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This restaurant, Weinstein sensed immediately, was a mistake. M. Henry it was called, the M. apparently standing for Monsieur. He had driven past it many times, so he thought he might as well give it a try when his friend Buddy Berkson called to set up one of their regular monthly lunches. The restaurant was crowded, mostly with women and gay men, and noisy, very noisy. Seated, given a glass of water and a menu, Weinstein quickly noted that there was nothing here for him to eat: mostly ornate salads and sandwiches ruined by various cheeses and vegetables and herbs he had never heard of. Men don’t like complicated food, Weinstein thought. At least he didn’t. Awaiting the arrival of Buddy, contemplating this impossible menu—what the hell, under Seafood, was alphonsino?—Weinstein looked across the room and saw Linda Berkson, Buddy’s wife, her hand interlaced across the table with that of a large man with a graying ponytail, gazing into his eyes in a way that suggested much more than a business relationship or even friendship. Weinstein felt a surge of panic. Must get out of here before Buddy shows up. He set a five-dollar bill on the table and quickly walked out of the restaurant, hoping Linda didn’t see him.

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