When I hesitated by his table, he looked at me, his face apprehensive, almost fearful.

“Martin Benson?” I said.

He nodded, attempted to stand, but he was caught under the table and could only manage to get halfway up. “Yeah,” he said, extending a hand. I shook it. It was damp.

“Zack Walker,” I said, letting go of his hand and sliding in across from him.

“Why does that name ring a bell?” he asked cautiously, settling back into the booth.

I smiled. “I, uh, I’ve written a few sci-fi books. And my byline runs occasionally in the Metropolitan. I write features, stuff like that, but not a column. I don’t get a head shot in the paper like you do.”

Benson nodded. “That’s where I’ve seen the name. In the paper. I don’t read science fiction. Mostly I read literary fiction.”

I just smiled.

“So,” he said. “Where’s Ms. Snelling?”

“I guess she’ll be here any time now,” I said. “Why don’t we get some coffee while we wait.” I signaled the waitress, asked for two coffees. “Have you had the turkey club here? It’s good, lots of real, roasted turkey, not that processed stuff.”

Benson nodded again. “I was worried you might be some sort of tough guy. You know, scare me into backing off my story.”

I laughed nervously. “If there’s anything I’m not, it’s a tough guy.”

“But you do want me to back off the story, right?” He leaned a little closer across the table. “That’s why you’re here.”

“No, no,” I protested as two porcelain mugs of coffee were placed in front of us. “Of course not.” I looked around, checking the front door of Pluto’s. “Where the hell is she?” I glanced at my watch. Trixie was seven minutes late. Why was she seven minutes late to her own meeting?

“So what’s your connection to Ms. Snelling, then?” Benson asked. “You a relative? She a friend? Or,” and he paused a moment here, “are you a client?”

I nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee. “No, gosh no, we’re just, we used to be, this was a couple of years ago, we were neighbors. We—that’s me and the family—lived a couple of doors down, but we’ve moved back downtown since then. You might have heard about what happened, there was a bit of a kerfuffle.”

“No,” said Benson. “I only got to the Suburban a year ago. Came here from Buffalo.”

“Oh yeah, wings,” I said. “Love those wings.”

Martin Benson stared, thrilled that his former home was reduced to an appetizer.

He said, “You do know what she does for a living.”

I hesitated. “What is it you think she does for a living?”

“I think she runs a sex business. I think she’s a hooker, a very high-end hooker that caters to very specific tastes.”

“I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Then why did you nearly choke on your coffee when I asked whether you were one of her clients?”