He was standing by a marble pillar, dressed in worn Levis, track shoes, and a blue windbreaker over a T-shirt, with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Susan moved toward him with her heart beating hard, as his head swiveled owlishly and his eyes focused in on her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think I did a very good job yesterday. I didn’t know how to start.”

“You’re in a tough position,” John said. “The messenger with bad news.”

“Plus—I guess I was a little frightened.”

He smiled. “Of me?”

She laughed, but it was true. She had been frightened. Still was. But it was easier now, at least a little. “Where do we go for lunch?”

“Depends. I don’t have a lot of cash. Are you on an expense account?”

“It’s paid for.”

“By Max?”

“Ultimately.”

“Well, there’s a decent Japanese restaurant around the block. I’m sure Max can afford it.”

“Sounds fine,” Susan said.

She had never eaten Japanese food but didn’t want to admit it. The atmosphere in the restaurant was traditional: koto music and waitresses in tight kimonos. She felt somewhat gauche, lost among the rice paper screens; she let John order for her.

The waitress brought miso soup in a wooden bowl. No spoons—apparently you were supposed to pick up the bowl like a cup. John said, “You’re not used to this.”

She forced a smile. “Redondo Beach WASP. We never ate anything more challenging than Mexican. I remember a lot of TV dinners.”

“The main course is tempura. Nothing scary. Unless you have a problem with shrimp?”

“No, that’s fine. You know, I learned to eat Cantonese and Szechuan in college. Just never got around to Japanese.”

John turned his attention to the soup. He ate meticulously, Susan observed; almost mechanically. When the bowl was empty he pushed it aside and ignored it. “Max knows I’m ill.”