Chapter 4

I scanned the packed main room.

Those present, many who I knew by name, appeared as if in a trance.

Our busman Carmine looked aghast.

Mr. Burlington at Table 8 met my eyes. His twinkled mischievously, as though this was some great ruse and Allen Funt’s ghost might appear.

I noted a fork held aloft, snared scallop quivering on the tines.

Those on the small mezzanine had stood to watch from the railing; they hadn’t counted on dinner anda show.

Even the kitchen staff had stopped to watch through the order spindles and under the warmer lights, rapt, like they were in the monkey house at the zoo.

I became aware of gasps after the first lyric, probably when it was clear he was going to sing the entire song, his voice breaking on every high note.

Flummoxed by this unannounced change in program, Fred vamped a little accompaniment, watching carefully as any good pianist would.

“Sir,” I advanced toward him, “I must ask you to—”