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P hilippe, the maitre d'hotel, greets me in the restaurant foyer with a thin, pasted smile, a curl of the upper lip. I am late, embarrassingly so. His dark indecipherable eyes give me the once over, cleaving my portly frame into a multitude of unworthy pieces. My apology is effusive and hurried, tossing out excuses like random selections from my office rolodex - the traffic, the weather, advancing age - hoping one of them will reconstruct me in a better light. I play up the age bit with a sleight of vaudeville, clicking my heels and twirling an index finger about my temple. Slapstick is standing in this evening. Truth sends its regrets.

My host slips behind a lamp-lit escritoire and leafs through the reservation book, flexing at the waist like a chevron, a glistening carapace of oiled, ebony hair sweeping back from fine bones and rich, olive skin. He mutters to himself - soft indelicate protestations in the other official language - lips sensual and full even in rancour. Philippe looks up, leering at me from across the desk. "Your guest is still here and has been waiting for you for some time. I am surprised he hasn't left."

The reproof is palpable, the subtext crystal clear: fall-out from last month's raucous party of four, another setback in the project of endearment. My fault, I know. I should never have brought them here, a trio of businessmen from out west, ill-mannered cowboys more suited to a drive-through than a five star restaurant. But, I was in a celebratory mood after a profitable day of negotiation and, of course, there were appetites to be sated, wheels to be greased.

Their bestial tendencies erupted at the close of the evening, one of them - a gargantuan named Roy - pulling Philippe aside as he strode past our table, tugging roughly on the sleeve of the dear boy's custom tailored jacket, pressing him for afterdinner recommendations: strip joints, consorts, lap dancers, cocaine futures. Philippe eyed the rough hands cuffing his forearm and tried gently to disengage but Roy tightened his grip, wine-soaked eyes taking the measure of his captive's graceful, balletic form, a wink and a grin for his clownish associates: "Hey boys, look what we got here."

A chorus of crude asides from Roy's companions, both well into their cups. Philippe stared at me, the indolent partner, the tacit convener of this spectacle, his eyes full of hurt and umbrage. I avoided his gaze, drowning my duplicity in a glass of wine, daubing my Judas lips with a napkin.

A week later, a courier delivered a package to my downtown office. It was the custom tailored jacket - my gift to Philippe on his birthday a scribbled note poking from the top pocket: return to sender.

Spirit guide, Philippe, hangs up my great coat and takes me in tow. I fall in behind him, a hapless sinner seeking atonement in the slipstream of youth. We march along a narrow dim-lit corridor, bodies invisibly tethered, disparate hearts beating in tandem. He ushers me through a double door and we emerge into the light.

The dining concourse is vaulted, airy and earth-toned, thematic sweeps of indigo, umber and burnt sienna, scatterings of diminutive trees and designer bric-a- brac. High above the concourse, a great translucent dome harnesses the last skeins of evening light. We tread softly among the diners - the tanned faces, the bare perfect shoulders, liverspotted pates - our passing recorded in glances and whispers. I am a nomad, a huntergatherer, wandering the expanse of a richly appointed savannah. I love this room. This is my last time.

Philippe pilots me to my usual table. Thank God I have not been stripped of all right and privilege. McCann sits waiting, his meaty face and greying pompadour lashing out from a dark business suit. We stare at each other across the expectant topography of menus and place settings, McCann drumming fat fingers on the russet table cloth, eyes fixing on me like a hunter drawing a bead. He waits till Philippe is out of earshot. "I came close to making the call. What the fuck took you?"

I apologize and mumble something about a family crisis, a daughter away at university and heavy traffic. I bury my face in the menu. "Have you decided?"

"How am I supposed to decide? There's not a goddam word of English here."

My dinner companion is on edge. We all are. These are discomfiting times.

"Relax. I'll take care of this." A snap of the fingers, a perfunctory nod brings red wine and hors d'oeuvres. "They know me here." I smile reassuringly.

McCann impales an escargot with a gleaming fork, eyes it suspiciously and swallows it like bitter medicine. He leans forward in his chair. "So you're in the dock next week. Tuesday, isn't it?"

I busy myself with a napkin and pick up a silver soup spoon. "No. Pare is testifying on Tuesday. His Honour has set aside the entire Wednesday for me. Not to worry. I'm working very closely with my tailor. This is, after all, my television debut."

"Jesus H. Christ." One of McCann's sibilant prayers. He pushes back reflexively from the table, his weight shifting like a great boulder, glasses of wine quaking and shimmering. He mops his brow with a napkin and charges back, his barrel chest heaving, face thrust forward. "It's all a big fucking joke to you isn't it - lives and careers on the line."

Trust McCann to box his corner. He's had plenty of practice. I get a whiff of cheap aftershave and recoil, head bowed, eyes cowering beneath a hand awning.

"Hey, easy," I whisper. "Take it easy." My eyes, emerging from their hiding place, dance a furtive semaphore: we are in the public domain - my turf, my rules.

McCann backs off and smiles, straightening his tie and smoothing his lapels, settling back in the chair as if easing gently into a warm bath. He raises his glass of wine in token friendship and drinks deeply, the sparkling vessel angling upward like a trumpet. I sense a prologue in the offing.

"Look. Thanks for agreeing to meet," a shift in tone, soft and conciliatory. He lowers the glass, reptilian tongue snatching dregs from moist lips. "We know the pressure has been building on you from day one of this goddam inquiry. Every clown and their dog are waiting to hear what you have to say. That's why it's so important that we're all on the same page. By the way, Du Bois sends his regards. He's behind you one hundred per cent. Same goes for me."

This rogue wave of fellowship has me entirely at sea. I suggest we take a timeout and order entrees. McCann, stumbling over the menu, confers with a sympathetic waiter. Across the room, Philippe seats a table-for-one: a well dressed gentleman, early forties, blond haired, tanned and fit looking. They converse, Philippe attentive and smiling, the patron resonant and at ease. Suddenly, I am aware of not feeling well, my insides teetering on the edge of a great emptiness. Maybe I should have bailed out last year when I had the chance.

McCann orders the boeuf bourguignon. He's a hungry man and he wants his dinner.

"Excellent choice," I tell him and turning to the waiter, "Is Chef Henri on this evening?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Then I shall have the coq au vin, s'il vous plait."

Grudging approval from my dinner companion. Our methods differ but we speak the same language: contacts, connections, people we know.

Another bottle touches down to fill the void. We replenish our glasses and McCann plunges into his keynote address, a cadent stream of talking points and factoids, the iambs of a deftly spun pentameter. This is the ballad of creative accounting and I must learn it stanza by stanza: the dates and amounts, the nameable and unnameable, the points for denial, abjuration, concession, the pleadings of ignorance, mitigation, no contest. I take it all in, note for note, word for word, the fawning supplicant enraptured and doe-eyed at his master's feet.

The entrees arrive. McCann attacks his meal, scaling its ramparts and devouring all that lies within. My own appetite has up and left. Words too have departed. I stagger to the finish, picking and fumbling.

McCann, smug and full-bellied, looks at his watch and reaches inside his jacket. He pulls out a sealed buff envelope and slides it across the table. "This will help cover the tab," he says, smiling and getting up, "and oh, by the way, I threw in a couple of vacation snaps that I'm sure your wife and daughter will enjoy. Take it easy."

He pats me on the shoulder and walks away disappearing out of sight. I glance around and cautiously pick up the envelope, placing it discretely in my lap and examining its contents: bank notes - large denominations - two photographs.

I study the photos: shots of Philippe and me in better times, intimate moments: a hotel room in the Caymans, an after-hours club in Vancouver. McCann has likely had these for months. This must be his rainy day.

The waiter brings the check. I pay by cash and leave one hell of a tip. Call it an endowment fund for the culinary arts. Francine - lovely young woman, reminds me of my daughter - shepherds me back to the foyer and helps me on with my coat. I inquire casually as to Philippe's whereabouts. He's stepped out for a moment, she says. I nod and make no reply. Perhaps, it is for the best.

Outside, a florid moon holds court in a clear and transparent night sky. I offer my back to the probing light and wander along the sidewalk, waving off fare-hungry taxis, longing for the gloom. I turn onto a deserted side street and pause next to a black sedan with opaque windows. A rear door opens: "Get in."

I do as I am told, climbing in and shutting the door, sinking into a limitless interior of rich, burnished leather. A gentleman in his early forties - tanned, blondhaired, fit looking-- sits across from me. He is remarkably well dressed for a plain clothes operative. I hope he hasn't blown his expense allowance on my account. "Good evening, Inspector. I trust your meal was satisfactory?"

He ignores my question and signals for the driver to get going. A techno-assistant sporting a sleek ear piece regards me from the front passenger seat and gestures an unequivocal thumbs up. My expression is pained. I slip a pair of fingers beneath the lapel of my suit jacket and retrieve a thin metal sprig, a boutonniere of the wired world. I pass it to him, thanking God to be rid of it.

We emerge from the side street and bolt onto the main road, our driver unrestrained in brief seconds of vital acceleration. A blood-red traffic light stays our trajectory, the vehicle pulling up sharply like a hamstrung sprinter. We are brought to heel, chastened and docile in the light's crimson glow, only meters from the restaurant. Through the dim polarized square of my passenger window I spy Philippe huddled beneath the marquee and smoking a cigarette, lost in a late-night reverie. I gaze at him in silence, channelling my affections through the smoky glass, hoping for a sign. He turns his face in my direction, eyeing the ghost car that is my prison, a look of studied indifference. The light turns, the world turns. I sink deeper into the seat, a nameless man in an unmarked car accelerating into night.