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didn’t come to your office for that purpose, and don’t give a shit about it. Now let’s eat lunch.” He remained motionless, like a wall across the sidewalk, his eyes holding Walker in place.
    Walker stared back into his sharp, brown eyes. “If you were investigating me, would you tell me the truth?”
    Stillman’s face tightened into a happy grin. “Fuck no,” he said, then turned and hurried into a doorway.
    Walker followed Stillman into a dim alcove, then up a long flight of stairs lit only by a chartreuse and magenta neon sign in Chinese characters. When Walker reached the top and carefully pushed the door inward, he found Stillman in a bright yellow room where waiters bustled back and forth under sunlit skylights carrying large zinc-colored trays loaded with covered dishes. There were about thirty fashionably dressed customers sitting at black metal tables, eating and talking. A restaurant, thought Walker, and it was only then that he realized he had been convinced it would be something else.
    They sat at a table near a window, and Stillman unabashedly amused himself by staring down at the pedestrians on the sidewalk below. When the waiter appeared with menus, Stillman said distractedly, “Just bring us whatever Mr. Fo had today.”
    The waiter said, “Very good, Mr. Stillman,” and scurried off.
    Walker said, “How do you know the owner didn’t have seagull brains sautéed in rancid yak butter?”
    Stillman shook his head. “Fo’s not the owner. He’s just a friend of mine who comes here on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It took him twenty-eight thousand meals to learn to pick out the best Chinese food, but I’m hungry today, so I don’t have time for experiments.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Life is too short to screw around trying to rediscover what somebody else knows already, so don’t waste your time with it. On the small stuff, find somebody who knows, and then give him the courtesy of humbly admitting it. That way you’ll avoid fifty years of heartburn and bad hangovers and stall-outs on freeways.”
    He slipped into another topic. “So, do you hang out much with the people at work?”
    “Not really,” Walker said. “Once in a while one of us will invite another to dinner or have a small party. But most of the time, to tell you the truth, we bore each other. I mean, we all smile and talk at the coffee room, but we all know the same things.” What he had just said was true, but saying it aloud made it worse.
    Stillman nodded. “How about women? You’re not queer.” It was a statement, not a question.
    Walker kept himself from looking around to see if anyone had heard. Stillman caught the expression and said, “Hey, it’s San Francisco. Anybody here look shocked? A lot of people from Ohio come here just to sign up for the parade. You didn’t. So why aren’t you married?”
    “I haven’t met any woman I want to live with until I die,” said Walker. “Unless I could be sure of dying in a month or so.” He congratulated himself on saying the lie so fluently. He had met somebody, and he had let her slip away, but his life was none of Stillman’s business.
    Stillman nodded. “Yeah. I saw you gaping at Cardarelli when she left your cage the other day. Don’t just ogle and wonder. Make a move on her. You might find that you wouldn’t want the month to end.”
    Walker shook his head. “She’s nice to look at, all right . . . .” Walker stopped himself, shocked. He had almost been lulled into telling this stranger something that might harm her.
    “But?” Stillman prodded.
    Walker said carefully. “I guess sometimes relationships go that way, and sometimes they don’t.”
    Stillman sighed happily. “Not with me. They always go that way. I’ve had three really poisonous marriages, and I still hope to have one that lasts long enough to be fatal. Since you’re young enough to learn, that’s another thing I can give you a shortcut on. So far, the only thing I can think