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neighborhood. He liked the checkered tablecloths on the tables, the lamps with carefully dripped candle wax around them, the scenes of Venice, Italy, with their glittering canals on the walls, the refusal to keep up with the times. He could have walked into Luigi’s in any of the past six decades and it would not have looked any different.
    It was jammed with diners. There was one boisterous table in an alcove, just out of McCall’s sightline, where the patrons were obviously having a great time. He had been watching couples at other tables around him, vital and exuberant, or subdued and tentative, living their lives. McCall sat alone, at his usual corner table, wondering if he was living his life now, or just going through the motions. It was as if he was waiting for something. Some small, intimate, compelling moment that would change his life. He felt like he was treading emotional water. But then, he’d always done that.
    Jenny, his server, a feisty blonde with an accent as far from Venice, Italy, as you could get, but not far from New York, came over to pour him more coffee and take away his empty pasta plate.
    â€œYou always eat alone, Mr. McCall. There’s no ring on your finger, so you’re not married. Never seen you here with a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Not with any friends. Aren’t you lonely?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œIf Luigi heard me talking to you this way, he’d kick my ass around the block. But you’re like our compass. You come in at the same time every night, have the same dish, fusilli with zucchini and herbs, two glasses of Schiopetto Rivarossa oh-nine, are always very charming and polite and … I can’t think of the word.”
    â€œBoring?”
    â€œCircumspect. Yeah, that’s it. Reflective. Like you’re thinking a lot of deep thoughts. You’re mysterious.”
    McCall smiled. “Am I?”
    â€œSure, we can’t figure you out. One of the girls thinks you’re a writer. Sally thinks you’re a commodities broker. I think you’re in the witness protection program. You always sit with your back to the wall, looking into the restaurant. You can see both entrances from this table and the door to the kitchen. But you’re so relaxed. Not like you’re worried some guy might suddenly come in and pull a gun on you.”
    â€œYou’ve been watching too many Bruce Willis movies.”
    She laughed. “I know! I’ve created this entire scenario about you in my head, and I’m sure I’m not even close. But don’t break your pattern. Keep coming into Luigi’s at the same time and having the same meal and the same wine, or time will stop or something.”
    â€œI might miss a night or two here and there, but I won’t let you down.”
    â€œSo what do you do?”
    â€œIf I told you, I’d no longer be mysterious.”
    â€œYou live in the neighborhood?”
    â€œTwo blocks away.”
    Jenny lingered, perhaps hoping he’d tell her the street name, maybe even throw in the apartment address, but he didn’t. She moved away. There was explosive laughter from the table in the alcove. McCall left money on top of the bill, with a generous tip, got up, and walked to the front of the restaurant. From there he could see into the alcove. There were six young men sitting around a table, in boisterous good spirits, all of them well dressed, maybe Russian, maybe not, good-looking, slicked-back black hair, dark suits, rings on their fingers. There was an older man with them, in his late thirties: quieter than the rest, not joining in the laughter that followed some hilarious remark. His eyes lifted once, looked at McCall, then looked away with total disinterest.
    McCall picked up his dark gray overcoat from a stand. Luigi, big and garrulous, in his early sixties, an expansive host, rushed over, pumping McCall’s hand.
    â€œMr. McCall! The fusilli was