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any of the ingredients.
    Andy assumed the conversation between her sons would inevitably turn to the passing of their father, but Ian spent most of the meal filling his older brother in on some financial hiccup the band was experiencing.
    “Avocados,” explained Ian, so distraught that he didn’t seem to care his mother could hear every word. “Somewhere out of the country. Puerto Rico, maybe, I wasn’t really paying attention.”
    “And who recommended these avocado orchards?” Mitch asked.
    “I don’t know. Some investment guy our manager knows. All I know is that avocados were supposed to be very big.”
    “Really, Ian? Really ?” Mitch said, with an edge of skepticism that clearly cut through Ian’s thin skin.
    Melissa was on it like a hawk. “We’re not all CEOs, Mitch,” she shot back. “And you’ve made a few mistakes of your own with the IRS.”
    “Honest mistakes,” Mitch said, defensively.
    “This was an honest mistake!” Ian nearly shouted. “We were all told it was a legitimate tax shelter.”
    Andy could tell her youngest child was dazed and confused by how to handle the situation and would like nothing better than go in his room, close the door and practice, over and over, the fingering to ‘Black Bird.’ But the days of running away from the chaos surrounding him had long passed. She began to mull over what she might say to comfort Ian, but what the hell did she know about avocados?
    Then Mitch, who was never one to mull over anything, said something that amazed even his mother. “Well, congratulations, bro. You’ve made it!”
    Everyone, including Harley, looked at her eldest, who had finished his dinner and was rolling an unlit cigar in his fingers.
    “What do you mean, I’ve made it?” Ian asked, perturbed.
    “Unless you’re a poor starving artist or a drug dealer, being audited is part of the American experience,” Mitch pointed out. “You’re grown up now, Ian. Even Uncle Sam thinks you’re important. It’s part of life. Part of a successful business life. Be proud of yourself.”
    Ian considered this, as Mitch continued to roll his cigar. “It’s only money, little bro,” Mitch concluded. “I doubt they’ll put you in jail.”
    Melissa, whose hand had been resting on Mitch’s arm, dug her black enameled nails into his skin. “No one is going to jail, Mitchell!” she hissed. “It’s an IRS audit, for god’s sake.”
    The waiter arrived unannounced with the bill and glanced subtly around the table. “That goes to him ,” the Impresario instructed, taking the bill and handing it to Mitch. “Because paying the bill means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Chapter 4
    Smoking Cubans
    The party of four adjourned to Mitch’s new house in the Gillette Regent Square neighborhood of Santa Monica. The tony housing tract, situated in the midst of what was arguably some of the finest weather on earth, had been developed by the guy who made it big in razor blades and who then went into real estate. Mitch had worked 15 intense years to afford to live on one of the tree-lined streets. He was beyond proud of himself and swore up and down he would never need to move again in his life.
    More than anyone else in the family, Mitch Kornacky was his father’s son. Like Mark, Mitch lived life to the hilt. He collected friends as easily as kids collect Matchbox cars, and he loved to surround himself with a bunch of them and hold court. He could keep up his end of any conversation and everybody else’s, if necessary. High energy and high risk, Mitch was the consummate salesman; he loved nothing better than telling people what they really wanted and then making them buy it.
    Mitch also inherited his father’s love of indulgence. He threw himself into work. He threw himself into vacation. He lived for fun and excitement. And he worshipped food. But unlike the father, the son had a sense of proportion. He stayed trim and fit by running nearly 20 miles a week to keep all the