It was a quarter to twelve, but the lunchtime drinkers had already assembled. He had seen plenty of them before, but they might not remember him. Mr. Glass's lads. Luke was over by the walled pool, at the little secluded table under the yucca tree. He raised his hand. It was tanned and manicured with a plain silver wedding ring. Nobbi, uncomfortable in his suit, went down the tessellated steps and through the wine bar toward him. Vittoria's was in dark green, with black glass and spotlights. Tall ferns massed in tubs and stone goddesses rose from the shrubbery. The pool was walled in York stone, with boulders carved from Derbyshire, over which tumbled a small crystal fountain. Golden fish sprang through the water. On Luke's table was a briefcase, and a green dish with tiny strips of liver. He had been feeding the Venus's flytrap in the urn. Luke wore a silvery gray suit, a milk-blue shirt and a tie like a pale blush.
