Jake was impressed. The restaurants he frequented down in his neighborhood were mostly hamburger joints. There was the local piano bar, but since Louise’s death he hadn’t been able to go there. Not alone. Not with Chuck playing the same old songs about love and loss and longing.

Ristorante Amore was indeed posh, Jake decided. Even though the waiters worked in their shirtsleeves. Not like the restaurants you see in the movies, he thought, but pretty damned classy. At least the waiters all wore ties. Soft music purred from speakers in the ceiling; the conversations from the other tables were a muted buzz. The place smelled of spices and strong coffee.

And Amy was right about the food. It was first-rate. At her urging he tried the calamari; he’d never eaten squid before. Then a steaming bowl of pasta.

As he clumsily twirled his fork in an attempt to wrap a few strands of spaghetti around the tines, Amy said, “You know, in all honesty, I ought to warn you.”

Jake glanced down at his lap and saw that his napkin was in place.

“Warn me? About what?”

She hesitated a moment, appraising him with shrewd, probing eyes. They were grayish green, Jake realized. Hazel eyes: cool, like a lake up in the mountains.

At last she said, “Politics can be a dirty business.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It can get very unpleasant, Jake. Are you ready to face that?”

He put his fork down and stared at her across the table. “I’m just giving Mr. Tomlinson some advice about science. I won’t be involved in the political side of things.”

“Everybody’s involved in the political side, Jake,” Amy said, very gravely. “Once you’re in, you’re in all the way.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t think—”

She interrupted, “Jake, you know there are gambling casinos in this state.”

“On the Indian reservations, yeah, I know.”

“Who do you think runs them?”

“The tribes, I guess.”

Amy gave him a don’t be so naïve look.

Jake caught her meaning. “Oh, come on. You don’t mean the Mob.”

“Straight out of Las Vegas,” she said. “The Mafia. They don’t call themselves that anymore, but it’s the same thing.”

He tried to shrug it off. “Even if it’s true, it’s got nothing to do with me. I’m just dealing with scientific issues.” Then he tried to grin. “Unless calculating gaming odds is considered science advice.”

“I’m serious, Jake,” she said. And he saw by her expression that she was.

“The Mob.”

“It’s not like The Godfather, but these people are real and they’re in Senator Leeds’s camp.”

Jake spread his hands. “I still don’t see what that’s got to do with me.”