"The so-calleds," I said.

"So-called actors, so-called directors-mostly they're punks, think they're overqualified for everything, doin' you a big favor to show up. Nine times outta ten they can't handle carrying a bread plate or they end up mouthing off to some regular and I gotta untangle everybody's shorts."

He reached behind his back and tugged upward.

"We prefer old guys," he said. "Classy pros. Like me. But Richard was okay for a kid. Polite-'madam' and 'sir,' not that goddamn 'you guys.' Nice boy, very nice boy, that's why even though he wanted to be an actor I hired him. Also, he begged me. Said he really needed the money. And I was right about him. Good worker, got the orders right, no complaints- c'mon, let's go over, get you gents a nice drink."

The bar was an enormous lacquered walnut parabola rimmed with red leather. Brass bar, red stools with brass legs. The four drinkers were all glassy-eyed middle-aged men wearing sport coats. One necktie, three sport shirts with open collars spread over wide lapels. Plenty of space between them. They stared into tall glasses on paper coasters, dipped thick hands into dishes of nuts, olives, roast peppers, sausage chunks, pink curls of boiled shrimp pierced by red plastic toothpicks. The bartender was pushing sixty, dark-skinned, with luxuriant hair and the face of a carved tiki god. He and a couple of the drinkers looked up as Lew showed us to the end of the bar, but a second later, everyone had settled back into booze hypnosis.

Lew said, "Hernando, bring these gents ..."

"Grolsch," said Milo. I asked for the same and Lew said, "Some of that sauterne for me, the reserve stuff, but just a little."

Hernando's hands moved like a chop-sockey hero. After he'd delivered the drinks and returned to the center of the bar, Milo said, "You ever get a customer named Wark?"

"Work?"

"Wark." Milo spelled it. "Mid to late thirties, tall, thin, dark hair, could be curly. Claims to be a film producer."

The maitre d's eyes were merry. "Plenty of claims-to-be's, but no, I don't recall any Wark."

Milo sipped his beer. "What about Crimmins? Derrick Crimmins. He might have come in with a woman, younger, long blond hair."

" 'Might,' 'maybe'-this is still about Richard?"

"Maybe," said Milo.

"Sorry, no Crimmins either, but people come in without reservations, we don't know their names."

"We're talking eight, nine months ago. Would you remember every name-even with an excellent memory?"

Lew looked hurt. "You want me to check the reservation books, I'm happy to do it, but I can tell you right now, weird names like that I'd definitely remember." He closed his eyes. "Tall and skinny, huh? Richard's customer?"

"Could be."