Neon Dragon by John Dobbyn

occasions, which was usually good for a smile, a handshake, and a prediction of twenty minutes to the next table.
    I caught his eye and mouthed the words, “Is Mr. Devlin here yet?”
    I think he misunderstood and thought I said the pope was awaiting my arrival. He moved the head-of-the-liners out of my way and led me like the returning son to a small upstairs chamber in the back.
    The room had the same Romanesque charm that pervaded the Marliave. It held one single table at which were gathered Lex Devlin, a dapper little dude of about the same vintage, whom I assumed to be Conrad Munsey, and a third, gaping chair.
    Lex acknowledged my arrival with an eyebrow and a nod toward the chair, which I took as an invitation to join the fun. When he introduced me as “the late Mr. Knight,” I realized that “noon” did not mean “or so, at your convenience.” I was gratified, however, that though he may never use it to my face, he still remembered my name.
    Conrad Munsey, our dinner companion, was another piece of work. Judging from his sitting position, I estimated that he’d come about up to my chin. He had bright eyes and a sharp little moustache. In fact, everything about him, from his salt-and-pepper hair, which looked as if it were trimmed hourly, to his diminutive but perfectly formed body, which he had tucked into a tidy, dark three-piece suit with the correct, conservative tie, bespoke nobody’s fool.
    I sensed comfort and probably more than mutual respect between Mr. Devlin and Mr. Munsey. I remembered Mr. Devlin saying they “go back.”
    I shook hands with Mr. Munsey and received a menu from the waiter. I was about to open it, when a red-haired man of about fifty years swept in from the kitchen and snatched the menus out of the hands of the three of us. Judging from the fine Italian wool of his suit, I figured he was not the busboy.
    â€œMr. Devlin, you never need a menu. What do you feel like? Alittle veal? A little pasta first, maybe a white sauce? You like my antipasto. I’ll fix it myself. What do you think? You leave it to me?”
    I saw the softest side of Lex Devlin I’d ever seen when he smiled and touched our host on the arm.
    â€œWe couldn’t be in better hands, Vincenzo.”
    That widened the smile. Vincenzo gestured to the waiter and mentioned a particularly good
vino bianco.
    â€œWhoa, Vincenzo. No wine for this gentleman and myself. Connie, you suit yourself.”
    I didn’t remember being consulted on the wine refusal, but apparently I was riding shotgun on Mr. Devlin’s wagon. No sweat. If the boss was suggesting that I had two days’ clear-headed work to do that afternoon, he was reading my mind.
    When the room cleared and Vincenzo delicately closed the door to the outside room, Lex leaned across the table.
    â€œLet’s talk, Connie. There’s a rumbling in the hills. I don’t like it. I wanted to see if you’re picking anything up.”
    Mr. Munsey’s eyes were crackling, and his lips did something that put his moustache at a tilt, but nothing came out.
    Mr. Devlin sat back. “You have no problem with Mr. Knight, Connie. We’re on the same side. He needs to know where the shots are coming from, too. They could blindside either one of us.”
    Munsey took a couple of seconds on that one, but Mr. Devlin’s confidence apparently won out. There was no one else in the room, but Mr. Munsey leaned in a bit before he spoke.
    â€œSomething’s cooking. I’m getting more uncomfortable by the day. I remember the last time, and so do you. What tipped you this time, Lex?”
    â€œThe right honorable Mrs. Lamb. First she wanted to hang Bradley’s fleece on the courthouse door. That was honest ambition. She’d convict Kermit the Frog if it’d get her to the statehouse. That side of her I believed. This morning she calls with an offer of a reduced charge. No headlines. Could even