Chapter 17: Split Three Ways

The first thing I did at dinner on Friday was send back the bill before we had ordered.

The hostess seated us at a corner table under a little brass number eight.

A waiter set down water and said, "Mr. Waverley, everything's been taken care of."

"What does that mean?" I said.

"The evening is prepaid, ma'am. A card on file."

I looked across the candle at Silvan.

He wore the pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled, and he had gotten a haircut.

He was reading the menu with great concentration.

"Silvan."

"I only called ahead."

"You called ahead and paid for dinner."

"I paid for the table. It's very small."

"What did the table cost?"

"I don't know. My assistant did it. She said it was a deposit."

"Then it's a deposit," I said. "On a dinner where nobody pays for the other one."

"That was the rule," he said. "I'm so sorry. I'm a reflex."

The waiter, who had gone very still, said he could reverse the charge.

"Please do," I said. "And bring us three checks."

"Three, ma'am?"

"One for him, one for me, and one for whatever we share."

The waiter went away.

Silvan ordered the lamb at thirty-eight dollars and one glass of wine at sixteen.

I ordered pasta at twenty-six and sparkling water at six.

He asked if I would split the bread.

I said we'd split it exactly, and he said that was the best news of his week.

The bread was nine dollars. We split it at four-fifty each, in our heads, and we both knew it.

I had meant to be cool all evening, and I wasn't.

Under the table his knee had found mine somewhere around the lamb, and neither of us moved it.

"Tell me something that isn't about Gerald," I said.

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