Throughout his narrative, Jack watched for her reaction, fearing she might turn away like Gia had. But Kolabati was obviously not like Gia. Her eyes fairly glowed with enthusiasm and… admiration.

It was, however, time to shut up. He had said enough. They sat for a quiet moment, toying with their empty glasses. Jack was about to ask her if she wanted a refill when she turned to him.

“You don’t pay taxes, do you.”

The statement startled him. Uneasy, he wondered how she knew.

“Why do you say that?”

“I sense you are a self-made outcast. Am I right?”

“’Self-made outcast.’ I like that.”

“Liking it is not the same as answering the question.”

“I consider myself a sort of sovereign state. I don’t recognize other governments within my borders.”

“But you’ve exiled yourself from more than the government. You live and work completely outside society. Why?”

“I’m not an intellectual. I can’t give you a carefully reasoned manifesto. It’s just the way I want to live.”

Her eyes bored into him. “I don’t accept that. Something cut you off. What was it?”

This woman was uncanny! It was as if she could look into his mind and read all his secrets. Yes—there had been an incident that had caused him to withdraw from the rest of “civilized” society. But he couldn’t tell her about it. He felt at ease with Kolabati, but he wasn’t about to confess to murder.

“I’d rather not say.”

She studied him. “Are your parents alive?”

Jack felt his insides tighten. “Only my father.”

“I see. Did your mother die of natural causes?”

She can read minds! That’s the only explanation!

“No. And I don’t want to say any more.”

“Very well. But however you came to be what you are, I’m sure it was by honorable means.”

Her confidence in him simultaneously warmed and discomfitted him. He wanted to change the subject.

“Hungry?”

“Famished!”

“Any place in particular you’d like to go? There are some Indian restaurants—”

Her eyebrows arched. “If I were Chinese, would you offer me egg rolls? Am I dressed in a sari?”

No. That clinging white dress looked like it came straight from a designer’s shop in Paris.

“French, then?”

“I lived in France a while. Please: I live in America now. I want American food. “

“Well, I like to eat where I can relax.”

“I want to go to Beefsteak Charlie’s.”

Jack burst out laughing. “There’s one near where I live! I go there all the time! Mainly because when it comes to food, I tend to be impressed more by quantity than by quality.”

“Good. Then you know the way?”

He half-rose, then sat down again. “Wait a minute. They serve ribs there. Indians don’t eat pork, do they?”

“No. You’re thinking of Pakistanis. They’re Moslems and Moslems don’t eat pork. I’m Hindu. We don’t eat beef.”

“Then why Beefsteak—?”

“I hear they have a good salad bar, with lots of shrimp. And ’all the beer, wine, or sangria you can drink.’ “