Oh, yes, it’s him, and he’s in the bathroom taking a crap, just like you or me.

But I said no such thing. I nodded and said, “Yes, and isn’t he the best?”

“Yes, we love his show.” Then the wife punched her doughy husband in the shoulder and said, “See, I told you.”

What fun this was, dining out with the famous. What did sitting in such close proximity with Jeff Slade intimate? I must be someone, too.

Later, after much of the café had cleared, Jeff Slade and I had the following conversation while waiting for Kate, who was not to return.

“So, Tim, have you spent much time in L.A.?”

“No—”

“It’s incredible. It’s a wild place.”

“I bet.”

“Who do you want to know about?”

“What do you mean?”

“I find lots of people are curious about celebrities, stars. Is there anybody you want to know about?”

“Not particularly—”

“Who’s nice, who’s not so nice? Who gives the best head?”

I coughed up the water I’d just sipped.

Jeff Slade smiled. “Hint: It’s a famous director’s actress wife. Before her, it was a TV actress of some note who pretty much blew everybody. She does infomercials now. I’m not going to say their names, because I think that would be rude.”

“Yes, it would be. Rude.”

The decline in this conversation seemed to work in concert with the dimming of the lights in the dining area. Jeff was now mostly lit from a single large flame flickering wildly from a votive candle he had moved closer to his side of the table. The candle cast a menacing light across his chiseled features.

The waiter appeared with dessert menus. “Not yet,” I said. “We’re waiting for the rest of our party to return.”

When the waiter disappeared, Jeff leaned forward and grinned. “Okay, you twisted my arm.”

“I twisted what?”

“True story. Early in my career, I’m shooting a TV movie in Canada, staying at the Hyatt in downtown Vancouver. I’ve finished shooting for the day, I’m back in my room, and my hotel phone rings. I answer. Guess who it is?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s Angelina Jolie. Now, I first met Angie years ago at the infamous ear-biting Tyson/Holyfield fight in Las Vegas. I was catering at a prefight cocktail reception, and she bummed a cigarette off me. On my break, we stood in a corner and talked and clicked in that way people click. Do you know what I mean?”

I just nodded, because what was I supposed to say?

“So, where were we? Vancouver. The Hyatt. I’m on the phone talking to Angelina Jolie. This is in her post-Jonny Miller, pre-Billy Bob phase, before the blood vials around their necks, obviously before Brad Pitt and their United Colors of Benetton family.”

“Oh,” I said, as if interested.

“So I say, ‘Hey, Angie, this is a surprise.’ She says, ‘I’m in town.’ And I say, ‘No way,’ and she says, ‘Yep,’ and then she tells me what hotel. It’s the Sutton Place, which I can see from my hotel room window. And she says, ‘I’m only here for one night.’ I start to say, ‘That’s too bad’ (because I’m about to have dinner with my mom, who’s up visiting from Florida), but I don’t finish my sentence because she tells me she’s checked herself in under a certain name, Trammel—which she points out was Sharon Stone’s character’s last name in Basic Instinct— and she tells me to write down her room number, and then she says, ‘I’m leaving in the morning. And, Jeff, I want to be perfectly clear. This is a onetime offer.’”