Susan was at the bar having a drink with a woman whom she introduced to me as Tappy or something, a member of the Gazebo Society who was waiting for her husband, who had apparently missed his train. By the look of the woman, her husband had been missing trains since about three P.M. There are always more than a few women in this place around this time who seem to be waiting for husbands who can't seem to catch trains. Some of these ladies do sometimes go home with some husband or other. Anyway, I made a mental note to do some research on the Gazebo Society.

Susan and I excused ourselves and moved to a high-backed booth that she had reserved. Susan had on a very nice clingy, red, knit dress that I thought was a little too dressy for early evening at McGlade's Pub, but I supposed that she didn't want to underdress with me in a three-piece pinstripe, and she did look good across the table.

As we were finishing our simple but tasteless dinner, I said, "The chef must have your recipe for mashed potatoes."

She smiled. "Thank you. But I thought these were a little raw and lumpy."

That's what I meant, but I said, "Well, I'm going to have dessert tonight."

"Good. How about cannoli and some espresso?"

"They don't have that in an Irish pub," I pointed out.

"And maybe a little sambuca."

"Oh, no, Susan. No, no, no."

"Yes. Anna Bellarosa called me this afternoon. She would like us there for coffee. About eight. I said yes."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Because you would have said no, no, no."

I realized what the dress was all about now. "I am not going." "Oh, look, John, this is better than doing dinner or some beastly Easter thing with lamb parts and a house full of paesanos."

"Full of what?"

"Let's go and get it over with. It's easier than being evasive for the next few years."

"No, it isn't."

"John, his men are moving our stable."

"Your stable, to your land."

"We are at a distinct disadvantage. Be civil."

"I am not going to be bullied, bribed, or embarrassed into accepting a social invitation." I added, "I have a briefcase full of work tonight." I patted the briefcase beside me.

"Do it for me." She pursed those magnificent pouty lips. "Please."

"I'll think about it." I grumbled and looked at my watch. It was seven-fifteen. I called the waitress over and ordered a double scotch. We sat in the booth, me nursing my scotch and my resentment, Susan chatting about something or other. I interrupted her in mid-sentence. "Does Anna Bellarosa wear glasses?" "Glasses? How would I know? I couldn't tell over the phone."

"That's true."

"Why?"

"Just wondering." I added, "I thought I saw her someplace and wondered if she would recognize me. I saw her in town. I think she's a blonde with big hooters." "Big what?"

"Sunglasses."

"Oh… how could you know…? I'm confused."

"Me, too." I went back to my scotch. I replayed the fountain incident in my mind a few times and decided that there was a fifty-fifty chance she would recognize me in my pinstripes. I made a mental note not to get down on all fours and spit water.

Finally, at seven-thirty, I said to Susan, "I've been doing some background research on Mr Bellarosa. He did do time once, back in '76. Two years for tax fraud. And that is what you call the tip of the iceberg." Susan responded, "He paid his debt to society."

I nearly choked on my ice cube. "Are you serious?"

"I heard that line in an old movie once. It sounded good." "Anyway, it is alleged that Mr Bellarosa is involved in drug distribution, extortion, prostitution, bid rigging, bribery, murder conspiracy, and so on, and so forth. Additionally, the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York, Mr Alphonse Ferragamo, is investigating allegations that Mr Frank Bellarosa personally murdered a man. So, do you still want to go to his house for coffee?" "John, I absolutely must see what they've done to Alhambra."

"Will you be serious a moment?"

"Sorry."

"Listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? I am a law-abiding citizen, and I will not abide criminals."

"I hear you. Now listen to me, or read my lips. Ready? Tax fraud? Bill Turner, one year, suspended sentence. Bid rigging? Dick Conners, your former golfing partner, two years for highway bid rigging. Drugs? I'll name you eight users with whom we socialize. And who is that lawyer you used to sail with who embezzled clients' funds?"

Properly chastised, I bowed my head into my scotch and finished it. "All right, Susan, so moral corruption is rampant. It just doesn't seem so bad when it's done by the right sort of people." I chuckled to show I was joking. "What a pompous ass you are sometimes. But at least you know it." "Yes." I stayed silent for a while and listened to the ambient sounds of the nearby bar. The shell-shocked commuters were straggling out, and the singles had not yet arrived for the mating game. It was the quiet hour. Tabby or Tappy, I noticed, was still waiting for her husband, who, if he existed at all, was probably on a business trip out of town. Like all married people, I have often considered what it would be like to be single again.

This thought, for some reason, made me recall my cousin-by-marriage, the delicious Terri, wife of the brainless Freddie, who had indeed called about her will, and we have arranged a lunch date in the city next week. Around here, when you have a suburban office and a suburban client, yet still meet in the city for lunch, then there's more going on than lunch. However, I had already resolved to stick to business with Terri. But someday, my idiotic flirtations are going to get me in trouble. Beryl Carlisle is another case in point. I've seen her at The Creek a few times since I cast lustful looks at her last month. When I see her now, she looks at me as if she wants me to look at her lustfully again. But I'm fickle. And loyal. No Terris for me, no Beryls, no Sally Anns, and no Sally Graces. My wife is the only woman that keeps my interest up. Also, I'm chicken. Somebody had put money in the jukebox, and his or her preference was for fifties tunes. The sound of The Skyliners, singing 'Since I Don't Have You', filled the nearly empty bar. The song brought back memories of a time that I suppose was more innocent, certainly less frightening.

I reached across the table and took Susan's hand. I said, "Our world is shrinking and changing around us, and here we are in the hills like some sort of vanquished race, performing the old rituals and observing the ancient customs, and sometimes, Susan, I think we're ludicrous."

She squeezed my hand. "Here's another St Jerome for you – 'The Roman world is falling, but we will hold our heads erect.'"

"Nice one."

"Ready to go?"

"Yes. Do I kiss his ring?"

"A handshake will be sufficient." She added, "Think of the evening as a challenge, John. You need a challenge."

This was true. Challenge and adventure. Why can't some men be content with a warm fire and a hot wife? Why do men go to war? Why did I go to Alhambra to visit the dragon? Because I needed a challenge. In retrospect, I should have stayed in McGlade's and challenged Susan to a videogame of Tank Attack.