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wanna eat? I’ll have her bring a menu.”
    “No!”
    He laughs.
    “Yeah, I’m not kidding. Five hundred dollars an ounce and you have to use toilet paper as a filter. They say it has a very earthy taste.”
    “No wonder the Brits drink tea,” I tell him.
    “Really, the coffee here is fine,” he says. Still, he’s looking off in the distance as if maybe he’d like to try this Crappuccino someday.
    “Time is getting short,” I tell him. “Do you want to know about Metz or not?”
    “Not to worry. The arraignment’s only a first appearance. You know,” he says. He’s looking around again, taking it all in, his private dining room. “You have any idea what this place is probably worth? I don’t mean the building. I mean the location?”
    I shake my head. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
    He takes out what looks like a cell phone. Lately Nick has been playing with this gadget. I call them all PalmPilots. He calls this one a Handspring, every electronic device imaginable in a package the size of a deck of cards.
    He slides the little stylus out of its holder on the side and starts tapping the screen.
    “What, you’re not going to call somebody now?”
    “Just working the calculator.”
    “Nick, listen. I’ve got work waiting for me back at the office.”
    “Keep your shirt on. Relax. Why are you so uptight all the time?”
    “I’m not uptight. I just have better things to do.”
    This is the Nick I know, putting me on the defensivewhile he kills my morning musing about downtown real estate prices.
    “Figure you can get it for eight million, maybe eight and half,” he says.
    Metz is probably wearing out shoe leather right now, out in front of the courthouse, wondering if he will be sleeping in his own bed tonight or in one of the bunks at the federal lockup.
    “And it’s outside the corridor, the approaches to Lindbergh Field. That’s important,” he says. “You wanna know why?”
    “Not really, but you’re going to tell me, I’m sure.”
    “Because outside the corridor, you can go as high as you want, as long as you get a variance. You know, get around the current height restrictions.”
    “Are you becoming a realtor?”
    “No, but I ought to,” he says. “Some developer’s gonna come in here, buy the place cheap, go to his friendly planning commissioner or a county sup, and multiply his investment by a factor of four overnight. All he has to do is get a variance to go up higher. He wouldn’t even have to do anything with the property. Just turn it over. Make a cool what, twenty, twenty-five million? And these assholes call our clients crooks.”
    “That’s business,” I tell him.
    “Yeah. The business we ought to be in.” Nick smiles. “But we’re too honest,” he says. He’s back to bullshit. “And besides, I like to preserve the past. Dana has her causes; I have mine.”
    “Now can we get back to Metz?” I ask.
    “Are you sure you wanna give this thing up?”
    “What?”
    “Metz.” He looks at me as if I’ve been off on some other track. “I mean, it could be an opportunity.”
    “I’m sure.”
    “We could do it together,” he says. “After all, you are the only person I’ve ever shared one of the few true secrets of my life with.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Laura.” Nick is stone serious when he says this.
    I had almost forgotten. I thought Nick was too far into the sauce to remember the night he let it slip over drinks after a bad day in court. He was feeling a failure, even with a sassy new wife. Laura is the mystery in Nick’s life—and probably the only female he will ever truly love.
    “Have you seen her lately?”
    “Last week,” he says. “Only for a few minutes. Listen to me. Metz is good for a sizable fee.” Nick is good at changing the subject. Especially if it’s something he doesn’t want to talk about. “He wouldn’t be involved with the arts if he didn’t have money.”
    I laugh.
    “It’s true. I’ve never seen one