To Joey A, also known as Joe "The Builder" Andriacchi.

cc: Rocky Infelice (who is away for a while), Johnny "No Nose" DiFronzo, Joey "The Clown" Lombardo and the rest of the bosses of the Chicago Outfit.

Hey, Youse Wise Guys:

I was having lunch at Gene & Georgetti on Friday with two of my good friends--a Fox-TV analyst and the spokesman for the Illinois Supreme Court.

And three well-known Chicago toughs walked up to our table.

These toughs boast of having supreme connections with Outfit bosses and throw out the big names around town.

And they're also good friends of Mayor Richard Daley, having received $100 million in city-related cleaning contracts.

You know these three tough guys.

The Duffs.

What surprised me is that they're interested in my family.

They say they never see my little boys playing out in front of my home. They say it is quiet in front of our house.

I've written a lot about the Duffs and Daley. And they don't like that. A federal grand jury is investigating how the Duffs got their $100 million, including their affirmative action contracts for minorities and women.

Daley must be extremely nearsighted because the Duffs sure don't look like black women to me.

Here's what happened:

Sitting with me at lunch at Gene's was Thom Serafin, the respected political consultant and Fox News analyst.

Also with us was Joseph Tybor. He's a former Tribune colleague, a lawyer and currently the spokesman for the state Supreme Court.

Thom excused himself to use the facilities. Joe and I were talking White Sox baseball when three tough and chunky Duffs walked up to the table.

It was like a scene from "The Sopranos," but without Paulie Walnuts.

"Hey, Kass," one of them said. "I'm Jack Duff."

He stuck his hand out and I took it, and we kept squeezing, although it wasn't friendly.

"I live near you. My kids play on your block sometimes, and you know what?" he asked.

What?

"I've never seen your kids out in front."

He smiled into my eyes, still gripping my hand.

"And I've never seen anyone in front of your house," he said. "Ever."

What?

"I don't see anybody outside your house. Ever," he said.

After delivering his clumsy message, he tried to leave, but I kept hold of his hand, mentioning that we should have a beer sometime, so I could keep him there talking, so I could think.

Here was a Duff who likes my home so much that he tells me he watches it intently, he sees who comes and goes, wonders about my kids.

Two other Duffs were right behind him, the father, Jack Duff Sr., and another chunky son, who identified himself as Jim Duff.

"Where do you want to meet?" asked Jim Duff. "Want us to come over? Is that it? Huh? You want us to come over? Huh?"

Outfit bosses sometimes hang out at La Scarola on Grand Avenue on Fridays. So I told them we should meet there.

"We don't go there anymore," said Jim Duff, sadly as they walked away. "We don't go there."

I'm sure our social secretaries can arrange a luncheon, perhaps a high tea, with the Duffs, the mayor and me.

But the Duffs and Daley must promise not to scarf up all the crumpets and the cucumber sandwiches before I get there.

After they'd left, Thom Serafin sat back down at the table. He was angry he missed the show.

Sitting at a nearby table was a former Chicago police superintendent, who stopped by to say hello and heard the story from us.

Without prompting, the former police superintendent said, "It sounds like a threat to me."

Joe Tybor, of the state Supreme Court, was fascinated the Duffs repeated the line about my home.

"He said it twice," said Joe, later. "Not once but twice."

People who don't like what I write complain to me personally all the time. Sometimes they get angry, even tough guys get angry, but I don't write about it.

But don't mention my children or my home. Ever.

I thought that was against the rules.

It could have been a threat. Or simple stupidity. Or it could have been panic brought by a federal grand jury. I can't say.

Obviously, this is a question of style. So I'm hoping that you, Joe Andriacchi, you, Johnny DiFronzo, and the rest of the real tough guys can enlighten us.

Miss Manners can't answer this, but you can. Why don't you drop me an e-mail to explain the proper wise guy etiquette here, OK?

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jskass@tribune.com