From time to time I testify in a Burbank court and find myself down here, thinking about the perfect suburbia of black-and-white TV shows: moderne furniture, fat sedans, dark lipstick. Jack Webb tippling steely-eyed at a vinyl-padded bumper, winding down after a long day on the set. Nearby might be the guy who played Ward Cleaver, whatever his name was.

I'd been to a few of the Riverside Drive restaurants, but not the Oak Barrel. It turned out to be a modest stack of bricks and stucco squatting on a southeastern corner, half-lit by streetlamps, the cask-and-tankard logo discreetly outlined in green neon above the porte cochere. A parking lot twice the size of the restaurant put the construction date at late forties, early fifties. No valet, just a well-lit asphalt skillet with scores of spaces, a quarter of them occupied. Lincolns, Cadillacs, Buicks, more Lincolns.

The front door was oak inlaid with a panel of bubbled glass. We walked in, confronted a lattice screen, stepped around it into a small reception area backed by the cocktail lounge. Four drinkers flashing elbow. TV news winking above a wall full of bottles. No sound on the set. The air was icy, seasoned with too-delicate piano music, the lighting barely strong enough to let us make out colors. But the maitre d's bright green jacket managed to work its way through the gloom.

He was tall, at least seventy, with slicked white hair, Roman features, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. A reservation book was spread out before him on the oak lectern. Plenty of open slots. The lattice blocked a view of the main dining room to his left, but I could hear silverware clatter, conversational thrum. The pianist was turning "Lady Be Good" into a minuet.

The maitre d' said, "Good evening, gentlemen." Capped smile, clear diction peppered by an Italian accent. As we came closer, he said, "Ah, Detective. Nice to see you again." A small gold rectangle on his jacket was engraved LEW.

"Hey, you remember," said Milo, with joviality that might've been real.

"I still got a memory. And we don't get too many police, not here. So this time you come to eat?"

"To drink," said Milo.

"This way." A green sleeve flourished. "You making any progress on Richard?"

"Wish I could say I was," said Milo. "Speaking of which, has this woman ever been here?" A photo of Claire had snapped into his hand like a magician's dove.

Lew smiled." 'Speaking of which,' huh? You here to drink anything but information?"

"Sure. Beer, if you carry that."

Lew laughed and peered at the picture. "No, sorry, never saw her. Why? She know Richard?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Milo. "Tell me, is there anything else that came to mind since the last time I was here?"

The maitre d' handed back the photo. "Nah. Richard was a good boy, quiet. Good worker. We don't usually hire the so-calleds, but he was okay."