Michael Savatino, the owner, who turned out to be an ex-policeman, was irrepressibly jolly, hugging Tony, taking Hilary’s hand and kissing it, punching Tony lightly in the belly and recommending pasta to fatten him up, insisting they come into the kitchen to see the new cappuccino machine. As they came out of the kitchen, Michael’s wife, a striking blonde named Paula, arrived, and there was more hugging and kissing and complimenting. At last, Michael linked arms with Hilary and escorted her and Tony to a corner booth. He told the captain to bring two bottles of Biondi-Santi’s Brunello di Montelcino, waited for the wine, and uncorked it himself. After glasses had been filled and toasts made, he left them, winking at Tony to show his approval, seeing Hilary notice the wink, laughing at himself, winking at her.
“He seems like such a nice man,” she said when Michael had gone.
“He’s some guy,” Tony said.
“You like him a great deal.”
“I love him. He was a perfect partner when we worked homicide together.”
They fell smoothly into a discussion of policework and then screenwriting. He was so easy to talk to that Hilary felt she had known him for years. There was absolutely none of the awkwardness that usually marred a first date.
At one point, he noticed her looking at the wall mural. “Do you like the painting?” he asked.
“It’s superb.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t you agree?”
“It’s pretty good,” he said.
“Better than pretty good. Who did it? Do you know?”
“Some artist down on his luck,” Tony said. “He painted it in exchange for fifty free dinners.”
“Only fifty? Michael got a bargain.”
They talked about films and books and music and theater. The food was nearly as good as the conversation. The appetizer was light; it consisted of two stubby crèpes, one filled with unadulterated ricotta cheese, the other with a spicy concoction of shaved beef, onions, peppers, mushrooms, and garlic. Their salads were huge and crisp, smothered in sliced raw mushrooms. Tony selected the entrée, Veal Savatino, a specialita of the house, incredibly tender white-white veal with a thin brown sauce, pearl onions, and grilled strips of zucchini. The cappuccino was excellent.
When she finished dinner and looked at her watch, Hilary was amazed to see that it was ten minutes past eleven.
Michael Savatino stopped by the table to bask in their praise, and then he said to Tony, “That’s number twenty-one.”
“Oh, no. Twenty-three.”
“Not by my records.”
“Your records are wrong.”
“Twenty-one,” Michael insisted.
“Twenty-three,” Tony said. “And it ought to be numbers twenty-three and twenty-four. It was two meals, after all.”
“No, no,” Michael said. “We count by the visit, not by the number of meals.”
Perplexed, Hilary said, “Am I losing my mind, or does this conversation make no sense at all?”
Michael shook his head, exasperated with Tony. To Hilary he said, “When he painted the mural, I wanted to pay him in cash, but he wouldn’t accept it. He said he’d trade the painting for a few free dinners. I insisted on a hundred free visits. He said twenty-five. We finally settled on fifty. He undervalues his work, and that makes me angry as hell.”
“Tony painted that mural?” she asked.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
She looked at Tony, and he grinned sheepishly.
“That’s why he drives that Jeep,” Michael said. “When he wants to go up in the hills to work on a nature study, the Jeep will take him anywhere.”
“He said he had it because he likes to go skiing.”
“That too. But mostly, it’s to get him into the hills to paint. He should be proud of his work. But it’s easier to pull teeth from an alligator than it is to get him to talk about his painting.”
“I’m an amateur,” Tony said. “Nothing’s more boring than an amateur dabbler running off at the mouth about his ‘art.'”
“That mural is not the work of an amateur,” Michael said.
“Definitely not,” Hilary agreed.
“You’re my friends,” Tony said, “so naturally you’re too generous with your praise. And neither of you has the qualifications to be an art critic.”
“He’s won two prizes,” Michael told Hilary.