Ben Preston sat across the table from me and looked concerned. The air was scented with garlic and tomato, and his serious tone seemed somehow incongruous. “Which friend?” I asked. “The one with the interesting ‘handwriting’ in e-mails,” he noted with a wry expression. “Nope, haven’t heard from him,” I answered. “Good. I never much cared for that plan.” Ben took a sip of wine and did not do that thing that the oenophiles think make them look superior where they swirl it around in the glass and then stick their noses in. That’s just silly. Do I carefully examine the label of a Snickers, hold it up to my nostrils, inhale its deep fragrance, and then take a tiny taste before letting the cashier at the Rite Aid know if I’m willing to buy it? I do not. “You disagreed with Duffy about that?” I asked. “I’m surprised. I thought you listened to every word he said.”
