Working Title

Over the next few days I will be posting the final short story that I am writing for Dr. Hanna. I would appreciate your criticism and advice; please leave comments or email me. Oh, I need a title and whoever picks out the most allusions wins. Here's the first installment:

Pale light filters in through the window above the door, though it’s too dusty to see anything through. The two men, bound by their arms to chairs, are waiting and should probably take the opportunity to be silent rather than vent their anger; inevitably, men can only complain when put in such situations, unless they have had training to keep their mouths in check.
“Any time now…” said Everett.
“How long do they expect us to wait?” questioned Max.
“They can make us wait as long as they want.” replied Everett.
“No shit. But why do you have to say ‘Any time now…?’” Max said as he stamped the ground and let out a labored breath. “My nose is itchy.”
“Just try to be optimistic for once in your life.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“Because you may live longer. Once we get out of here, maybe your heart won’t give out on ya in a year.” Max was silent for a while, pondering the likelihood that they would see the next day or the day after that, or maybe just trying to forget how itchy his nose was. The room was plain: grey concrete walls, wooden table, matching wooden chairs, no windows except for the one over the door, and the wooden door of cherry with a finish that had started to turn black and wrinkle from countless greasy hands opening and closing it. The door had become a point of interest to Everett realizing the lock and the hinges were on the opposite side from them.
“I wonder what he’ll be like…” said Everett trailing off in thought.
“Does it really matter? For all we know he’s not even in the country. But you insisted on coming here to see him anyway…and now look at the mess that you’ve gotten us in now!”
“Well…for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that I dragged you into this.”

“Damn right you’re sorry—I could be at home—instead I’m here and tied to a chair waiting for who-knows-what to happen.” Max fumed and Everett retreated into thought once again. This was a hard situation for both of them, but Everett took the blame on himself and realizing the guilt was no one’s but his. Of course, Max didn’t help the situation with his constant blathering about his nose and so on.
Reflecting on the circumstances of their dilemma and the events that led up to their detainment, Everett replayed them in his mind. The night before he had taken Mrs. DeBartolo out to dinner and had simply been a gentleman and offered to entertain his “colleague’s” wife since he would be out of town. Simple enough. Right?
“Hello…Mrs. DeBartolo…how are you this evening?”
“Please call me Eva…any friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine.” Eva was a little more than a “friend,” as she put it, her husband Vincenzo DeBartolo was one of the “higher-ups” for the FBI, when he and Everett, a Detective for the NYPD, had met at a convention in Las Vegas concerning the growing the drug culture epidemic. Not to mention that Everett, or any man for that matter, would not be struck dumb by the dark-haired siren
“No problem…umm…Eva. I’ve got…ah…I’ve got reservations at the House of S-S-Silver Leaves.”