“It pains me to tell you she was giving you—not me—the eye. The sad thing about being a tight-assed Republican in a dark suit and wingtips is that hot numbers like that blonde don’t give us a second look. What say I ask her to join us?”

“Why would she want to do that?” I said. But before I knew what was happening, Harlan had pushed himself out of his seat and marched over to her table.

She frowned at him. And why not? A middle-aged man with a brush cut and a narrow black tie interrupts your privacy to propose God knows what? I watched. He stood there, bending slightly forward to speak to her as she squinted in a bemused manner, a cigarette smoldering in her hand.

Then—Jesus Christ—Harlan turned and pointed to me. What the hell was he saying? The woman leaned in her chair to see around his broad hips and focused her gaze on me. I looked away. Too late. This was humiliating. Even worse, the next moment, Harlan was waving me over to join them.

I pretended not to see. I could always say I was nearsighted. But if the mountain will not come to Muhammad … Harlan and the pretty blonde appeared before me.

“Taken Sie a seat, Fräulein,” he said in God-awful German, offering the chair next to me. I rose to my feet until she’d sat. Then he turned to me. “What’s wrong with you, Dan? Didn’t you see me waving?”

“Sorry. I’m nearsighted.”

Harlan took the chair on the other side of the young lady and signaled to the waiter. Another round of drinks was soon on its way. The blonde was drinking Lillet Blanc.

“Dan, this is … Sorry, what did you say your name was?” he asked her.

She rolled her eyes. “Birgit Fuchs.”

“Fuchs? That’s a funny name.”

Another frown from our guest. “It’s not a funny name. It means fox.”

Harlan slapped the table, causing my glass to jump. “It suits you perfectly,” he said in a booming voice. “You’re a foxy lady.” He chuckled at his wit.

“I think I’ll talk to your friend,” she said.

The waiter returned, performed his act with the drinks, and withdrew. Now that we were all friends, Harlan flashed his brightest smile at her.

“What’s a foxy chick like you doing in Bombay?”

Her full lips were painted pink, her eyelashes coated with heavy mascara. She wore a narrow emerald-green choker around her neck and a green headband in her shag-cut to match her short dress.

“Right now?” she answered, her accent clipped and precise. “I’m wishing to be elsewhere.”

I laughed and raised my glass to her. She smiled at me, pretty blue eyes twinkling in the low light.