“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.’”

Jeff Slade paused, for he knew he had my attention now.

As nonchalantly as possible, I said, “And so what did you do?”

Jeff suppressed a smile as he used the small red straw to stir his Shirley Temple. “I don’t know if that’s your business.”

“Oh, come on.”

“A gentleman never speaks of such things.”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you . . .”