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ones for you.” To me, “Oh, hey, Jack. Great to see you.” Her tone didn’t quite match the meaning of the words, if you know what I mean.
    And then came Chef Bill, padding through the dining room in his tall hat and chef whites straight toward our table, or more specifically, toward Vinny. By the way, I have the same feeling seeing a chef in a dining room as I have watching a pilot wander the cabin of an airplane: Enough of the meet-and-greet, grip-and-grin, feel-good stuff. I’d feel a lot better if they were back where they belonged.
    “Mr. Mongillo, we’re so delighted to have you back,” Bill said to Vinny. Vinny beamed in return. I might as well have been a stain on the white linen tablecloth.
    “My favorite restaurant in town,” he replied.
    That’s just great. It’s probably worth noting here that I was the one who was the member in good standing at the University Club. In other words, I was the one who paid the significant monthly bills, who spent my monthly dining room minimum, who tipped the entire staff each Christmas — or, to use the politically correct term, holiday season. Vinny suggested eating here as often as he could, fully realizing that the dining room doesn’t accept cash, meaning he would never face the burden of a tab.
    Chef Bill returned to the kitchen. Vinny said to the wine director, “Why don’t you decant the cab, Pedro. The nose had a tiny bit of funk to it.” And then we were alone.
    To me, Mongillo raised his glass of white wine, the one with the fantastic finish, and said, “To matrimony. To Maggie. To a lifetime of happiness. The gods are forever smiling on you, Fair Hair. I can’t believe you’ve scammed your way to another great woman.”
    The funny thing, and I mean that not in any literal way, is that nobody had actually poured wine into my glass. I didn’t even have any water. Vinny didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy sucking down a chilled oyster and dreamily exclaiming, “And I can’t believe I scammed my way into a Wellfleet and Chardonnay combination this good.”
    I said, “I’m not marrying Maggie today.”
    He sucked down another oyster and took a sip of wine, his eyes intently on the food and drink rather than on me.
    Finally, he looked up and said, “We’re still going to finish lunch, right?”
    I ignored that. He eyed my face and said, “You’re serious.”
    I nodded.
    He said, “Can I ask you something.” Pause. “Are you fucking stupid?”
    I kept my look trained on his. “It’s not a big deal,” I said, which, of course, was a lie, and a rather obvious one. “I’ve got a story breaking, and we’ve had some complications, Maggie and me.”
    “The complication meaning you’re acting like an asshole again, pulling a classic Jack.”
    Truth is, I probably would have been, if Maggie hadn’t pulled a Jack before I had the chance. So in a rare moment of revelation, I said, “I do have a story going. But Maggie needed some more time.”
    He finally sucked down the oyster that he had been holding in his fingers all this time. Pedro came back and refilled Mongillo’s wineglass. He put the bottle down and walked away, leaving me to pour my own. Pam showed up with a crabcake on a small plate, placed it in front of Mongillo, and said, “Chef wants you to try his new aioli sauce.”
    Maybe I should just join the Y.
    Mongillo looked at the crabcake admiringly, like an accountant looks at a finished tax return, then peered up at me and said, “I’m really sorry, Jack. I really am.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t want to advertise this around, but I was having doubts this morning as well. I didn’t think I could go through with it. And then, well, then she told me she couldn’t go through with it. And here I am.”
    We both sat in silence. Well, not exactly silence. Mongillo made a long slurping sound as he inhaled yet another oyster.
    I took my first sip of wine, prompting Vinny to break the silence. “What do you think?” he