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between me and the bar like a glowing scrim. Nobody came close. Why hadn’t I asked for a description of her date?
    I sat down. The bar was copper-topped with red leather trim. Above it two TV’s played, their sound off. On the right screen a game of tennis silently proceeded. The left featured men in togas. Quo Vadis, I thought, but it was hard to tell, as they appeared to be lip-synching to the band’s inimitable and interminable rendition of “Feelings.”
    “Help you?” The bartender had bright red hair and an air of competent no-nonsense. I ordered a Virgin Mary. She nodded brusquely. It was too early in my truncated day for alcohol. Anyway, at long last, I was high on life. Or at least high on the small thrill of being awake and in a bar at this hour, an experience completely off my bell-shaped curve. I had inverted time and entered a night world I generally missed.
    The bartender put down my spicy tomato concoction. “Delicious,” I said after sipping. I wondered what she was doing here, past midnight, what kind of a job this was and how it worked for her life. My speculations must have shown.
    She chuckled. “Husband can be home with the kids this way,” she said. “Until he finishes grad school. That’s what brings me here. How about you?”
    “I’m…my friend…I’m looking for a guy named Dunstan.”
    She raised her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t have expected that,” she said, with a quick, sad shake of her head. “He’s a fixture around these parts. Stays, off and on, till three or four a.m. most nights.” She turned around and busied herself polishing the pour spout of a scotch bottle. Then she turned back. “Look, whether you want it or not, here’s some unsolicited advice. In the spirit of sisterhood, right? Forget Dunstan. He’s all packaging. There’s no future there. Not much of a present, either.”
    “I’m not planning to be involved with him,” I said, but of course, that’s female code for just the opposite, which is how the bartender took it. “But what are you trying to say? Is he married?”
    She looked amused. “I doubt it, although he says so to stay clear of entanglements. Saw it in an old Cary Grant movie.”
    “Were you here all evening? Did you see him tonight? Was he with a woman?”
    She shrugged. “I didn’t come on until midnight, and when I saw him, he was alone. I hope that doesn’t encourage you.” Then she did a minor double take, and cocked her head to the right. “But speak of the devil.”
    So there he was, the devil or Cary Grant. Take your pick. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as I’d expected, and much shorter than anticipated. Not a midget, but average. Sasha must have towered over him in her high-button boots. She might be accused of homicide, but of heightism, never. I took a deep breath, lifted my glass in a toast, and smiled.
    If this didn’t work, I was going to be profoundly humiliated and my best friend was going to spend the rest of her life in a dungeon. I sidled off my bar stool. “You must be Dunstan,” I murmured.
    I felt like a fool. Going on two A.M., running on adrenaline and anxiety and borrowing lines from a B movie. But that was all I could think of except for the infinitely tackier “Hi, stranger.”
    Dunstan didn’t faint with joy at my approach, but neither did he hold up a cross and say begone . He waited for more data. I hadn’t expected him to be this cautious. “Sasha wanted me to look you up,” I said.
    He moved his head to the left and looked at me from a side view, eyes narrowed, judgment suspended.
    How bad of a date had they had? “Sasha Berg,” I said. “You remember her, don’t you?”
    He laughed, showing teeth that did, indeed, rival Cary’s. “You mean do I have short-term memory loss?” he asked. “Remember her after what, a few hours?” He waved me to a booth. “Join me,” he said. “But what is this? Some sort of tag team? A relay?”
    His accent was semi-Cary, like someone from a mid-Atlantic