The waiter must have smelled it from the kitchen, because when he came out to the patio he strode directly over to our table.

'What are you doing? Were you smoking a joint? Was that a joint you just put out?'�

I looked at him without answering, eyebrows raised in mock innocence, grinning like the absolute idiot I was that night. Nash turned his head away.

'Are you crazy?'� the waiter went on. 'You can't do that here.'� He stood in his black clothes, looking down at me, chin thrust forward. For some reason I found this stance funny.

'It's not a joke.'� He shook his head from side to side. 'Don't try it again.'�

I sipped red wine from a glass someone had left on the table. Maybe this guy was the manager.

He walked away. Nash turned back toward me but didn't say anything.

I lifted my hand from the ashtray it covered, picked out what was left of the joint and ate it. When I'd lived poor in the city in the 1970's (it could be done, then), I'd left joints as tips in restaurants.

'Wow,'� said Nash. 'It's been a long time since you've been to New York.'�

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