“She have any luck?”

“Nah. She was twenty-two years old and fickle as they come. Last I heard, she’d taken up with a biker accused of killing his ex. Nothing like a bad boy in need of emotional support. What’s your interest?”

“I’ve been asked to get a contact number for him now that he’s out on parole. This is for his bio-mom, who’s got money to burn. She’d like to smooth his transition, should the need arise.”

“Nice.”

“I thought so myself. I left a message with one of the federal parole officers, but I don’t want to sit around hoping he’ll call back. I figure when the kid was arrested, he must have listed a local address, so I thought I’d start there.”

“I can help you with that. Back then, he was living with his mom over on Dave Levine. I’ll have someone in Records pull up the address. I’ll call tomorrow and give you what we have.”

“I’d appreciate it. Can I buy you another beer?”

“Thanks, but I better pace myself. I’m having dinner with a friend.”

“Catch you later then,” I said as I slipped off the stool.

I returned to Henry’s table and took a seat.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Work.”

“Everything with you is work.”

“No, it’s not.”

Rosie reappeared and gave us each a setup: a paper napkin wrapped tightly around a knife, fork, and spoon. She usually presented us with a mimeographed menu, which was strictly window dressing, as she told us what she was serving us and brooked no argument. She tucked her hands under her apron and rocked on her feet. “Tonight is big treat.”

“Do tell,” Henry said. “We can hardly wait.”

“Calf brain. Is very fresh. How I prepare is rinse and place in large bowl into what’s trickling cold water from tap. I’m peeling off filament is like membrane covering. Then I’m soaking in vinegar water one and haff hours, all the time cutting away white bits . . .”

Henry closed his eyes. “I may be coming down with something.”

I said, “Me too.”

Rosie smiled. “Just teasing. You should see the look on you two faces. Wait and I’m surprising you.”

And surprise us she did. What she brought to the table were plates on which she’d created a visual composition of grilled kielbasa, puffy fresh herb omelets oozing pale cheese, and two salads with a light vinaigrette. To one side, she placed a basket of dinner rolls Henry’d made the day before. For dessert, she served us baked plums wrapped in a flaky pastry with a cap of softly whipped cream.

We finished dinner and Henry took care of the check while I shrugged myself into my jacket. We’d just stepped into the chilly night air when Anna Dace appeared, coming toward us through the newly minted dark. The two of us were related, though I’d be hard-pressed to define the family connection, which stretched back a generation to my grandmother, Rebecca Dace. My father was Anna’s father’s favorite uncle, making us (perhaps) second cousins. I might also be her aunt. She had her hair pulled up in a careless knot she’d secured with a clip. She wore a navy blue peacoat over jeans, and military-style boots. I may have neglected to mention that she’s shamelessly pretty—not a trait I consider relevant, though men seem to disagree.

She brightened when she caught sight of Henry and clutched him by the arm. “Hey, guess what? I took your advice and put my money in mutual funds. I allocated the investment over the four types you talked about.”

I stared at her. Allocated? Shit. Since when did she use words of more than one syllable?

She and her two siblings had come into money at the same time I did, though the source was different. I’d expected all three of them to burn through the funds in a heartbeat. Being the mean-spirited creature I am, I experienced a pang of disappointment that she was exhibiting good sense.

Henry said, “Not the whole of it, I hope.”

“No way. I set twenty grand aside in a separate account, so I’d have access to it. Not that I’d touch it,” she added in haste.

“I’m giving you an A-plus,” he said.

“I invested in mutual funds. How come I didn’t get an A-plus?” I interjected. Neither paid the slightest attention.

When Henry realized Anna was on her way in to Rosie’s, he pushed the door open again and held it, allowing her to pass in front of him. As he did so, I looked up and saw a truncated slice of the interior, a vertical slat that included a narrow view across the tables to the bar where Cheney sat. In that split second, I saw him turn and catch sight of Anna. His face creased in a smile as he got up. The door closed, but the image seemed to hang in the air.