“Oh, sure, strangers always come up and hit on me. The old fatal charm and all that.”

But he hazarded another glance at the counter where Smiley was still gabbing with the girl as he paid for his dog. Plain, no chili. He sat down at the table closest to ours, unfolded a napkin over his lap, flipped his hair, beamed at Milo, said. “Chickened out on the chili.”

“Your loss.”

Smiley laughed. Tugged at his lapel. Took a bite. A dainty little bite that didn’t alter the shape of the hot dog.

I mumbled, “Fatal charm.”

Milo said, “Enough,” and wiped his face.

Smiley continued to nibble without making much progress. Dabbed his chin. Showed off his dental work. Made several attempts at catching Milo’s eye. Milo moved his bulk around, stared at the ground.

Smiley said, “These really are a mouthful.”

I fought back laughter.

Milo nudged my arm. “Let’s go.”

We stood. Smiley said, “Have a nice day.”

He got to his feet as we reached the car and jogged toward us, sandwich in one hand, the other waving.

“What the hell,” said Milo and his hand sidled under his coat.

Smiley reached into his own jacket and all at once Milo had interposed himself between the stranger and me. A flesh barrier, immense; tension seemed to enlarge him. Then he relaxed. Smiley was still waving, but the something in his hand was small and white. A business card.

“Sorry for being so forward, but I . . . here’s my number. Call me if you’d like.”

“Why would I do that?” said Milo.

Smiley’s lips drew back, and his grin morphed into something hungry and unsettling. “Because you never know.”

He dangled the card.

Milo stood there.

Smiley said, “Oh, well,” and placed the card on the hood of the Seville. His new face was serious, vulpine, purposeful. He trotted away from us, tossed the uneaten hot dog in the trash, got into the Jeep, and sped away as Milo hustled to copy down his license plate. He picked the card off the hood, read it and handed it to me.

Off-white vellum with a faintly greasy feel, engraved letters.

Paris M. Bartlett
Health Facilitator

Below that, a cell phone number.

“ ‘Because you never know,’ ” said Milo. “Health facilitator. Do I look sick?”

“Other than stains on your shirt you look perfectly put-together.”

“Health facilitator,” he repeated. “Sounds like something from the AIDS industry.” He pulled out his cell phone and jabbed in Paris Bartlett’s number. Frowned again. “No longer in service. What the hell . . .”

“Time to DMV the plates?” I said.

“DMV’ing is illegal when I’m on vacation. Using departmental resources for personal reasons, big no-no.”

“John G. would disapprove mightily.”