asked him which restaurant he was going to. He told him and watched as the young man jotted it down on the portion of the ticket he kept to place on the dashboard. He supposed it was to help them sort out and locate the folks who got so drunk or so lucky they never made it back to their cars. Louis Devereaux was waiting for him, already seated at the corner table by the front window. As he entered the restaurant, a smiling Devereaux rose to signal him. Walter realized he’d been made on the short walk from the parking lot to the front door. He never once looked around to see if anyone was looking at him. Stupid, he thought. Just plain dumb.
Louis Devereaux was a man in his fifties, average height, trim and fit, with a full head of dark brown hair. He had sharp features, a bony forehead, small nose, thin lips and a pointed chin. Except for the gleam in his eyes, he was the kind of man who could easily fade into the background. His smile was internal. Walter had seen looks like that before, smiles meant only for the smiler, smiles to complement fiery eyes. Devereaux’s grin was definitely on loan from the Devil.
He was from Washington. Walter was sure of that. Everyone in Washington wore the same dark-blue, three- button, natural shoulder suit with a shirt and tie designed to make them inconspicuous. These were not cheap clothes, not by any means, but they did defeat the very purpose of dressing in the first place, especially in this neighborhood. Walter was reminded of something a Dutchman said once, in Vientiane in 1971. One evening in a hotel bar, as they watched the Frenchmen come and go in the capital city of Laos, Aat van de Steen said to Walter, “A man who dresses not to be seen, is a man who will not show you who he is.” A lesson learned in Laos, still true in Il Localino.
“Hello,” said Walter, reaching across the table to shake hands.
“A pleasure to meet you, Walter,” Devereaux responded. They shook hands and took their seats. “Do you like this place?”
“Very nice,” Walter said without looking around at all. A skinny, old Italian man, accompanied by a young girl who might have been his niece or more likely his granddaughter, approached immediately. He brought with him a bottle of wine.
“Gentlemen,” he said presenting the wine bottle to them as if it were a great treasure. “Allow me to select this fine Chianti for you. Colle Bereto Chianti Classico, 1995. This is a wonderful wine, believe me. Make you warm in winter. Keep you cool in summer and make the women love you. If you don’t like it, you tell me so, it’s on me.” He handed the bottle to the young girl who tore off the seal and began screwing an opener into the top of the cork. While she did this, the Italian began with the specials for that night. With each one he went into great detail about the ingredients and the method of preparation, and ended each item with an opinion on the merits of the dish. He looked at Walter and, with a warm smile, said, “For you, the grouper piccata in a white wine sauce, with lemon and fried capers. On the side, some linguini, al dente, in a light clam sauce. No?”
“Sure,” said Walter, returning the waiter’s friendly smile.
“Would you like to begin with a salad with roasted pine nuts and the world-famous Localino vinaigrette?”
“World famous?”
“In my world, to be sure.”
“I’ll skip the salad, thank you,” said Walter.
“And for you, sir…,” the waiter continued, turning to Devereaux.
“The filet mignon will do just fine,” Devereaux said. “Angel hair pasta with that.”
“Of course, sir,” said the waiter. “Sliced medallions of filet mignon in Italian Romagna brandy, with mushrooms and peppercorns. Will that be all?” Devereaux nodded and the old man motioned for the young girl to pour the wine-first a taste for Walter’s approval, then a full glass for each of them. “Welcome to Il Localino. Anything I can do to make your meal more enjoyable, you call me, no?”
“Thank you,” said Walter. “We’re looking forward to a wonderful dinner.”
Devereaux looked at Walter and said, “You should look around. Go ahead, turn your head. Take a look.” Walter did. Il Localino was a small restaurant in a narrow building with the tables almost on top of each other, except for the ones by the window where he and Louis Devereaux sat. They had plenty of room, lots of privacy. In the middle of everything was a fountain gurgling with enough running water to keep conversations private. The walls and high ceiling were covered with old paintings, photographs and posters. As small, even tiny, as the restaurant was, so narrow you could not walk straight for more than a few feet in any direction, large potted plants were scattered about, lending privacy here and there while making it seem even more crowded. The walls and ceilings were dark, with exposed brick adding to the flavor. “The place has the feel of New York, don’t you think? Third Avenue, downtown or somewhere in the East Village?”
“Charming,” said Walter.
Devereaux laughed. “Wait till they start singing.” He took a sip of his wine, silently indicated his approval, and leaned back in his chair.
“It’s really great to meet you. Seriously. I never thought I’d get the opportunity.”
“I wish I could say the same,” Walter said, in a casual, comfortable, friendly tone of voice. “But I haven’t got the slightest fucking idea who you are.” There was no hint of anger in his voice.
“Aha,” laughed Devereaux. “You’d like to know, though, wouldn’t you? Haven’t figured out yet how I got your cell phone number, have you?”
“Haven’t even thought about it,” said Walter. “The options are fairly limited. I was guessing you’d want to tell me. So, who are you and why am I here-other than to have a delightful dinner?”
“You’re looking for Harry Levine. I’m looking for Harry Levine.” Devereaux’s smile became a wide grin as he shook his head. “I’ll tell you, it’s hard to believe that I’m looking for the same man as Walter Sherman. I’m getting a real kick out of it. And I need you to find him.”
“Are you offering me a job?”
“No, no,” chuckled Devereaux. “You’re already on the job.”
“Just want to horn in? Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. Levine has two aunts. One of them-a woman of exceptional beauty, I’m sure you’ll agree-visits you on St. John, and the other, you visit here in Atlanta.”
“Roswell.”
“Roswell, right. Sadie Fagan didn’t hire you. That’s for certain. So, that leaves Conchita Crystal. Don’t get me wrong, Walter. I’m happy you’re looking for Harry. I could never find him myself.”
“Why do you want him?” asked Walter, fumbling about the basket of long, thin bread sticks, finally picking two of them.
“How much do you know about Lacey?” Devereaux asked.
“Lacey who?”
Devereaux smiled. “You’re good.” He knew, from the look in Walter’s eyes, the name Lacey meant something to him. Of course Walter Sherman knew who Frederick Lacey was. But Devereaux thought it best to defer to Walter, to let him at least temporarily appear as a true professional. Only moments later, when he got no further response from Walter, he changed his mind. “I want to find him for the same reason you do,” Devereaux said. “We both know what he has. Although neither of us has read it and neither of us really knows precisely how important it might be. It’s possible-make that probable-that what Harry has, contains… things-things that some people don’t want to see openly exposed in the harsh light of public knowledge. Who can guess what such forces might do to get that document. When you find him, Walter, you’ll read it. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about, won’t you?”
“I have no interest in anything Harry Levine may have. I don’t want to read a thing. Couldn’t care less.”
“Of course. You never get involved, do you? You just find them, wherever they’re hiding.”
“Maybe you’re the guy he’s hiding from,” Walter said, munching a bread stick he dipped in garlic butter. This time he laughed.
“No,” Devereaux said. “I work for the President of the United States. I’m the guy Levine’s trying to get to. I’m the one he wants to give the document to-the document about which you have no interest. But I’m also the guy who can’t find him. He got spooked in London and took off. You can find him. Probably, you’re the only person in the world who can. And I want to help, in any way I can.”
“Because…?”
“Because, when you find Harry Levine, I’m the guy who gets the President to guarantee his safety. And we get the document, which I freely admit is my principal objective. I’m as interested in finding him as his aunts are. More. If Conchita Crystal hadn’t hired you.. .”
