Manfred said, “Olivia, didn’t you tell me that you were looking for a desk for your apartment?”

Olivia took the cue. “Thanks for reminding me. Joe, I do need a desk, if one comes in that’s not too fragile or pricey.”

“I did get a fauxtique desk yesterday,” Joe said, smiling. “Probably from the nineteen sixties and very sturdy. I don’t know if we could get it down the stairs to your place, though. We’d have to come around to the side, take it straight in the east door. . . .”

They embarked on a technical discussion about moving the desk.

“Maybe I can use my high school math skills for once,” Manfred said. “I knew there was a reason I had to take it.”

They were able to have a decent dinner together, though Manfred became distracted by trying to figure out another plan. He yearned to be out from under his situation the way a man in the desert yearns to spot a palm tree.

Olivia elbowed him when he was thinking vaguely about suing Lewis for slander. Or some other defamation. “What?” he asked her.

There was a stranger inside the doorway.

“That’s Mr. Big Eyes, Shorty Horowitz’s grandson,” she said.

The stranger waited to be seated, and Manfred called, “Just take a seat anywhere. Madonna or the kid will be with you in a second.” He nodded and took one of the tables for two along the front wall. Unfortunately, it was the Rev’s table.

“Any one but that one!” Olivia said. He raised his eyebrows and pointed to the one nearest the door. They all nodded.

Olivia muttered, “I could kick myself. I should have thought that at him, to see if he’d react. I know he heard me thinking about how pretty his eyes are, at the hotel.”

The man was looking down at his silverware rather pointedly.

“He can hear my thoughts,” she said to Manfred.

Joe and Chuy had gone to the counter to talk to Madonna for a moment, while the new boy was coming to their booth with the credit card and charge slip.

“I’ve met a person who could do that, before,” Manfred said.

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all.” Manfred signed the slip and got out of the booth to walk to the newcomer’s table. Mr. Big Eyes looked up, unsurprised.

“Hi,” Manfred said. He hesitated. “Do you, by any chance, know a waitress in Louisiana? Works in a bar in a little town called Bon Temps?”

The difference in the newcomer’s face was comical. He looked startled, alarmed, and panicky in quick succession. “Why do you want to know?” he said, with unconvincing indifference.

“Because I know her, too, and my friend here believes you share a trait with her.”

Olivia, who’d been right on his heels, stepped up to Manfred’s side.

“I’m Olivia Charity,” she said. “I hear you’re Shorty Horowitz’s grandson?”