Some Like It Hot-Buttered by JEFFREY COHEN Page B

topic if you want to get anywhere with women. Naturally, I had no expectation of getting anywhere with Leslie, and wasn’t sure whether I was ready for her anyway. I figured my first date after the divorce should be with someone I found only mildly attractive, so when it didn’t work out, I wouldn’t be devastated. I was operating here without a safety net.
    “Why, aren’t I who I think I am?”
    Clearly, I was doing well. “I really don’t know anything about you. That’s what I meant.”
    Leslie looked blank. “Do you ask out every woman you don’t know anything about? That must be very time-consuming. ”
    “I mean, I know your name, and that you’re divorced, and that you’re a police officer.”
    “Well, that’s not nothing, is it? All I know about you is that you own a movie theatre, half a bicycle, and a smooth line with the ladies.”
    I ignored that last part, since I felt that emphasizing my shortcomings would not create a strategic advantage. “So what happened to your marriage?” I asked.
    “He was transferred to Salt Lake City and I didn’t want to go. We were already drifting apart. I was a cop, and he wasn’t crazy about that. I wanted to take some night courses at Rutgers, and he was pissed that I’d be spending even more time away from him. Not to mention, I can’t cook.”
    “Neither can I.”
    “Well, you choose a fine microbrewery,” she said. “So what about you? You were married. What happened to that?”
    “How did you know that?”
    “We ran a check on you. Your records indicated a divorce. ”
    I scowled. “What, Big Brother doesn’t know why my wife left me?”
    “Don’t get mad. You weren’t a suspect. You didn’t hand Ansella the popcorn, and as far as anyone knows, you never even met him, so you had no motive. The DVDs are a problem, but you’re not the one who disappeared as soon as they were discovered. There’s no indication you were making a dime from that operation. You don’t own duplicating equipment.”
    “It’s nice to know I wasn’t a suspect,” I said.
    “We have to check on everybody.”
    I had downed two beers (and one earlier today), which is two more than I typically drink, and it was having the usual effect on me: I stifled a burp. “Since you asked,” I said, “my wife is a doctor, and I wasn’t. She decided she wanted to be married to someone who could share her whole life, and not just the personal part.”
    “Divorce sucks, doesn’t it?”
    I thought about that. “It has its upside. If I were still married, you wouldn’t be here with me.”
    “Maybe I would,” she said.
    I shook my head. “No, you wouldn’t. I didn’t cheat on her.”
    “Another difference between you and my ex,” she said.
    “Is there any chance Anthony isn’t involved in this piracy thing?” I asked.
    She shot her eyes around the room, as if looking for the direction in which the conversation had gone. A lot of blondes are in the blue-eyed family, but Leslie’s were closer to green. “Nice segue, there, Elliot.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t know. We’re not supposed to say that someone’s guilty until they’re convicted, but . . .”
    “It’s all circumstantial.”
    “Sometimes circumstances lead you to the truth,” she said.
    I didn’t like the way the conversation was going. I switched gears again. “So, what kind of first date am I?” I asked.
    She grinned. “I’ve had worse.”

10
    The memorial service for Vincent Ansella had a few surprises attached to it. First of all, the guest of honor was indeed present, so the medical examiner must have released the body just in time.
    Given the circumstances, the mood at the service was not as somber as one might expect: Ansella’s mother, eschewing the traditional widow’s weeds some Italian-American ladies of a “certain age” might favor at such a hideous occasion, wore a well-tailored black suit and carried a white handkerchief she rarely seemed to need; and Ansella’s