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Bennett, was getting on in years and set in his ways. He’d always kept his office in Little Italy, indifferent
     to the tides of fashion that came in and went around him, and protected by a tenancy agreement that he said he’d have been
     a fool to give up just to move to a grander address, even though he was one of the most respected elder statesmen of his profession.
     His habits included eating lunch in the same family-run Italian restaurant every day. If any of his clients wanted to see
     him, or if a publisher felt like worrying out the small print of a deal in a more leisurely fashion than by phone, then it
     was up to them to make the trek to Dino’s near Broome and Mott. Most of them were happy to do it, partly for the privilege
     as well as the pleasure of being in business with Lou, partly for the food, which was just about the best to be found anywhere
     outside of the tiny village in Tuscany where the family who owned the place came from.
    “I talked with Mike this morning,” he said. “He thinks it’s too close to your last one.”
    I had told Lou on the phone that I was thinking of writing about coincidence and suggested he run the idea by Mike Babcock,
     who was the managing editor of my publishers. I was surprised to hear he wasn’t more enthusiastic.
    “It’s nothing like my last one,” I protested. My last book had been about superstition and how often it was rooted in scientific
     and historical fact. “I can see why he might think there’s a connection, but this is really about something else. Anyway,
     I’m writing this book whether Mike likes the idea or not. Let me just tell you what’s happened to me over the last few days.”
    Lou listened to my story with an air of indulgent skepticism. “Sure,” he said, “you’re right, I know. Weird stuff happens.”
    There was the hint of a smile at the corner of his eyes. I knew he didn’t entirely believe me. “Let’s have a grappa,” he said,
     signaling the elderly maitre d’.
    I started to protest, but he waved my objections aside. “Listen,” he said, “you’re not going to work this afternoon, so what
     the hell—have a proper lunch.”
    It was true: The afternoon, after lunch with Lou, was invariably shot so far as work was concerned. Lou beamed broadly as
     the old dust-covered bottle was produced. He had a double, but I drew the line at a single. I don’t think I’ve ever known
     anyone who could drink as much as Lou and yet continue to function efficiently throughout a long day. He must have been almost
     seventy, but had a constitution of toughness I’m not sure they make anymore.
    “The point is,” I said, sitting back and letting the warmth of the liquor spread agreeably through my being, “there isn’t
     anybody alive who hasn’t had some kind of strange coincidence happen to them at some time, and maybe more than one. It’s a
     universal experience. How about you, for instance? Surely some unlikely coincidence must have happened to you at least once
     in your life.”
    His eyebrows twitched up a notch. “To me? Jesus, nothing happens to me. I’m just an agent. A second grappa after lunch is
     as exciting as my life gets.”
    “Come on, Lou,” I said, determined to drag some kind of confession out of him. “Don’t tell me you’re the one person in the
     world who’s never experienced a peculiar coincidence, because I’m not going to believe you. Maybe you just don’t bother to
     remember them like most people, but I’ll bet you can think of something if you try.”
    Lou shrugged, like an old man who’d seen it all before: still on top of his game, a master player, no longer easy to impress
     or concerned about impressing other people. His attention was focused for the moment on getting his cigar out of its cellophane
     wrapper. He’d smoked the same brand as long as I’d known him and seemed never to have quite mastered the trick of getting
     those wrappers off. Eventually he got it lit, then