Three-way weekend

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The two young men strolling along Sutter Street might have been brothers. Each was tall, each had the same lightly tanned, dark-haired good looks, and the same Italian ancestry showed in the boned modeling of both faces. But Nino and Carlo were unrelated by direct blood ties. They considered themselves to be business partners.

They walked with easy strides toward the rows of cafe tables that lined the garden court restaurant, ignoring the San Franciscians and tourists who strolled past them. Typically, Carlo was half pace in the lead.

"Let's sit here," he suggested, reaching for a chair at a back row table. They sat down and lit cigarettes, each taking from his own pack.

Nino produced a pair of sunglasses from the breast pocket of his jacket and put them on. It was April; the sunshine was already bright.

Carlo clicked his fingers in the direction of a white jacketed waiter who immediately gave a nod of recognition.

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