The Regent's Park was the sort of New York restaurant favored by married men having affairs with young women. It was grand, glossy, and solemn, with a great deal of marble inside and out, a colossal stiff neck whose hauteur appealed mainly to people staying at the nearby Ritz-Carlton, Park Lane, St. Moritz, and Plaza Hotels. In the history of New York no conversation had ever begun with: "I was having lunch at the Regent's Park the other day and ..."

True to his word, Albert Vogel had secured a table beside the great window. This was not a hard ticket at the Regent's Park. Nevertheless, there it was, the park, in its springtime glory. And there was the statue of Jose Marti, which Vogel had also promised. Marti" s horse was rearing up, and the great Cuban revolutionary was leaning perilously to the right in his saddle. Fallow averted his eyes. An unsteady park statue was too much to contend with.