“Maybe,” I said, finishing the burger and giving my full attention to the Blizzard, working at the chocolate that stuck to the side of the cup, careful not to break the red plastic spoon.

“ Das es shicksall giveren,” he said. “It’s fate.”

Dave spoke five languages, all picked up when he traveled in Europe for five years when he got out of high school over twenty years ago. Dave was a quick study with not much ambition. I didn’t know what “fate” or whose he was talking about.

“You know Christopher Lee speaks Russian and Greek?” he asked.

“No,” I said, finishing my drink.

I checked my watch. I had an appointment I wanted to skip but knew I wouldn’t.

“And Kobe Bryant speaks French?” Dave said.

I didn’t answer.

“Kobe Bryant, the kid on the Lakers. I talked to him once on a plane. In French. Kid had a great accent. Never finished high school.”

Dave was like one of the radio voices that had accompanied me when I drove, only Dave sometimes required an answer and deserved attention, which I tried to give.

“You Fonesca?” a deep voice behind me said.

Dave squinted up over my shoulder. I adjusted my baseball cap and turned around.

I recognized him.

“I’m Fonesca,” I said.

“Went to your office,” the man said, nodding toward the open space on the bench between Dave and me. “Man up there pointed you out.”

I looked up at the second-floor landing just outside my office. Digger, a homeless man who used the building’s rest room as a frequent refuge, waved down at me. I waved back.

I invited the man to sit. After all, he was a distinguished local figure, a minister, a leader of the local civil rights movement, a high-ranking official in the Florida ACLU, and a member of the County Commission, the only African-American in the city or county government.