Rain had turned traffic into a slow-moving river of brake lights, but I arrived at the restaurant damp and exactly on time. I had just settled into the warm booth, with the scent of garlic drifting from the kitchen, when the front door swung open.

He stepped inside wearing a rumpled trench coat, apologizing before he even reached the table.

“Terrible traffic,” he said. “My wife’s always telling me I should leave earlier. She may have a point.”

He immediately emptied his pockets onto the table. Out came a crumpled notepad, a stubby pencil, loose change, a grocery receipt, and a cigar he never lit. The chaotic clutter beat the bread basket to the table.

The waiter noticed the growing mess and hurried over, setting down warm bread and taking our orders. My guest requested spaghetti and black coffee. I ordered a Caesar salad.

“My wife makes spaghetti,” he said, closing the menu. “Very good sauce. Of course, she’d probably want to know why I came all the way to an Italian restaurant just to order something she makes at home.”

Then he glanced back at the waiter.

“Just one question. Does the Caesar salad come with anchovies?”

The waiter looked at me. I looked at him.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just ordered it.”

“Oh, sure. Of course. I was only wondering.”

Then the trap was sprung. Every question sounded harmless, but somehow required a defense.

“I noticed you had just arrived when I came in. Did you come down Main Street?”

“Yes.”

“Funny thing. Main Street was flooded near Fifth. Must’ve taken you a while.”

I reached for the bread and shoved a piece into my mouth.

“I turned before that.”

“Oh, of course.”

He grabbed his notepad and began scribbling.

“That bread good?”

I nodded.

“I generally wait for my meal. My wife says the bread basket can ruin an appetite.”

He stared at the basket for a moment, then took a piece anyway.

“By the way, are you parked across the street?”

“Behind the restaurant.”

“Behind it?” He scratched his head, looking mildly confused. “That’s strange. I could’ve sworn the lot back there was closed on Thursdays. My mind must be slipping.”

He turned the notepad over and wrote something else down.

“What are you writing?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing important.”

When my salad arrived, he examined it more closely than I did.

“No anchovies,” he muttered.

Apparently, he had been waiting for that exact answer.

By the time our food arrived, I felt like confessing to things I had never even done.

Dinner finally ended, we said our goodnights, and it seemed the ordeal was over. He walked away into the damp night, stopped beneath the glowing streetlamp, and turned around slowly with one finger lifted.

“Oh, just one more thing…”

Lieutenant Columbo.

That is who I would invite to dinner.

To this day, I’m still not sure if Main Street was actually flooded.