“I guess I’m just tired,” I said, gasping. “And if you want a beer, you go right ahead. It’s your day off and I’m driving.”

This improved his mood dramatically, and not much later he was draining his first pint of Samuel Adams while his burger with Swiss and my chicken Caesar salad were served. For a while we ate and drifted in and out of a conversation while people around us talked loudly and nonstop.

“I said, do you want to go away for your birthday?” one businessman was telling another. “You’re used to going wherever you want.”

“My wife’s the same way,” the other businessman replied as he chewed. “Acts like I never take her anywhere. Hell, we go out to dinner almost every week.”

“I saw on Oprah that one out of ten people owe more money than they can pay,” an older woman confided to a companion whose straw hat was hanging from the hat rack by their booth. “Isn’t that wild?”

“Doesn’t surprise me in the least. It’s like everything else these days.”

“They do have valet parking here,” one of the businessmen said. “But I usually walk.”

“What about at night?”

“Shooo. Are you kidding? In D.C.? Not unless you got a death wish.”

I excused myself and went downstairs to the ladies’ room, which was large and built of pale gray marble. No one else was there, and I helped myself to the handicap stall so I could enjoy plenty of space and wash my hands and face in private. I tried to call Lucy from my portable phone, but the signal seemed to bounce off walls and come right back. So I used a pay phone and was thrilled to find her at home.

“Are you packing?” I asked.

“Can you hear an echo yet?” she said.

“Ummm. Maybe.”

“Well, I can. You ought to see this place.”

“Speaking of that, are you up for visitors?”

“Where are you?” Her tone turned suspicious.

“The Old Ebbitt Grill. At a pay phone downstairs by the rest rooms, to be exact. Marino and I were at the Smithsonian this morning, seeing Vessey. I’d like to stop by. Not only to see you, but I have a professional matter to discuss.”

“Sure,” she said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Can I bring anything?”

“Yeah. Food.”

There was no point in retrieving my car, because Lucy lived in the northwest part of the city, just off Dupont Circle, where parking would be as bad as it was everywhere else. Marino whistled for a cab outside the grill, and one slammed on its brakes and we got in. The afternoon was calm and flags were wilted over roofs and lawns, and somewhere a car alarm would not stop. We had to drive through George Washington University, past the Ritz and Blackie’s Steakhouse to reach Lucy and Janet’s neighborhood.