By no means did I ever consider myself an expert at the more practical aspects of Mr. Beretta’s work. I could take phone calls and buy whiskey with the best of them, but otherwise I knew my place. All the same, it didn’t take his fussing and twitching to tell me he didn’t like his assigned seat.

At least he liked his date well enough. She, all physical descriptors neglected for the moment, was trouble. Poor Nick melted like a ten cent ice cream cone. For once in my life I was grateful for, as my mother called it, my ‘condition’. She didn’t do a thing for me.

I sipped my wine. I surveyed. I attempted to think.

Something akin to loyalty stirred within, though I was hard pressed to say why. With the barkeep distracted I meandered across the floor. I was noticed but mostly conveniently ignored—story of my life. To really sell it I even said hello to a few people, though they didn’t greet me back.

By and by, I slunk near the wall, half hidden by a pillar, in a position to watch and hopefully help.