'They say that in L.A. you are what you drive.'
'Is that what they say? Then you're a Jeep. And I'm a Mercedes. We're cars, not people. We should be going to the garage for an oil change, not to a restaurant for dinner. Does that make sense?'
'No sense at all,' Tony said. 'Actually, I got a Jeep because I like to go skiing three or four weekends every winter. With this jalopy, I know I'll always be able to get through the mountain passes, no matter how bad the weather gets.'
'I've always wanted to learn to ski.'
'I'll teach you. You'll have to wait a few weeks. But it won't be long until there's snow at Mammoth.'
'You seem pretty sure we'll still be friends a few weeks from now.'
'Why wouldn't we be?' he asked.
'Maybe we'll get into a fight tonight, first thing, at the restaurant.'
'Over what?'
'Politics.'
'I think all politicians are power-hungry bastards too incompetent to tie their own shoelaces.'
'So do I'
'I'm a Libertarian.'
'So am I--sort of.'
'Short argument.'
'Maybe we'll fight over religion.'
'I was raised a Catholic. But I'm not much of anything any more.'
'Me either.'
'We don't seem to be good at arguing.'
'Well,' she said, 'maybe we're the kind of people who fight over little things, inconsequential matters.'
'Such as?'
'Well, since we're going to an Italian restaurant, maybe you'll love the garlic bread, and I'll hate it.'
'And we'll fight over that?'
'That or the fettucini or the manicotti.'
'No. Where we're going, you'll love everything,' he said. 'Wait and see.'
He took her to Savatino's Ristorante on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was an intimate place, seating no more than sixty and somehow appearing to seat only half that number; it was cozy, comfortable, the kind of restaurant in which you could lose track of time and spend six hours over dinner if the waiters didn't nudge you along. The lighting was soft and warm. The recorded opera--leaning heavily to the voices of Gigli and Caruso and Pavarotti-- was played loud enough to be heard and appreciated, but not so loud that it intruded on conversation. There was a bit too much decor, but one part of it, a spectacular mural, was, Hilary thought, absolutely wonderful. The painting covered an entire wall and was a depiction of the most commonly perceived joys of the Italian lifestyle: grapes, wine, pasta, dark-eyed women, darkly handsome men, a loving and rotund nonna, a group of people dancing to the music of an accordionist, a picnic under olive trees, and much more. Hilary had never seen anything remotely like it, for it was neither entirely realistic nor stylized nor abstract nor impressionistic, but an odd stepchild of surrealism, as if it were a wildly inventive collaboration between Andrew Wyeth and Salvador Dali.
Michael Savatino, the owner, who turned out to be an ex-policeman, was irrepressibly jolly, hugging Tony, taking Hilary's hand and kissing it, punching Tony lightly in the belly and recommending pasta to fatten him up, insisting they come into the kitchen to see the new cappuccino machine. As they came out of the kitchen, Michael's wife, a striking blonde named Paula, arrived, and there was more hugging and kissing and complimenting. At last, Michael linked arms with Hilary and escorted her and Tony to a corner booth. He told the captain to bring two bottles of Biondi-Santi's Brunello di Montelcino, waited for the wine, and uncorked it himself. After glasses had been filled and toasts made, he left them, winking at Tony to show his approval, seeing Hilary notice the wink, laughing at himself, winking at her.
'He seems like such a nice man,' she said when Michael had gone.
'He's some guy,' Tony said.
'You like him a great deal.'
'I love him. He was a perfect partner when we worked homicide together.'
They fell smoothly into a discussion of policework and then screenwriting. He was so easy to talk to that Hilary felt she had known him for years. There was absolutely none of the awkwardness that usually marred a first date.
At one point, he noticed her looking at the wall mural. 'Do you like the painting?' he asked.
'It's superb.'
'Is it?'
'Don't you agree?'
'It's pretty good,' he said.
'Better than pretty good. Who did it? Do you know?'
