"Oh," I said with an undisguised smirk, "now you're going to act like a gentleman?"

"It's not a proposal of marriage, baby. I'm just trying to make it look good."

"Well, the way you manhandled me on the street, I'd rather not."

I tried taking a few bold strides all by myself, but I had zero practice carrying off four-inch heels beneath a slit-skirted gown, and I nearly fell on my face.

In a flash, Jack was there, propping me back up. "Take a break from Miss Prissland," he rasped in my ear, "and take my arm already."

I knew when I was licked. With a sigh, I wrapped my gloved arm around the gray fabric of his double-breasted jacket and let him escort me into the large dining room.

Two "M" words hit me the second I walked into that place: money and masculinity. The wainscoting and tables were dark, heavy wood. The walls and tablecloths were the forest green of a gentleman's club pool table. And the chandeliers and crystal decanters looked heavy, leaded, and very expensive.

Middle-aged waiters in bow ties, white shirts, and long white aprons moved silently around the buzzing room, serving craggy-faced men in three-piece suits, most of whom were smoking cigars and cutting up thick slabs of red meat with huge steak knives.

The leather booths around the edges of the room were occupied by couples. Almost every woman was young and beautiful; almost every man paunchy, graying, and clearly much older.

One particularly creepy May-December couple caught my eye. Not because of the man, but because of the woman-or, more precisely, the girl. She was very young: seventeen, maybe even sixteen. With the heavy makeup on, I doubted very much she was the man's daughter or niece. And when her fingers began stroking the back of her dinner companion's hand, I threw that theory right out the window-while simultaneously trying very hard not to throw up.

The teen was no raving beauty, more like the girl next door with caramel-colored curls and a dimple in her chin. Her face also looked familiar for some reason, but I just couldn't place it. I could place the silver gown, though: It was the exact satin dress that Hedda Geist had worn in the opening scene of her famous noir picture Wrong Turn.

"What is this place?" I whispered to Jack as we moved across the bare oak floor.

"The Porterhouse."

"A steakhouse?"

"For our purposes, it's a stakeout house." "Excuse me?"

"Take a seat," ordered Jack, gesturing to the bar stool.

I sat and Jack sat next to me. There was only one other couple, at the far end of the polished oak bar, and the young bartender came over to us right away. "What can I get you both tonight?"

"I'll have scotch, straight up, and-" Jack turned to me. "Tell the man what you're drinking, baby."

I tapped my chin in thought. I wasn't a drinker per se, but we did ask to sit at the bar so a soft drink would look conspicuous. "I know," I finally said, "the perfect drink for this occasion would be a Vesper."

The bartender's brow wrinkled. "A what-sper?"

"A Vesper," I said, incredulous the bartender at such an upscale restaurant wasn't familiar with the most famous cocktail recipe in the English-speaking world.

"What's in it?" he asked.

"It's a martini," I told him, "made with three parts gin, one part vodka, and one-half part Lillet."

"Lillet?" The bartender frowned. "Not vermouth?"

"The Lillet adds more sweetness and tropical aromas than dry vermouth," I informed the man. "Or at least that's what I remember from Casino Royale. And, of course, it should be shaken, not stirred, served in a wineglass, and garnished with a lemon twist."

"We stir martinis here, ma'am. Nobody shakes them."

I threw up my hands. "James Bond does!"

The bartender glanced at Jack. "Is that you?"

"Of course he's not James Bond. Bond's the most famous Cold War spy in the world." I glanced around. "What year is this anyway?"

Jack visibly stiffened.

"It's 1948, ma'am," the bartender replied, eyeing me a little closer. "You that blotto?"

"Uh-oh," I said, realizing I'd been off by a few years. The first Ian Fleming Bond novel wouldn't appear until 1953. "I believe I've made a mistake-"

"Listen, buddy," Jack quickly told the bartender, "just give the doll a martini. A gin martini, stirred, and put the damn thing in a martini glass. Thanks."

The bartender walked away, shaking his head, and Jack glared at me.

"What?" I asked.

"Don't you know the meaning of cover? You're supposed to blend in, keep a low profile, be a fly on the wall-not order a drink from another century!"

"Cut me a break, okay? James Bond was invented in the twentieth century. I was only off by a few years."

The bartender returned with Jack's Scotch and my stirred, gin martini in a martini glass. He dropped two napkins and placed the drinks on top, shaking his head as he set mine down.

"So, ma'am, I'm curious," said the bartender. "What's a 'Cold War,' anyway? Another type of cocktail?"

Jack tossed the man a large bill. "Keep it," he said. "We won't be needing refills anytime soon. We'd just like our privacy. Got it?"

"Of course, sir." The bartender nodded. "Privacy is what the Porterhouse is all about."

Jack knocked back some scotch and closed his eyes. I sipped my martini and waited. When the PI opened his eyes again, he began casually scanning the room.

"Are you going to enlighten me anytime soon?" I whispered.

"There's a booth at your three o'clock," Jack said, holding the scotch glass up to his mouth. "Now do exactly what I say. Cross your legs and as you cross them, slowly turn your bar stool halfway around. Keep taking sips of your cocktail as you take a casual look around the room."

I did what Jack told me. As I crossed my legs, the slit in my gown showed a flash of stocking-clad thigh. Jack's eyes found it, and he stopped speaking for a full minute.

"Jack?"

"See the painting of Seabiscuit?" he whispered, his eyes still on my legs.

"Seabiscuit? Excuse me? Why am I looking at a picture of a racehorse?"

"Not the horse, doll, the booth underneath it. See the paunchy man sitting there, the one with the thinning brown hair and pale face. Seated across from him is-"

"A very young woman in a silver gown," I whispered back. "Yes, I see them both."

"They're it, doll. They were my meal ticket back here in '48."

"What's the name of the case? I still have your files in my stockroom. They're a total mess, all out of order, but I can try to find the file."

"Don't bother, baby. You won't find it."

"Why not?"

"Let's stick to the business at hand."

"Fine," I said. "I was going to tell you anyway. I noticed that young woman on our way in. She looks familiar to me for some reason. I'm sure I've seen her before, but I can't place her face."

"She looks familiar to you?" Jack finally moved his gaze off my gams. He sipped at his Scotch a moment, obviously considering my words. "But you weren't even born yet, doll. So how could you have seen her before?"

"I don't know… who's the creep she's with?"

"That's Nathan Burwell, the district attorney," Jack said. "His wife's the one who hired me. That's why I was here to-night. I was tailing Burwell, documenting his little trysts with Miss Innocent over there. In case you haven't noticed, this place is full of cheating Charlies. That maitre d' is as good as an army sentry. If you'd showed up without me, a dame alone, you would have been turned away."

"But that's discriminatory!"

"That maitre d' wouldn't have taken the chance that you were a wife, snooping up on the old hubby. Anyway, Mrs. Burwell wants a divorce and she wants her money, which means the DA's got to go away quietly-so she hired me to gather the dirt."

"And how exactly are you gathering it?"