Ted looked around the room. The chairs were all oversized, as were most of the clientele. Neither the Wild West nor the Camelot decorating scheme of the exterior had made it to this dining room, which seemed to be modeled on Adirondack Arts and Crafts meets Prague Art Deco. A lot of money had been spent to produce this effect, and Ted couldn’t help but feel that the expense had been unwise. But something else was bothering him, and it took a minute for him to identify the problem.

“In Queens you don’t usually get this white a crowd,” he said.

“We’re outside the city line,” she said. “This is the burbs.”

Ted glanced around again as the maître d’ escorted a woman toward the big table in the corner. “Ah, no.” He scooched his chair around so that his back was to the room.

“What?” Kenzie asked. She grasped the table to keep it from rocking.

“Big hair? Lemon yellow? Just came in?”

Kenzie laughed. “An old flame?”

“No. That’s Cheryl.”

“That’s Cheryl?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, you didn’t mention that she’s a very attractive woman—in the Kardashian mold.”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“And that’s a nice outfit. It’s a shame they didn’t have it in her size.”

“If she’s here, that means Pak is coming.” Ted wanted to hide under the table. He should have been prepared for this contingency. A fedora. A fake mustache. A face mask.

“She’s looking over here.”

A waiter with the build of a beer keg lumbered up to the table. “Did anyone get your drink orders?” He wore a butcher’s apron the size of a tablecloth. For a table for eight. His bulk blocked them from view. Ted breathed a little easier.

Kenzie gave the guy the kind of smile that says, You’re late, incompetent, and lazy, but I’m not holding it against you. “A Bombay martini. In and out. Up. Two olives. And I think you better get him one, too.”

“No,” Ted said, keeping his face buried in his chest. “Water.”

“Bottled? Sparkling?” the waiter asked.

“However it comes out of the tap will be fine.”

The waiter shrugged. It was a good imitation of the shrug the maître d’ had performed and delivered a similar message. He strolled away in no apparent hurry.

“What’s she doing?” Ted asked.

“Texting. Two more just showed up. There’s a really fat guy in a grey suit. I don’t know him. Sixty plus. Bald. Very ugly. He’s trailing a hottie in a Herve Leger off-the-shoulder bandage dress that looks sprayed on. She’s barely old enough to vote.”

“You know the designer?”

“I know both the designer and the dress. But I don’t have enough junk in the trunk for it. Or cash in the wallet.”