Either they didn’t know who he was, or they didn’t care. Just as well. In these out-of-the-way places, Tessic often found himself the center of suspicious attention. It wasn’t only his clothes, but the prominent way he held himself, and his Israeli accent, so rich and exotic to the ears of the American heartland. As he had no talent for being inconspicuous, he rarely tried. Still it was nice to go unnoticed from time to time.

Bobby, however, gave Tessic his full attention, fumbling with spot­ted hands to get together a place setting.

“My waitress took sick this morning, so it’s just me and the cook today. I’ll have a booth ready for ya’ lickety-split.”

Tessic noted yet another colloquialism he did not know; a re­minder that his command of English was still less than perfect. “No need, Bobby,” he said. “Do you mind if I just sit at the counter?”

Bobby looked at him as if it might be a trick question. Tessic laughed and clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “It’s alright. Ac­tually, I prefer it. I dine alone way too often.”

Bobby shrugged. “Suit yourself.” he said. Tessic slid onto a stool. The old man sounded apologetic. “I was sure you’d be used to more highfalutin black-tie kinds of establishments.”

“Highfalutin bores me. That’s why I come here.”

Bobby smiled.

Tessic ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, just a tad too long to be corporate. Like his clothes, it was genteelly defiant. He was a mote in the eye of the system, liked it that way, and as the twelfth richest man in the world, by the reckoning of Fortune magazine, he was one splinter that wouldn’t easily be removed.

“So will it be the usual then?” Bobby asked.

“Of course!”

Bobby went off to his pastry display case. “Lucky I even have it. If I woulda known you was comin’ I coulda baked it up fresh. As it is, I only got a couple of pieces left.” He took out a plate and a pie server, then gently lifted a piece of chess pie onto the plate.