His eyelids descended, half hooding irises the color of silt. He looked around the room, bent closer, lowered his voice. “So you want to know about Lancelot and Guinevere.”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“Funny,” he said, “I figured you could tell me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I sent them to you. Referred them. Figured by now you’d have all the insights.”

“That was you?” I said. “They canceled, never saw them.”

“Figures,” he said. “They’re big on that.”

“Canceling?”

“Reneging.” His hand tensed, gave a small wave and brushed against his glass, knocking it over. The minuscule amount of wine was no threat as it dribbled to the tablecloth, but he flung himself back as if escaping an avalanche. High-strung type.

When the waiter came over to help, he barked, “I’m fine, just bring his food.”

“Yes, sir.”

I drank tea as Brent checked out the adjoining booths. No one paid attention to his scrutiny.

“So they never showed up,” he said. “Well, they fucked me over big-time, that’s why I’m happy to give you dirt. But first tell me why you need to know about them.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Sorry, that’s all I can say, Brent.”

“Ooooh, big giant police mystery? Got to be juicy if that cop has you on it.” He winked. “Another O.J. thing? Blake? Something better?”

“Not even close, I was hoping you’d get me closer.”

“I do the giving, you do the taking?” He laughed. “So you’ve met Todd.”

My salad arrived. Brent lifted an anchovy from my plate, chewed, swallowed. “Blood pressure’s probably through the roof now, but yummy.”

“So how’d you come to refer them to me?”

“I was doing a deal and the issue came up. I think kid-shrink, I think you.”

“What kind of problem were they having?”

“How should I know? I never talked to them.”

“Your people set it up with their people. Then you took lunch.”

“Ha ha ha. As a matter of fact, yes, that’s what happened. But high-level people. People authorized to make decisions. We were at that stage by then, I thought I had the deal nailed.”

An index finger massaged the empty wineglass. Reassuring himself he was steady. He said, “My house has a wine cellar, I’ve got twelve hundred bottles, more than I’ll be able to drink, and Todd doesn’t touch alcohol.”

“Embarrassment of riches.”

“Yeah … anyway, that’s it. Someone asked about a therapist, I said I knew someone.”

“They asked for a child therapist, specifically.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I think so—this was what, two years ago?”

“Just about.”

His eyes drifted toward the bar, followed the entry of four men in suits and open-necked shirts. And loafers. He started to wave, stopped when they failed to notice him. Or ignored him. They continued to a corner booth. He finished his wine.

I said, “No hint about what the problem was.”