The clientèle of Amigo’s was very select, from publishing and advertising to television executives who preferred the muted luxury of Amigo’s to the shabbiness of the Groucho. It also catered to a select community of villains, men who wore handmade suits and discussed business there with their bankers and accountants, hoping to impress. They gave the place an air of danger. Unlike Langan’s, where anyone could book a table, or Del’Ugo, your face had to fit at Amigo’s. It did a roaring if subdued trade. More than one star had been unobtrusively shown the door; Alan Cox had ejected more than a few himself. Amigo’s was a place where you could bring your wife, your mother, your mistress or your business associates. The main restaurant was for smoking, the more select part was situated down in the basement. To get into the basement you had to have clout, and plenty of it.

Alan Cox sat in his office preparing the menus for the coming week while his chef, David Smalls, stood waiting patiently for his boss’s decisions.

Cox perused the menus and made notes on the typewritten sheets. Amigo’s always had a set menu. It was usually so delicious people chose it immediately. At forty-five pounds a head it was the cheapest way to eat in Amigo’s. There were no house wines here, the least expensive started at seventeen pounds a bottle. In Amigo’s you ate and drank and you expected to drop at least one hundred and fifty pounds a couple for that pleasure. It frequently amazed Alan Cox that people fought to patronise his establishment.

David watched his employer smile slightly, and relaxed. ‘These are good. You can use them from tomorrow. I have changed only two, Monday’s and Friday’s. How many times do I have to tell you I like fish on the menu on Fridays?’

‘Sorry, Mr Cox.’

The older man sighed and puffed on a large cigar. ‘And how many times must I tell you that as well, David? The name’s Alan or Al, take your pick, but please stop calling me Mr Cox. I’m not in my dotage yet!’

David grinned. ‘I’ll get these down to the kitchens. I thought the pâté was particularly good last night, didn’t you?’

Alan Cox nodded. ‘Is it the work of that young kid again?’

David nodded. ‘He’s certainly got a gift, Alan.’

‘Well, look after him, Davey boy.’

There was a discreet knock on his office door and he called out, ‘Enter.’ As David left with the menus, Alan greeted his maître d’.

‘Ricardo, what can I do for you?’

‘There’s a lady downstairs to see you, Mr Cox.’

He frowned. ‘Did she give a name?’

‘She certainly did. It’s Mrs Georgio Brunos.’

Alan’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘What’s she look like?’