Devlin had thought that at the moment, This way to the egress, fixing it in his memory forever. “The smile got wider, so I hit him. I brought one up off the floor and connected with his chin. My first thought was that it was a near miss, but he flew back against an antique table and the Chinese vase on it. The table and the vase disintegrated.” Levine was smiling. “Nothing to be proud of,” Devlin said. “Later, when I was on the program, I wrote him a letter of apology, offering to apologize in person, but I never received an answer. Let me go on. I stepped outside and saw the limo down at the curb that was going to take La Wagner to the theater. Maybe she had a police escort, maybe Jack wanted more before the curtain went up. This was before Jack knew Anita. I heard later that she was banging one of the producers, too. That’s Wagner, not Anita.” Anita was Jack’s wife. “The last time I saw Jack Brennan, in person, was when he turned his back on me that afternoon, September sixteenth, 1971.”

“What about when Joe Brennan died?” Levine asked. “You didn’t go to his funeral?”

“Jim Brennan made a point of disinviting me.”

“And you remember all this stuff from 1971 as well as you say because—”

“Because I’ll remember that day, every minute of it, for the rest of my life.” But not tonight.

Levine puffed on his cigar, sending a gallon of blue smoke writhing upward. “And, ah, when was the last time you saw Octavio Lopez?”

“Is this being recorded?”

“No, no. Just humor me. It’s all right.”

“I have to think,” Devlin said. “Maybe I have it logged …”

“Just the best of your recollection, Frank.”

He was trying to focus, get away from thoughts of the Brennans. Did Levine think he wanted to stall? “Now I remember. In the winter. This past winter. My partner, John Lord, was there. John and I ducked into the supermarket on First Avenue at the corner of Fifth Street to pick up an Italian bread, spiced ham, and store cheese to make hero sandwiches for lunch.”

Levine allowed himself a silent chuckle. “You remember that?”