"How's my day been?" he asked. He does that a lot, repeating the question with more inflection before answering it. He answered it, all right.

"It's been a fecken Spellman family reunion in here today."

" Fecken.' I'll never get used to that," I replied, hoping to distract him with friendly banter.

"Did you hear me?" he asked.

"Did I hear you?" I said, turning the tables. "Yes."

"Well?"

"Please, go on," I said, since he was going to go on anyway.

"First your sister came in here."

"I thought you liked her."

"I did. But then she asked me to drive her to San Quentin, and when I said no she said she'd be willing to pay for the gas money and followed it up with a comment about how she's heard my people are cheap. And when I told her that's the Scots, not the Irish, she said, 'Same difference.' "

"Oops. Sorry about that. Then what happened?"

"I refused to serve her just like the sign says and so she pouted in the back booth until that cop fellow with the shifty eyes showed up and they left. Maybe he drove her to San Quentin. If you ask me, that's where she belongs."

"No argument from me."

"Then your brother showed up, looking for your sister, but she had already left. He's clearly adopted. He said hello, ordered a drink, tipped well, and departed. Not too long after that, your mother arrived, pretending to be looking for you, but I know better. When I told her you weren't in, that she just missed the young lass, your mom ordered a gimlet, complained about it, and then asked if you had arranged your lawyer date for this week, just to rub it in, I guess."

"Oh, right. That reminds me. I need to get on it."

"I need some sympathy right this second, Isabel."

I leaned across the bar and combed Connor's thick black hair with my fingers. "I'm sorry, Connor. You've got all kinds of sympathy. I swear. Please forgive me and my family."

"I accept your apology. On one condition."

"Name it."

"I want the lawyer date for this fortnight out of the way. His name is Larry. He's in the back waiting for you. An honest-to-goodness lawyer."

"Really? Back there?"

"Don't keep him waiting."

"Can I finish my drink first?"

"Drink fast," Connor replied. "I've already had to prop him up twice this afternoon."

MANDATORY.

LAWYER DATE #2.

Larry Meyers, fifty-four, semiconscious, in a two-day-old suit and three-day unwashed hair (best guess), sank into a corner crevice in a booth in the back room. If he were a vain woman, he would have been pleased with the backlighting that hid his many flaws.

Larry was indeed a lawyer--an ambulance chaser, to be exact. But his client list had dimmed to a flicker in the past few years, beginning at the time of his divorce. I brought Larry a glass of water and hoped that he would be coherent enough to satisfy the lawyer-date requirement. My job was to force the awkward conversation that followed into something that resembled a date. Fortunately, for now, no accompanying photographs were required.

[The partial, but utterly sad, transcript reads as follows:]1 ISABEL: Hi, are you Larry?

LARRY: If I could be anyone else, I would be.

ISABEL: My friend tells me you're a lawyer.2 LARRY: I've heard all the jokes. Please spare me.

ISABEL: I never remember jokes anyway.

LARRY: Good, because I hate jokes.

ISABEL: Me too.

LARRY: You probably don't hate them as much as I do.

ISABEL: Probably not. Can I get you a cup of coffee?

LARRY: Stick some whiskey in it this time. That bartender is stingy with the booze.

ISABEL: I'll be right back.

[Long pause while I return to the bar. The recorder picks up Larry falling asleep again. The sound of snoring is unmistakable.]

ISABEL: Wake up, Larry. I brought you another drink.

LARRY: That was so nice of you.

ISABEL: It was nothing.

LARRY: [choking with emotion] Why would you do something so nice for a complete stranger?

ISABEL: We're not strangers, remember?

LARRY: Who are you?

ISABEL: Your date.

LARRY: You can't possibly be my date. You're pretty. And nice.

ISABEL: Thanks. You must work too hard. That's why you fell asleep.3 LARRY: Oh. Maybe.

ISABEL: Drink up. The caffeine will do you good.

[Long pause.]

LARRY: What's it all about?

ISABEL: What's what all about?

LARRY: Life.

ISABEL: That might be too big a question for me.

LARRY: It's just so full of pain.

[Sound of crying.]

ISABEL: Do you have any hobbies?4 When I couldn't get Larry to stop crying, I insisted that we head across the street to the Squat and Gobble cafe and I ordered Larry something they call the Tripple Gobble, which eventually did the trick of sobering him up. I'm not sure that he was any happier sober, but at least he could find his way home. I also managed to work in a few more required date questions, which I played for my mother a few hours later.

ISABEL: If you could have dinner with any person, living or dead, who would it be?

LARRY: My nana. She was the only person who ever really loved me.

[End of tape.]5 My mother picked up the recording device as if it were a miniature Larry and gestured with it.

"Where did you find this guy?"

"Around."

"Around a homeless shelter? I'm not sure this qualifies."

"Oh, it qualifies. I have a first and last name and his bar number. I spent two hours drinking and eating with him. I even woke him up twice. I asked him what he did for fun. I inquired into his past relationships. It was a date, if you consider a date a bizarre ritual your mother forces you to enact in order to maintain some false idea of control. It was a date according to your definition of one."

THE BUTLER DID SOMETHING.

Mason Graves's e-mails provided no concrete evidence of his current whereabouts. They were formal, banal, and came from a web-based e-mail account. Here's a sampling of the juiciest one: To: Franklin Winslow

From: Mason Graves

Subject: Greetings

Dear Sir: I hope this e-mail finds you well. I feel dreadful for leaving you for so long but hope that you have found a sufficient temporary replacement. I assure you I will be back in no time at all.

Mother has taken a turn for the worse. She is stubborn and might linger for a while, but I suspect her days are numbered.

Please take care of yourself and remind the gardener that he must not overwater the lilies in the back.

Your humble servant,

Mason

In the years we'd had Mr. Winslow as a client, we'd never investigated his valet, since he never gave us cause to. Mason was hired a year before Winslow became a client. But I decided to run a database check on the name Mason Graves in the Bay Area. I found fifteen. However, no one jumped out at me as a plausible match. All but three were employed elsewhere and the rest didn't match Mason Graves's probable age (late forties to early fifties was my best guess). This was cause for some concern, but not as much cause for concern as Mr. Leonard's accent, which had still not returned to normal.

When I dropped by Len and Christopher's home, shortly after nine P.M., the new valet was shining his shoes and laying out his clothes for the following day. Apparently, he had spent almost his entire salary to date on a new wardrobe. Christopher sat helplessly in a lounge chair and pretended to read a book, but I noticed that he didn't turn a single page during my visit. Len answered the door (because that's what he does), gave me a warm greeting, and then adjusted my collar and dusted some lint off my jacket.

"Isabel, a pleasure to see you," Len said very politely, but still in character. I guess I had to see it in context--or rather out of context--to believe it.

"Okay, knock it off," I said.

"Pardon me?"

"I never thought a day would come when I'd miss your Christopher Walken impression."1 "Oh, Isabel, you're so droll."

I turned to his partner. "Make him stop!"

"You started it; you make him stop!" Christopher shouted back at me. Then he pretended to be reading his book again.

"I'm worried about you, Len," I said.

"Darling, you mustn't worry. I assure you I am perfectly well. Can I get you a cup of tea?"

"Yeah, you do that," I replied, just to get him to leave the room.

I sat down next to Christopher on the couch. His glare was loaded with accusation.

"This is not all my fault," I said. "Would you prefer he lounged around the house all day taking bubble baths and giving himself facials?"