Ryan clapped his hand to his head. “May my word processor blow a fuse if I ever write crap like that!”

We all laughed. Then Johnny got just a little formal. “Leonard, me lad, this is Meric Albano, the press secretary to the President of the United States. One of my protégés. We started together on the old Globe, and have spent many a lonely dinner hour right in this very booth.”

Ryan extended his hand. “An honor, Mr. Albano.”

His grip was very muscular. “Meric,” I told him.

“Americo,” Johnny said. “The son of an overly patriotic would-be poet.”

“My father was a civil engineer,” I said. “I was born the day he and my mother landed here.”

“In Boston?” Ryan asked.

“No. Cleveland. The flight was supposed to land in Boston, but a snowstorm had closed Logan. We got to Boston on a bus, finally.”

“Three weeks later,” Johnny said. “A fascinating beginning to a fascinating life.”

“I’ve been very fortunate,” I kidded.

“And we are honored,” Johnny went on, “that you could pull yourself away from your duties to break bread with us.”

“And bend elbows,” I said.

“Indeed.” He took his glass in hand, squinted at the reflections of the overhead bulbs in the red wine, then realized that I didn’t have anything to drink. He signaled to Conchetta, who nodded and smiled hello at me.

Dinner was pleasant enough, except when Johnny’s bantering got around to Laura.

“She did arrive okay, didn’t she?” he asked.

“Yes. They’re having dinner at the Harvard Club.”

“Laura?” Ryan asked. “You mean the First Lady?”

“Indeed so,” Johnny said, twirling a forkful of linguini like an expert. “Laura Benson and Meric were childhood sweethearts…”