A waiter materialized before them and set down two drinks. “Knob Creek for you, Mr. Barrington. Johnnie Walker Black for you, Lieutenant Bacchetti.”
Stone thanked the man. “That’s a good start,” he said, sipping the drink.
“How did he know?” Dino asked.
“Beats me. Did you get famous all of a sudden?”
A man appeared at the table and introduced himself as the owner.
“How do you do, Ken?” Stone asked. “Please pull up a chair.”
Aretsky did so.
“Your waiter is gifted with second sight,” Stone said, raising his drink.
“Not really,” Aretsky replied. “Elaine told me to expect you two, though I didn’t think it would take so long.” The waiter brought him a drink.
“When did this happen?”
“About a month before she died,” Aretsky replied. “I think she knew she didn’t have long. Elaine said that the restaurant might not make it without her, and that you two were her most loyal customers. She said you’d turn up here eventually, and she told me what you drink.”
Dino raised his glass. “Elaine,” he said.
Stone and Ken raised their glasses and drank. They talked for a few minutes about the photographs on the walls, then Ken excused himself to greet another customer.
“She’s still taking care of us,” Stone said.
“How about that?” Dino took another sip of his scotch and looked searchingly at Stone. “Something’s going on with you, pal. You depressed about something?”
“Nothing in particular,” Stone replied. “I had lunch with Kelli Keane today.”
“The redhead from the Post?”
“Not anymore. She quit to write a biography of Arrington. She had a lot of questions.”
Dino looked surprised. “And you answered them?”
“Most of them. She seems to be doing a conscientious job of research, and I’d rather she had accurate information to work from instead of rumors.”
“And you trust her?”
“It’s not necessary to trust her. I don’t think she’ll lie outright, and if she does, I have a recording of the conversation.” He patted his breast pocket.
“Smart move. Is she going to let you read it before publication?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“If a client of yours was talking to a former Post reporter for publication, what advice would you give him?”
“I’d tell him to record the conversation.”
“Yeah, and you’d tell him to demand to see the manuscript before publication.”
“I don’t want to read it when it’s published, and I don’t want to read it now. There won’t be anything in it that I don’t already know.”
“I hope you’re right,” Dino said. “So this lunch depressed you?”
“It forced me to relive things.”