Vigna has been sending a private investigator to my parents’ house again and again, demanding to see me. My parents, who are far more polite than I am, keep telling Vigna’s hired tough guy that I don’t live there anymore. I did when I was a teenager. But that was in 1990.
The last time Vigna’s hired muscle came to my parents’ house, he refused to leave. My parents said he had a Bluetooth phone device in his ear, and seemed to be taking instructions from someone — Vigna himself? — who told him not to go until he had found me. In the end, Vigna’s enforcer must have lost his serenity, too, because he threw some papers down at my parents feet, and stormed off.
Classy.
