I shrugged, and he sat.
“Are you a tourist?” he asked.
“Do I look like a tourist?”
“Not exactly,” he said. The waitress approached. “Would you like something else? A coffee?”
“A cappuccino with low-fat milk,” I ordered.
“Make that two, Paula,” the gentleman said. The waitress nodded and walked off. “You work around here?”
“Why all this interest in me?” I asked. “Do I remind you of someone?”
“Not exactly that, but I’d have to be a pretty dull boy not to be interested in someone who looked like you.”
“Oh, I see,” I said with a tight smirk.
“No, no. You misunderstand. I guess you can say I’m kind of an agent always on the lookout for new talent.”
I pushed my pasta salad aside and clasped my hands with my elbows on the table, leaning toward him a little. It was what my father would do when he wanted to indicate he’d had it with silly talk and wanted clear, truthful answers. It didn’t surprise me that I had taken on some of his gestures. He never successfully intimidated me, but when I wanted to intimidate any of the guys or girls at my school, I would take on my father’s persona.
“Kind of?” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean. You can make me a movie star or get me on television, Mr. . . . ?”
“Everyone who knows me calls me Mr. Bob.”
“I don’t know you,” I said.
?
?I’m hoping you will get to know me.”
“Why?”
“Are you in college in the city?”
“No.”
“Do you live in the city?”
“Yes.”
“In this neighborhood?” he followed, showing skepticism.
“Maybe, why?”
“You don’t look like you belong in this neighborhood.”
“Where do I look like I belong?”
“Somewhere better.”
“Really,” I said dryly. “Well, if this area is so bad, what are you doing here?”
“Scouting,” he said. “You know, like those guys who go around the country looking for great baseball or basketball prospects.”
“I’m not into sports.”
“What are you into, then?”