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Cubby?”
    “Fabulous dinner,” I assured him. “Perfect. As always.”
    Still solemn, he said, “Are you going on tour for the new book?”
    “No. I needed a break this time.”
    “Don’t worry about him, what he says.”
    Perplexed, I asked, “Worry about who, what?”
    “He’s a strange man, the critic.”
    “Oh. So … you saw the Shearman Waxx review, huh?”
    “Two paragraphs. Then I spit on his column and turned the page.”
    “It doesn’t faze me. I’ve already let it go.”
    “He’s a strange man. He always makes his reservation in the name Edmund Wilson.”
    Surprised, surveying the room, I said, “He comes here?”
    “Seldom dinner. More often lunch.”
    “How about that.”
    “He’s always alone, pays cash.”
    “You’re sure it’s him? Nobody seems to know what he looks like.”
    “Twice he was short of cash,” Hamal said. “He used a credit card. Shearman Waxx. He’s a very strange man.”
    “Well, rest assured, if he had a reservation for tonight and I were to run into him, there wouldn’t be a scene. Criticism doesn’t bother me.”
    “In fact, he has a twelve-thirty lunch reservation tomorrow,” said Hamal.
    “Criticism comes with the territory.”
    “He’s a damned strange man.”
    “A review is only one person’s opinion.”
    Hamal said, “He creeps me out a little.”
    “I’ve already let it go. You know what it’s like. The restaurant gets a bad review—
c’est la vie
. You just keep on keepin’ on.”
    “We’ve never had a bad review,” Hamal said.
    Embarrassed by the assumption I had made, I said, “Why would you? This place is perfection.”
    “Do you get many bad reviews?”
    “I don’t keep track. Maybe ten percent aren’t good. Maybe twelve percent. My third book—that was like fourteen percent. I don’t dwell on the negative. Ninety percent good reviews is gratifying.”
    “Eighty-six percent,” said Hamal.
    “That was only for my third book. Some critics didn’t think the dwarf was necessary.”
    “I like dwarfs. I have a cousin in Armenia, he’s a dwarf.”
    “Even if you use a dwarf as your hero, you have to call him a ‘little person.’ The word
dwarf
just incenses some critics.”
    “This critic of yours, he always reminds me of my cousin.”
    “You mean Shearman Waxx is a dwarf?”
    “No. He’s about five feet eight. But he’s stumpy.”
    The front door opened, a party of four entered, and Hamal went to greet them.
    A moment later, Penny returned from the lavatory. Settling in her chair, she said, “I’m going to finish this delightful wine before deciding on dessert.”
    “That reminds me—Hud wants to buy our wine this evening. He says send him the receipt.”
    “That would be wasting a perfectly good stamp.”
    “He might pay for half the bottle. He sent us champagne that time.”
    “It wasn’t champagne. It was sparkling cider. Anyway, why would he suddenly want to buy our wine?”
    “To celebrate the Waxx review.”
    “The man is criminally obtuse.”
    “He’s not that bad. Just clueless.”
    “I don’t like how he’s always pushing to be my agent, too.”
    “He negotiates killer deals,” I said.
    “But he doesn’t know squat about children’s books.”
    “He has to know something. He was a child at one time.”
    “I doubt that very much. I said something about Dr. Seuss once, and Hud thought I was talking about
a physician
.”
    “A misunderstanding. He was concerned about you.”
    “I mention Dr. Seuss and somehow Hud gets the idea I’ve got a terminal disease.”
    Being defense attorney for Hud Jacklight is a thankless job. I gave it up.
    Penny said, “He happened to have lunch in the same restaurant as my editor, so he asked her—does she know how long I’ve got to live. The man is a total—”
    “Flying furnal?” I suggested.
    “I wish a furnal would fly up his—”
    “Buckaboody?” I suggested, inventing a word of my own.
    “Exactly,” Penny said. “This wine is lovely. I’m