“Ask her, right, right. I will. But right now I’m asking you—which of them gave her those shiners?”

His eyebrows rose. “What shiners?”

“Pete…”

He swallowed. We’d been keeping it sotto voce already, but now he whispered. “The Mazzini kid did that. They’re seeing each other. I think…I think they live together in the Village.”

“Which one’s worked here the longest?”

“Miss Ryan.” He leaned toward me. “Mike, Sheila’s been here for four or five years—you know that.”

“I guess I do. Where’s she from?”

Pete shrugged. “Midwest somewhere. Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, one of those. She came to the city to be an actress and it didn’t work out, at least not yet. She’s tops, Mike. Everybody loves her.”

“Sounds like that includes Colby and Mazzini.”

A palm came up. “I don’t generally get involved with my employees’ private lives.”

I ignored that. “What’s the story with her and the rich kid? How often does Colby come around to the Chophouse?”

“He’s a good customer,” Pete said vaguely.

“Did Sheila already know him? Or did they meet here? Was he maybe taken with her? She’s an attractive woman.”

Velda said, “An understatement.”

The restauranteur sighed. “I believe they met here. They became friendly. They sometimes talk. They obviously like each other. They have good, what-do-you-call-it… chemistry.”

I said, “What kind of experiments do you think they’re conducting?”

Pete shifted in his seat. “Please, Mike. This really makes me uncomfortable. You’re asking me to talk trash about two good employees and, if that weren’t enough, a customer who spends money like it’s paper. You should talk to them, not me.”

“Excellent idea. How about sending Sheila over?”

He frowned. “She’s my hostess, Mike. If somebody comes in…”

“I’ll shoo her over. Come on, Pete. I’m a customer, too, you know.”

He pulled air in and let it out through as sickly a smile as I’d seen in a while. “Fine, Mike. Anything you say.”

Pete slid out of the booth and went over to the hostess podium and spoke a few words, gesturing toward us; Sheila frowned, not a deep frown but a troubled look, and decidedly put-upon. But she came over, striding now, not her usual glide.

She stood before us with her chin up and her eyes down; she might have been a cop who came upon Velda and me playing hide the salami in some Central Park bushes. “Something you wanted, Mr. Hammer?”

I gestured. “You remember my secretary—Velda Sterling?”

“Of course.” Sheila nodded. “Ms. Sterling.”

Velda nodded back, said, “Ms. Ryan,” and I said, “Will you join us for a few moments?”

The hostess’s smile was strained. “Could it wait for another time? I am working.”

“It’s not busy, and your boss sent you over. We’ll understand if a patron enters and needs your attention. Please.”

Like Pete, she chose to slide in on Velda’s side.

“Sheila,” I said, “I’m working for Vincent Colby’s father, looking into the hit-and-run that put his son in the hospital. Where you and I last spoke.”