Although they’d said very little during the drive into the city and had barely spoken during the short walk after parking the car, the silence when they sat down was suddenly weighted. Watching Zev take a swallow of coffee, Tony tried to come up with something they could talk about besides work. Talking about work would just remind him of shadows. Seven shadows. Seven shadows possessing. Seven shadows spying . . .

“Tony?”

“Sorry.” He took a bite of apricot hamantasch, chewed, swallowed, and said, “So, what do you do when you’re not working?”

It was a good thing they weren’t dating. He sounded like a major spaz.

“Um . . . you know. The usual stuff. Laundry. Television. Scrabble.”

“What?”

His cheeks slightly flushed, Zev stared into his mug. “I play competitive Scrabble.”

“Really? I mean, I don’t doubt you or anything,” Tony hastened to add, “it’s just that’s so cool. I had a cheap Scrabble CD-ROM I got attached to a box of cereal and the computer kicked my ass, even at the idiot level. And you play competitively?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Sometimes I play in Hebrew.”

“Now, you’re bragging.”

“A little.”

They shared a smile and all of a sudden it wasn’t so hard to find things to talk about.

Zev was an ardent Libertarian, slightly unusual in Socialist-leaning British Columbia. Tony, who’d picked up most of his political beliefs from the bastard son of Henry VIII, had to admit that a number of Zev’s points made a lot of sense. Someday, when he thought life was getting dull, he’d mention them to Henry. Fortunately, before Zev could wonder just what he was smiling about, a fan of the show spotted their production jackets, enthused for a few minutes, and reminded Tony that he’d wanted to ask a question about the Darkest Night theme.

“That creepy bit under the title; what instrument is that?”

“The piece under the title is all voice. A trio, two women, one man—Leslie, Ingrid, and Joey are their names—I think, it’s been a while—but they go by FKO.”

“Okay, I get the KO; that’s Knockout, but what’s the F stand for.”

Grinning, Zev raised both hands. “I didn’t want to ask.”

Eventually, they segued into a discussion of the Olympic highway extension up to Whistler—an obligatory topic when two or more Vancouverites got together.

Away from work, CB Productions’ musical director let loose a sardonic sense of humor and was actually a pretty funny guy. And it wasn’t a date or anything, but Tony was having a good time. Starting to relax. No longer jumping at shadows. Much.

“Is that the time?” Zev shoved his chair out from the table and stood. “I’ve got to get going.”