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as my Noble Sacrifice to the Arts, left me chronically broke, in part, of course, because most of the pittance I earned went literally and immediately to the dogs.
    “Madame,” said Steve, “in celebration of the arrival of Jazzland’s As Time Goes By, please do me the honor of accepting my humble invitation.” He swept his arm fish-ward, so to speak. Jazzland was Cindy’s kennel name. The puppy was to be called Sammy.
    So, we ended up in the seafood restaurant at a table for two near the bar. Mounted above the bar was a big televison with the volume turned blessedly low. At this point, we weren’t watching television, but studying our menus. It was taking me an atypically long time to decide what to order, especially considering that there was lobster on the menu and someone else was paying. The hitch was that I’d first met Steve’s wife at a clambake that had included lobster. Steve had been there, and I was now afraid of reviving best-forgotten memories. On the other hand, my not ordering lobster might remind him of that occasion, too. The pasta dishes and the steamed mussels had delectable-sounding Italian names, but I was so determined to keep Steve ignorant of my relationship with Enzio Guarini that I wanted to avoid even the most oblique reference to Italy. Pondering the haddock, swordfish, and halibut, I kept thinking of that famous line from The Godfather about Luca Brasi, a ridiculous association, I admit, since it’s obviously possible to request and devour vertebrate sea creatures without so much as hinting at underworld figures who sleep with the fishes.
    “Fried oysters,” I finally said, and then suddenly realized, to my horror, that oysters were a legendary aphrodisiac.
    Happily, what I’d overlooked throughout all this obsessing was Steve’s entirely scientific, completely unpsychological mind-set. Without a trace of self-consciousness, he chose fish chowder followed by finnan haddie, and persuaded me to get the fried oysters as an appetizer, followed by a baked stuffed lobster.
    “Wine?” he asked.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I was aghast to spot an all-too-familiar young man taking a seat on a bar stool. What was Guarini's driver, Zap, doing here?
    “Nothing Italian!” I blurted out.
    Naturally, Steve was startled. “You have something against Italy all of a sudden?”
    “No, not at all. I’m just not in a mood for... never mind. I’d like a glass of white wine.”
    Relieved to have uttered a few words without wifely or gangland associations, I managed to get through the ordering of food and drink in moderate comfort. I couldn’t help sneaking in glances at Zap, but Steve didn't seem to notice. Indeed, it occurred to me that one of Steve’s many virtues was a relaxing tendency not to scrutinize everything I did. Also, since we’d been seeing very little of each other, we had plenty of catching up to do. Over drinks and appetizers, we talked about friends and about Rowdy and Kimi and about Lady, his pointer, and India, his shepherd, and neither of us said a word about disbarred lawyer ex-wives-to-be, Italy, or racketeers. Zap continued to sit alone at the bar and gave no sign of noticing my presence. All went well until just as Steve’s finnan haddie and my lobster were served, the bartender turned up the volume on the television, and onto the screen flashed a photo of Blackie Lanigan with the superimposed caption “Where’s Blackie?”
    In turning our attention to the televison, Steve and I were no different from everyone else in its range, and the smile that crossed Steve’s face was just a particularly attractive version of those that appeared on the faces of the entire population of Greater Boston whenever this famous question was asked. In Boston, everyone recognized Blackie Lanigan’s picture and loved wondering where he was. Why? Because Blackie headed the FBI’s list of Ten Most Wanted Fugitives, and Blackie was a Boston crook. Around here, it’s not every day that a