“For what? Tell me we’ve got some work.”

“I’ll play your silly game. We’ve got some work.”

Mickey pumped a fist. “All right. You going out?”

“I am.”

“Where to?”

“Lunch at Le Central.”

Mickey whistled. Le Central was a white-tablecloth French restaurant down around the corner on Bush Street. This potentially meant that Wyatt had scored some deep-pockets client who would be footing the bill. “Who’s the client?” Mickey asked.

“Ah, the client. What client?”

“The one we’re talking about.”

“I’m afraid there is no client.”

“So where’s the work coming from?”

“What work?”

“The work you just said we had.”

Hunt leaned against Mickey’s desk and shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, truth be told, we don’t have any work.”

“But-”

“Hey. You told me to tell you we had some work, so I played along.

In fact, though, I’m afraid we don’t have any paying work.” He turned a palm up. “At this stage, we’d better be able to joke about it, don’t you think? And the good news is that I’m really going to have lunch at Le Central and was waiting for you. You eaten yet?”

“Not today. Other days, though, I have.”

Hunt broke a grin. “Good for you. So I won’t have to teach you how.” He looked around the small space with a wistful air, as though he might not see it again. “Let’s lock up and get ourselves on the outside of some grub.”

Le Central had a notice on its daily-updated blackboard informing its patrons that its famous and delicious cassoulet had been cooking now for 12,345 consecutive days. In spite of that, both Wyatt and Mickey agreed that it was too warm a day for the rib-sticking beans, duck, sausage, and lamb casserole, and instead both ordered the poulet frites-half a roasted chicken with fries. As an afterthought, Wyatt also ordered a bottle of white wine, by no means a common occurrence at lunchtime. When Mickey raised his eyebrows in surprise, he said, “Special occasion. You mind?”