He needn’t have bothered himself over it. Agent Flint pushed through a small group of young women hanging around the front steps, clutching autograph books and occasionally standing on tiptoe as they tried to peer in through the swinging doors. The girls ignored Kolhammer, but a couple of them gave Einstein a quizzical look as he followed the admiral inside.

Kolhammer watched as Special Agent Flint badged the first dish monkey in a white tux he came across. He couldn’t hear the exchange, but the waiter’s palpable reluctance—to admit a strange old man into such refined company—ran headlong into Agent Flint’s hard-boiled refusal to take no for an answer. A maître d’ came over to buy into the scene. Flint flashed him the badge, as well, then gripped the man’s bicep so strongly his knuckles turned white. He leaned over to mutter something into the man’s ear, jerking his head back at Kolhammer and Einstein. The headwaiter began nodding vigorously, then shaking his head, then nodding again.

“I wish I knew how to do that,” whispered Einstein.

“Confidence is half the battle,” said Kolhammer. “This is my treat, by the way.”

Flint returned, the ghost of a smile playing across his features.

“They found a nice table for you out on the terrace,” he said. “Right next to Mr. Crosby’s party.”

Einstein didn’t visibly react to the news. Perhaps he wasn’t a Bing fan. Kolhammer nodded once, briefly, trying to conceal a sensation of free fall. He’d already checked out the Reagan look-alike. It wasn’t the future president. But there were a couple of familiar faces out on the sun-dappled balcony. He couldn’t place them, but he was certain that he knew three or four of them from somewhere. It had to be from old movies. Marie loved them. She had about a thousand on video sticks back home.

They threaded though the nearly empty dining room, with its walls completely covered by hundreds of framed sketches of movie stars, and out into the fierce radiance of high summer in LA. The patio was already buzzing with lunchtime trade. Kolhammer squinted into the sun to hide a mild grin at the sight of the food. A goodly number of the guests were tucking into hot dogs and cheeseburgers. He wondered how he’d go ordering a truffle-infused salad of wild porcini mushroom on arugula and witlof, or a bowl of hokkien noodles and wilted bok choy with flash-fried tofu croutons—two of the menu options in his stateroom back on the Clinton.

Agent Flint showed them to a table, blocking the waiter with his body until both men had sat down.

“Are you not joining us?” asked Einstein.