Morton sat at a sidewalk table outside a café on Beverly Drive at eight in the morning, waiting for Sarah to show up. His assistant was ordinarily punctual, and her apartment was not far away. Unless she had taken up with that actor again. Young people had so much time to waste on bad relationships.

He sipped his coffee, glancing at the Wall Street Journal without much interest. He had even less interest after an unusual couple sat down at the next table.

The woman was petite and strikingly beautiful, with dark hair and an exotic look. She might have been Moroccan; it was hard to judge from her accent. Her clothing was chic and out of place in casual Los Angeles—tight-fitting skirt, spike heels, Chanel jacket.

The man who accompanied her could not have been more different. He was a red-faced, beefy American, with slightly piggish features, wearing a sweater, baggy khakis, and running shoes. He was as big as a football player. He slumped at the table and said, “I’ll have a latte, sweetheart. Nonfat. Grande.”

She said, “I thought you would get one for me, like a gentleman.”

“I’m not a gentleman,” he said. “And you’re no fucking lady. Not after you didn’t come home last night. So we can forget about ladies and gentlemen, okay?”

She pouted. “Chéri, do not make a scene.”

“Hey. I asked you to get a fucking latte. Who’s making a scene?”

“But chéri—”

“You going to get it, or not?” He glared at her. “I’ve really had it with you, Marisa, you know that?”

“You don’t own me,” she said. “I do as I please.”

“You’ve made that obvious.”

During this conversation, Morton’s paper had been slowly drifting downward. Now he folded it flat, set it on his knee, and pretended to read. But in fact he could not take his eyes off this woman. She was extremely beautiful, he decided, although not very young. She was probably thirty-five. Her maturity somehow made her more overtly sexual. He was captivated.

She said to the football player, “William, you are tiresome.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Perhaps it is best.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he said, and slapped her.

Morton could not restrain himself. “Hey,” he said, “take it easy there.”

The woman gave him a smile. The beefy man stood up, fists bunched. “Mind your own fucking business!”

“You don’t hit the lady, pal.”

“How about just you and me?” he said, shaking his fist.

At that moment, a Beverly Hills cruiser drove by. Morton looked at it, and waved. The cruiser came over to the curb. “Everything all right?” one of the cops said.

“Just fine, officer,” Morton said.

“Fuck this noise,” the football player said, and turned away. He stalked off up the street.

The dark woman smiled at Morton. “Thank you for that.”

“No problem. Did I hear you say you wanted a latte?”

She smiled again. She crossed her legs, exposing brown knees. “If you would be so kind.”

Morton was standing to get it when Sarah called to him, “Hey, George! Sorry to be late.” She came jogging up in a tracksuit. As always, she looked very beautiful.

Anger flashed across the dark woman’s features. It was fleeting, but Morton caught it and he thought, Something is wrong here. He didn’t know this woman. She had no reason to be angry. Probably, he decided, she had wanted to teach the boyfriend a lesson. Even now the guy was hanging around at the end of the block, pretending to look in a shop window. But at this early hour, all the shops were closed.

“Ready to go?” Sarah said.

Morton made brief apologies to the woman, who made little gestures of indifference. He had the feeling now that she was French.

“Perhaps we will meet again,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “but I doubt it. I am sorry. Ça va.”

“Have a nice day.”

As they walked off, Sarah said, “Who was that?”

“I don’t know. She sat down at the next table.”

“Spicy little number.”

He shrugged.

“Did I interrupt something? No? That’s good.” She handed Morton three manila folders. “This one’s your contributions to NERF to date. This one is the agreement for the last contribution, so you have the language. And this one is the cashier’s check you wanted. Be careful with that. It’s a big number.”

“Okay. It’s not a problem. I’m leaving in an hour.”

“You want to tell me where?”

Morton shook his head. “It’s better you don’t know.”