Milo ordered two jumbo chili cheese dogs with extra onions, and I got a knockwurst. We filled out the bill with two large Cokes and sat down to eat as traffic roared by. It was late for lunch and early for dinner and only two other tables were occupied, an old woman reading the paper and a tall, long-haired youth in hospital blues—probably a Cedars-Sinai intern.

Milo wolfed the first chili dog without the aid of respiration. After tweezing every scrap of cheese from the wax paper with his fingers, he gulped Coke and got to work on the second. He finished that one, too, sprang up, and bought a third. My wurst tasted fine, but it was all I could do to feign hunger.

He was counting his change when a bronze Jeep Cherokee parked in front of my Seville and a man got out and walked past me toward the counter. Black suit, pearl shirt, soot-colored tie. Smiling. That’s what made me notice him. A big, wide, toothy grin, as if he’d just received terrific news. I watched him stride quickly to the counter and come to a stop just behind Milo, where he waited, bouncing on his heels. His black suede loafers were lifted by two-inch heels. Without them he was an easy six feet. He stood close to Milo, kept bouncing. Milo didn’t seem to notice. Something made me put down the wurst and keep my eyes on both of them.

Smiley was thirty or so, with dark hair gelled and combed back, curling over his collar. Big-jawed face, prominent nose, golden tan. The suit was well cut—Italian or pretending to be, and it looked brand-new, as did the suede shoes. The gray shirt was satin-finish silk, the tie a bulky knit. Dressed for an audition as a game show host?

He edged even closer to Milo. Said something. Milo turned and answered.

Smiley nodded.

Milo picked up his food and returned to the table.

“Friendly sort?” I said.

“Who?”

“The guy behind you. He’s been smiling since he left that Jeep.”

“So?”

“So what’s to smile about?”

Milo allowed his own mouth to curl upward. But he let his eyes drift back to the counter, where the smiling man was now conversing with the counter girl. “Anything other than that bother you about him?”

“He was standing close enough to you to smell your cologne.”

“If I wore any,” he said, but he continued to watch the goings-on at the counter. Finally sat back and sank his teeth into the third chili dog. “Nothing like health food.” He regarded my half-finished wurst. “What’s with the anorexia?”

“Just out of curiosity, what did he say to you up there?”

“Oh, boy . . .” He shook his head. “He wanted to know what was good, okay? I told him I liked anything with chili. Heavy-duty intrigue.”

I smiled. “Or flirting.”

“Me?”

“Him.”