Rosie returned, bringing Beck a hefty glass of Scotch over ice with a small carafe of water on the side. She set his drink on a cardboard coaster and handed him a dainty paper cocktail napkin. I noticed she'd found a doily to put on her tray. If the guy had been with me. she'd have been measuring the inseam for his wedding tuxedo.

He picked up his drink and took a measured sip, sending her a smile of approval. "That's perfect. Thanks."

Rosie departed reluctantly, at a loss for any other service to perform.

Beck turned back to me. "Are you a local as well?"

"Yep."

"Where'd you go to high school?"

"S.T."

"Me, too. Maybe that's where we knew each other. What year did you graduate?"

"1967. What about you?"

"A year ahead of you – 1966. Odd I don't remember you. I'm usually good about those things."

I upgraded his age to thirty-eight. "I was a low-waller," I said, indicating my association with the badass kids who sat on the low wall at the rear of the school property where the hillside sloped down to meet the street behind. We smoked cigarettes and dope and occasionally mixed vodka in our bottles of orangeade. Tame by later standards, but considered wicked in our day.

"Really," he said. He gave me a brief searching look and then reached for the menu. "How's the food?"

"Not bad. Are you really fond of Hungarian cooking, or were you making that up?"

"Why would I lie about something like that?" He delivered the line lightly, but he could have meant anything – perhaps that he'd never bother to lie about the trivial or mundane in life. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm surprised you haven't been in before."

"I've seen the place in passing, but frankly, it always looked like such a dive I never had the nerve. I had a meeting with some guys and thought I'd give it a try since I was in the neighborhood. Nicer inside than out, I'll say that."

My antennae went up with a little whining sound. That was the second time he'd explained how he happened to come in. I picked up my glass and took a sip of bad wine. Really, it tasted like a product you'd use to clean tar off your feet after a day at the beach. Reba was playing with the straw in her iced tea.

Looking from her face to his, I realized what a dunce I'd been. She'd arranged this in advance. Dinner with me was just a cover for her meeting with him, but why the subterfuge? I rearranged myself so I was sitting with my back against the side wall, my feet on the seat, keeping my demeanor casual while I watched the scenario play out. "You're in real estate?" I asked.