"Yes. Coffee?" he asked as he reached for a liter bottle of spring water.

"Sure, thanks. Did you know Portman?"

His face when he turned back to me was even more flushed. I was sure it wasn't owing to the oatmeal. "I guess you could say I knew him. You know, he lived here in town. But listen," he said with sudden energy, "you didn't tell me how you're doing." He stopped the coffee-making and beamed at me. "That's what I really want to know. Can't have my star in pain for our last show."

I sighed. "My arm's a bit banged up. The van's totally trashed. But I'm borrowing a vehicle, and I'm still alive, so I'm very thankful."

"Well, then. So am I." He returned to his coffee preparation. First he fastidiously poured the bottled water into an espresso-machine tank. When he opened an airtight crock, it went pow! and I jumped. Arthur giggled as he ladled out coffee beans. Next he pressed a button on his grinder, which growled like a motorcycle. He then dosed, tapped, and revved up the coffee machine. Half a minute later, he placed two tiny cups of hot, dark, foamy espresso onto the tiled bar. I took a sip, pronounced it marvelous, and refrained from any mention of how it was certainly the most noisily-produced cup of coffee I'd ever imbibed.

"Okay," I began, with a glance at the kitchen clock, then at my notebook. "When do you have to leave for the airport?"

"Five minutes." His eyes immediately turned anxious. "I'm not going to be able to discuss the food for the wine tasting today. It's just. . ." He slurped his espresso, then squealed when he, too, glanced at the clock. "I also need to . . . darn it!"

"Need to what? Why don't you let me help out?" I offered. "There is that personal in 'personal chef.' "

"I need to deliver these wines with the new invites. I don't suppose you. . . never mind. Let me go get the buffet wine list. Then I really have to leave. We can finish planning on the phone."

As soon as he whisked out of his kitchen, I put the foodstuffs into his barren refrigerator. It looked as if Arthur never ate properly. I washed our coffee cups and laid out instructions for reheating the pork dinner. I also glanced at the list of folks to receive the new bottles-with-invitations. It included the name Boots Faraday. Hmm. I'd just finished setting Arthur's dinner table - for one - when he returned. He'd slicked down his hair and wore a black turtleneck, black pants, and black sport coat. He handed me a piece of paper scribbled with foods and names of wines. Then his eyes shot to the beribboned bottles of wine. Indecision tightened his face. One of the best ways to get what you want out of people, I'd discovered, is to apply light pressure when they're in a hurry. I gave him a bright smile.