The restaurant was located somewhere in the confusing maze of lobbies and gift shops and coffee shops and theaters and big blank ballrooms in one of the many Midtown shopping malls that were trying to pass themselves off as luxury hotels. It had taken them fifteen minutes of walking up and down hallways and stepping into and out of elevators before they found the right eatery. It was so immense, loud, and impersonal, with such a mob of waiters and diners rushing in and out, it could easily have been an airline terminal. At least an airline terminal held the promise that in a matter of minutes you’d be up in the sky somewhere and away from it all. You had to eat your way out of this glass and steel box, no easy task judging from the immense platefuls of food being whisked past the table.

Leon finally put down his menu and yawned. “We should have let Desmond make the reservations. That last place you chose was wonderful.”

Leon and Gloria tended to heap praise on Desmond for small, insignificant triumphs like picking out a decent restaurant, while completely ignoring his career, as if it were an embarrassing disfigurement they’d trained themselves not to notice.

“Desmond’s been in Boston,” Russell said. He tried to remove his hand from Desmond’s thigh, but Desmond held it tightly in place. “I would have been happy to make reservations for you. Especially if you’d given me more time. Hint hint.”

“We called at 11:30 and it’s now 7:30,” Leon said, “which by my calculations is eight hours.”

“I have 7:50,” Gloria said. “I hope your watch isn’t going bad, Leon.”

Leon frowned and knocked back the dregs in his wineglass. While Gloria had the posture and sleek tidiness of a retired ballerina, Leon Abrams tended to look like a sofa that needed reupholstering. He was two years younger than Gloria but appeared to be aging at a much faster clip. It often happened that one person in a couple siphoned all the health and energy from the other. In Pauline Anderton’s case, she’d enjoyed an unprecedented string of vitality beginning virtually on the day her husband had been diagnosed with cancer. On more than one occasion, Desmond had tried to engage Leon in a conversation about his work and academic career, but Leon had merely smiled wanly and assured him that it wouldn’t interest him, which, Desmond had to admit, was probably the truth. He didn’t really know what an economist did, in a practical sense, and his interest in money went only as far as making sure he had enough to meet his monthly expenses.