“Wilshire near Crescent Heights. Tacky little strip mall on the . . . southeast corner. Great coffee, people pretending to be artistes. I'll be in a booth near the back. If you're late, I won't wait around.”

The restaurant was a narrow storefront blocked by blue gingham curtains. Pine tables and booths, half of them empty. Sacks of coffee stood on the floor near the entrance, listing like melting snowmen. A few desperate-looking types sat far from one another, poring over screenplays.

Meredith Bork was in the last booth, her back to the wall, a mug in her left hand. A big, beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting high and straight. The moment I walked in, her eyes were on me and they didn't waver as I approached.

Her hair was true black and shiny, brushed straight back from her head and worn loose around her shoulders. Her face was olive tinted like Robin's, just a bit rounder than oval, with wide, full lips, a straight, narrow nose, and a perfect chin. Perfect cheekbones, too, below huge gray-blue eyes. Silver-blue nail polish to match her silk blouse. Two buttons undone, freckled chest, an inch of cleavage. Strong, square shoulders, lots of bracelets around surprisingly slender wrists. Lots of gold, all over. Even in the weak light, she sparkled.

She said, “Great. You're cute. I allow you to sit.”

She put the mug down next to a plate bearing an oversized muffin.

“Fiber,” she said. “The religion of the nineties.”

A waitress came over and informed me the coffee of the day was Ethiopian. I said that was fine and received my own mug.

“Ethiopian,” said Meredith Bork. “They're starving over there, aren't they? But they're exporting designer beans? Don't you think that's weird?”

“Someone always does okay,” I said. “No matter how bad things get.”

“How true, how true.” She smiled. “I like this guy. Perfect mixture of sincerity and cynicism. Lots of women love it, right? You probably use it to get laid, then get bored and leave them weeping, right?”

I laughed involuntarily. “No.”

“No, you don't get laid, or no, you don't get bored?”

“No, I'm not into conning women.”

“Gay?”

“No.”

“What's your problem, then?”

“Are we discussing that?”

“Why not?” Giant smile. Capped teeth. “You want to discuss my problems, jocko, fair is fair.”

I raised my cup to my lips.

“How's the java?” she said. “Those starving Ethiopians know how to grow 'em?”

“Very good.”

“I'm so veddy glad. Mine's Colombian. My regular fix. I keep hoping there'll be a packaging error and I'll get a little snort mixed in with the grind.”

She rubbed her nose and winked, leaned forward, and showed more chest. A black lace bra cut into soft, freckled flesh. She wore a perfume I'd never smelled before. Lots of grass, lots of flowers, a bit of her own perspiration.