who hates me.”

“So off he went to Viet Nam. Joining the Air Cavalry. And I’ll say this much more,” Bell declared. He waved a thick finger at the Tolle man, who waited for revelation with bloodshot eyes. “My boy could have gone to Canada. That’s what.” “No, Henry. That’s not true.” “Yes. I wouldn’t have minded it, if he had. I would have yelled at him. I guess I would have yelled at him. But that’s my job, because I was his father. And that’s his job. He was my son. A teenager needs to rebel. I wouldn’t trust a kid who didn’t.”

Happy father’s day, from your friends at the Fifty-Ninth Madison Committee. Also from the author of SPLIT THIRTY, a novel about fathers and sons.