“Thanks,” I said and started to eat, but seeing Frank poking at his fish and not eating I was thrown, and in this delay, as though Frank was trying to find out if the fish was edible, I found it hard to swallow.

“How’s your son?” I asked.

Frank said, “Look in the mirror and ask yourself that question.”

He lifted and dropped the food on his plate, seeming to seek something underneath it, and he did this studiously, with a faint scowl of disgust on his lips.

I wondered whether he’d ask me about my son, Gabe. I was proud of Gabe’s academic record but decided not to volunteer anything unless Frank asked. Frank’s head was down. He was making a little hut of his heap of mashed potato, squaring the sides, hollowing out the middle, roofing it with flakes of his broken fish.

Just then a shadow fell over our booth, a man in a fedora, leaning toward Frank.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Frank looked up and at once his face glowed with lunchtime charm, its opposing features seeming to resolve into a smooth smiling whole of welcome. He dropped his fish knife and lifted both hands to enclose the extended hand of the man who’d happened by.

“Well-met, well-met!” Frank said, sounding warmly grateful, and he hung on, tugging the man’s hand.

It was Dante Zangara, an old school friend of Frank’s who’d been a politician in Littleford for years and was now the mayor. Zangara greeted me, a casual fist bump with his free hand, saying “Who’s this stranger?,” but Frank was still talking excitedly.

“Who said, ‘The art of public life consists of knowing exactly when to stop, and then going a bit further’?” And with visible reluctance he released Zangara’s hand.

“Search me,” Zangara said. He had small close-set eyes over a hawk nose, and a way of licking his thin lips and spacing his words that made him seem as though he was speaking to someone taking dictation. “But, hey, I would not call that guy a chadrool. Listen, how’s the family?”

“Never better,” Frank said, a sweetness in his voice. “What about la famiglia, Zangara?”

“Connie’s a wreck.” Zangara raised his arms in an operatic gesture of despair. “Gina’s applying to college.”

“How can I help?” Frank said. He seemed to levitate in his seat, rising toward Zangara, his intense gaze fixed on the man.

“She wants to go to Willard, maybe study veterinary science. The kid’s nuts about animals.”

“I know a guy,” Frank said. “He has the ear of the dean of admissions. I could write a reference.”

“Frank, that would be fantastic.”

“A distinct honor,” Frank said. “Gina will make all of us proud.”

They hugged, awkwardly, because Frank was still in the booth, canted forward, the table edge jammed against his thighs, Zangara toppling, and then breaking free.