Shallow Graves

tomorrow, then closing arguments and charge by lunchtime. Speaking of eating, where are you taking me tonight?“
    We’d reached the Park Street corner of the Boston Common. I pointed diagonally across it, though even in bright daylight you couldn’t have seen the building I meant.
    Nancy said, “The Ritz ?“
    “You got it.“
    “John, it’ll cost a fortune.“
    “You’re each age only once.“
    She linked her arm in mine and looked up at me. Irish, freckled face. Wide-spaced blue eyes. High forehead with black, fine hair, parted on the right side, long enough to fall just so onto her shoulders. And a smile that took its time pushing up the corners of her mouth and dimpling her cheeks and finally flashing straight teeth under a nose that she’d punch you for calling perky.
    Nancy said, “There are certain advantages to ‘dating’ successful, ‘older’ men.“
    “I’m not that old.“
    She balled her free hand into a fist, threw it straight into the air and said, “Airborne!“

    Nancy was still laughing so hard, I thought they might not let us into the second-floor dining room.
    At the table, the maître d’ discreetly pulled out the birthday girl’s chair and seated her. I tipped him a five for putting us at a window overlooking the Public Garden . The trees were a little too high to appreciate the flowers, but then it was early enough in the season that the beds weren’t spectacular yet.
    The waiter stepped over immediately for our drink orders, and Nancy said she’d rather have wine. The sommelier appeared with the wine list, which should have come in three volumes and an audiotape. I picked a price range in the red Bordeaux , and he made a suggestion that I accepted.
    As the sommelier retreated, I said, “You know, I really don’t mind the cracks about my physical condition.“
    “I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t make them.“
    Nancy covered my right hand with both of hers, running the edge of a fingernail along the back of my knuckles. “I read somewhere that holding hands is pleasurable because of the nerve endings.“
    “Nerve endings.“
    “Right. For example, it feels good for me to do this.“
    “It does.“
    She turned my hand over. “But if I try your palm, it feels better, doesn’t it?“
    “Uh-huh.“
    “That’s because there are more nerve endings there.“ The nail went to the pad of my middle finger. “It should feel even better now. Know why?“
    “Still more nerve endings.“
    A nod before moving to the thumb pad. “And there are just bundles of the little devils here.“
    I cleared my throat. “Any more... bundles?“
    “Yes, but unfortunately they’re not yet accessible.“
    At which point, our wine arrived.
    Halfway through the meal, a terrific rack of lamb for two, a pianist started playing, the kind of theme and variations that you recognize but have trouble placing.
    Nancy stopped the wineglass halfway to her lips. “ ’Phantom of the Opera’?“
    “I think so.“
    She took a sip. “Growing up in Southie, did you ever think you’d eat here?“
    “Same as you, Nance. I thought I’d work hard and do well and yeah, eventually eat somewhere outside of South Boston .“
    Nancy said, “Do you enjoy it?“
    As the pianist segued into “Out of Africa,“ I looked around the room. Lofty ceiling, delicate molding, crystal chandeliers. Wall-tall windows with drapes that had to be gathered like the robes of an emperor. Enough tuxedos and evening gowns to prove that fifty-year-olds still held proms.
    I came back to Nancy . “Yes, I enjoy it.“
    “As much as eating at a fish joint in Southie?“
    “The same, I think. In Southie, the guy who brings the wine bottles twists off the tops. I’m not sure the enjoyment goes up just because the guy here pours a little into a silver spoon around his neck.“
    “I was impressed with how you handled that, by the way.“
    “The man knows his job. I should let him do it if it helps me.“
    “Speaking of jobs, what did you do today?“
    That was the tough part of being with an assistant D.A. There were some things I couldn’t talk about because of client confidentiality and other things I couldn’t talk about because I might put Nancy in a conflict of interest. She wore the mark of one of those conflicts on her right shoulder, a little pleat of scar tissue over the hole a thirty-eight slug made when we first got involved.
    The good part was that I could be vague without seeming rude. “I’m doing a death case