The Mystery Megapack

and mignardises for dessert. The wine steward was stepping over to take their selection just as Edward turned to peruse the cartes de vins.
    “And then this namby-pamby-lookin’ Yank gent comes strollin’ along the way they do,” came the cockney voice quietly from the table across the aisle and Edward felt certain that the Boxer was talking about him. He closed his menu even as the steward was approaching. “ Buona sera, signora, signor .”
    Over the next few minutes, Edward realized that his ears had somehow managed to hear the empty part of both conversations. His wife, upholding his opinion of her as a model of discernment, took it upon herself to ask the steward for his recommendation. But though he heard her tell him that she didn’t like anything too dry, he did not hear the name of the wine suggested. And though he heard the Boxer speaking of wanting to “mash” the namby-pamby “right there” and his companion’s question as to why he didn’t, Edward could discern no further evidence that he was the one being discussed. There had been a “laughing,” he knew, and “words passed” and the “namby-pamby” hadn’t stood his ground, but by the time they seemed to be moving to the crux of the story, he found himself listening to his wife as she gave her assent. “ Grazie, signora ,” said the wine steward and passed between Edward and the party across the aisle.
    “And all this happened right there on the street?”
    “Right there, not a stone’s throw from the Bow Bells, mark my words.”
    So they had not been talking about him, thought Edward, relieved, and added under his breath that Brutus the Boxer looked like one who might have thrown stones.
    “What?” asked his wife.
    “Oh, nothing,” said Edward. “Just talking to myself.” And he adjusted the napkin in his lap.
    The eel was brought then with a small dish of caviar, and the wine arrived almost immediately after, though the Italian broke the seal and removed the cork without Edward’s being able to see the label. He felt certain that he would be given the opportunity to examine the bottle and taste it before it was served, but the man poured the wine into Caroline’s glass instead. Flustered, Edward glanced quickly around at the other tables. The Asians were still examining the menu and the businessmen were engrossed in conversation, but he could almost feel the Boxer’s eyes cutting his way. He pretended to be looking at the lacquered ebony wall panels where painted yellow pelicans dove for fish. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caroline taste the wine and nod her assent.
    It was a Bordeaux he saw, peeking under the linen once the bottle had been left in its cooler: Sauternes. He had always thought of it as a dessert wine and wondered at the waiter’s choice as he touched the glass to his lips. It looked gold and thick like olive oil; it tasted like honey.
    “Is it all right?” Across the table, his wife wrinkled her forehead.
    “Excellent,” he nodded, scanning the wine list again, guilty for not having paid the proper attention. He would undoubtedly have chosen the ’91 Pouilly-Fuissé, he thought, closing the menu, and cringed when he saw a bottle of it standing at the Boxer’s elbow, which rested on the table as if it belonged.
    The fish course appeared next, the red and white lobster centered in a creamy yellow sauce, with the leeks laid in a tick-tack-toe pattern across it and the pâté placed delicately to the side. He ordered a bottle of Pellegrino water from the waiter and sipped the honey again, watching the Boxer point his cigar at his dinner companion and imbibe his own wine with obvious pleasure. The waiter had served the four of them their lobster and Brutus continued to rail on as he ate. Edward could see the flesh of the lobster as the man chewed and talked, and as the meal wore on into the next course, Edward watched the lamb and the potatoes turn into a mash between his teeth. At one point, the Boxer’s mouth was so full as he spoke that a chunk of lamb flew from his mouth and landed on the table. “Woops,” he said, bringing his hand up in a puerile gesture of covering his mouth. Behind it, his lips were stretched into a schoolboy’s grin. Felicia popped his arm lightly with her fist.
    “What are you thinking about?” asked Caroline. “You’ve hardly said a word all dinner and you’ve barely touched your food.”
    Edward turned back to look at his wife and in a glance detected that