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“If I knew the rabbi was going to be here, I’d have brought two of these,” Mickey said, handing the bag to Lowenstein. He pulled a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch from it.

“Hello, Mickey, how are you?” Kuntz said.

“I won’t say you shouldn’t have done this, because you should have,” Lowenstein said.

“Don’t let it go to your head, the Bulletin’s paying for it.”

The young woman with Mickey O’Hara, Kuntz thought (almost simultaneously realizing that it was not a kind thought), was not what he would have expected. She was—he searched for the word and came up with—wholesome. More than that. She was tastefully, conservatively dressed, with just the right amount of makeup. She had a full head of well-coiffured dark brown hair.

And she was, Kuntz saw, more than a little surprised, even shocked, at the exchange between Lowenstein and O’Hara.

“I’m Stephen Kuntz,” he said.

“Eleanor Neal,” she said. “How do you do?”

“If you understand that these two are old friends,” Kuntz said, “it explains a good deal.”

She smiled. “And is there a reason Mickey called you a rabbi?”

“I happen to be a rabbi,” Kuntz said.

“Oh?” she said.

“I’m Matt Lowenstein. Don’t mind Mick and me. Welcome to Chez Lowenstein.”

“Thank you for having me,” Eleanor said.

“I just got to ask this,” Lowenstein said.

“No, you don’t,” Mickey said.

“Mick!” Eleanor protested.

“What he’s going to ask is ‘what is a nice girl like you doing going out with me?’”

“Well, I don’t think he would have asked that, but if he did, I would have said that finally you’re introducing me to your friends.”

“What I was going to ask,” Lowenstein said, more than a little lamely, “was how is it he’s never brought you here before?”

“Why haven’t you, Mick?” Eleanor asked.

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that counts,” Kuntz said.

“And if you’ll make us a drink, I’ll give you something else,” O’Hara said.

“Excuse me,” Lowenstein said, sounding genuinely contrite. “What can I fix you, Miss Neal?”

“Eleanor, please,” she said. “Would you happen to have any white wine?”

“Absolutely,” Lowenstein said, and took a bottle from the refrigerator.

“No, I don’t mind helping myself to the Scotch, thank you very much,” O’Hara said.

“There’s an open bottle,” Lowenstein said.

“Yeah, but you’ve refilled it with cheap hootch so often the neck is chipped,” O’Hara said, and pulled the cork from the bottle he had brought.

Kuntz laughed.