“What’s wrong?” Frank asks.

John shakes his head. “World of shit right now, Frank.”

“This G-Sting business?” Frank asks. “Is Hunnybear’s involved in that?”

John holds his hand, palm down, up under his chin. “What if they close the place? I need the fuckin’ money, Frank.”

“It’ll blow over,” Frank says. “This stuff always does.”

John shakes his head. “I dunno.”

“You’ll always work, John,” Frank says. “You want me to drop a word somewhere…”

It would be easy to hook John up with a second job at some good restaurant. He’s a good cook, and besides, he’s a popular guy. Everybody likes him.

“Thanks, Frank. Not right now.”

“You let me know.”

“Thanks.”

Frank makes it back to the table just before Donna, and blesses the fact that there’s always a line at the ladies’ and that women take a lot longer to get all that complicated gear off and on again.

“How’s the chef?” Donna asks as he gets up and holds the chair out for her. Frank sits back down and shrugs with a look of hurt innocence.

“Incorrigible,” Donna says.

The rain really starts coming down while they’re having dessert. Well, Frank’s having dessert-cheesecake and an espresso-and Donna’s having a black coffee. The rain starts with slow, fat plops against the window, then picks up, and it’s only a minute or so before the wind starts to drive sheets of rain against the glass.

Most people in the restaurant cease their conversations to watch and listen. It doesn’t rain that often in San Diego-less than usual, in fact, the past few years-and it rarely rains hard like this. It’s the true beginning of winter, the short monsoon season in this Mediterranean climate, and the people just sit back and gaze at it.

Frank watches the whitecaps picking up.

It’s going to be something tomorrow.

Donna’s condo doesn’t have an ocean view. Her place is on the back side of the complex, away from the beach, so she got it for about 60 percent less. Doesn’t matter to Frank-when he goes to Donna’s place, all he wants to look at is Donna.