Polito’s hand was hard and rough. The little hair he had left was white and fine. He wore a black windbreaker, gray ribbed turtleneck, charcoal slacks, black loafers with gold Gucci buckles that might have been real. Rosy cheeks contrasted with a lower face that would never looked shaved. His right eye was clear and brown. Its mate was a sagging remnant with a milky iris.

Polito said, “Hey, Monique,” to the waitress. “Salmon wild today?”

“Oh yes.”

“I’ll have it. With the white asparagus, big glass of that Médoc wine, Château whatever.”

“Potatoes?”

Polito contemplated. “What the heck, yeah. Easy on the oil.”

“Bon. M’sieur?”

“Hanger steak, medium rare, salad, fries.”

Polito watched her depart, aiming his face so his good eye had maximum coverage. “Red meat, huh? No cholesterol issues?”

“Not so far,” I said.

The eye took me in. “Me, it’s just the opposite. Everyone in my family croaks by sixty. I beat it by three years so far, had a stent when I was fifty-eight. Doctor says Lipitor, watch what I eat, drink the vino, there’s a good chance I can set a record.”

“Good for you.”

“So,” he said, “you got some kind of pull.”

“With who?”

“Deputy chief calls me at home, I’m about to drive off to Lake George with the wife, he says, ‘Sam, I want you to meet with someone.’ Like I’m still obligated.”

“Sorry for messing up your plans.”

“Hey, it was my choice. He told me what it was, I’m more than happy.” Snatching a roll from the basket, he broke it in two, watched the crumbs rain. “Even though we’re not talking one of my triumphs.”

“Tough case.”

“Jimmy Hoffa’ll be found before the Safrans will. Maybe in the same place.”

“Under some building,” I said. “Or in the East River.”

“The former. The river, we’da found ’em. Damn thing runs both ways, all that agitation, bodies come up, I had more than my share of floaters.” He reached for an olive, gnawed around the pit. “Trust me, the river, they’da shown up.”

His wine arrived. He sniffed, swirled, sipped. “Elixir of life. That and the olive oil.” Catching the waitress’s eye, he mouthed “Oil” and mimicked pouring.

After he’d sopped up half the golden puddle with his bread, he said, “Work this city long enough, you get a taste for fine food. So tell me about these L.A. murders.”

I summarized.

“That’s it?”

“Unfortunately.”

“So this Dale character, only reason you’re here is guilt by association maybe, possibly, could-be.”

“Yup.”

“Fancy cars, huh? That’s L.A., ain’t it? They actually put you on a plane for that? LAPD must be getting modern, sending a shrink — sorry, a psychologist. How’d you get that kind of pull?”

“The Midtown Executive is pull?”

“You got a point.”