“Speaking of ‘things,’ how are they with you and Marla Rocker?”
“Okay, I guess. She’s going to direct Peter’s play, and she’s casting now. She won’t be able to make it to the hotel opening.” Stone and Arrington’s son was a student at the Yale School of Drama, and he had written the play the year before. Dino’s son, Ben, also a student there, had produced it, and now it was being readied for Broadway.
“You going to take somebody else?” Dino asked.
“Who? I’m not seeing anybody else.”
“I’ve never known that condition to last very long,” Dino said.
Stone sighed. “I don’t know, everything is just kind of . . . flat.”
“You’ve got the grand opening to look forward to. The kids and their girls are going to be there, and I’m bringing Viv.” Dino had been seeing another detective, Vivian DeCarlo, who had worked for him at the 19th, and whom he had had transferred when he couldn’t stand not going out with her.
“I’m happy for you,” Stone said.
“The event sounds like it’s going to be a hell of a lot of fun,” Dino pointed out.
“Oh, there’s something new,” Stone said. He told Dino about the NSA intercept of a mention of the hotel.
“That’s kind of creepy,” Dino said.
“It’s more than creepy. We’re going to have Will Lee and the president of Mexico there, you know.”
“I know. I can see how there might be a little concern.”
“A little concern? Both the Secret Service and Strategic Services have doubled their manning for those days. Mike Freeman is taking it very seriously, and if he’s worried, I’m worried.”
Dino picked up a menu. “Let the pros sweat it,” he said. “You and I are out of our depth with that sort of thing.”
“Yeah,” Stone said, picking up his menu, “and I don’t like being out of my depth. That’s how you drown.”
They ordered dinner, and after it came, they liked it.
6
J. Herbert Fisher, formerly a loser of the Olympic class, but now an ace young attorney at Stone Barrington’s firm, Woodman & Weld, stood at the bar of P. J. Clarke’s, sipped his bourbon, and gazed at his prospects.
There was a pair of attractive brunettes a couple of bar stools away, but they were both wearing wedding rings, and that made them out of bounds. Herbie, as he had been known formerly, until he had advised those who knew him that he preferred and insisted on being called Herb, had had a semi-long-term relationship with a beautiful associate at his firm, but she had finally told him that she didn’t think an in-house pairing would be helpful to either of their careers. Since that time, it had been catch-as-catch-can, which hadn’t been all bad, but he had had to start seduction from scratch about twice a week, on average, and the experience was wearing thin.
Herbie caught an elbow in a ri
b and surmised that someone behind him was trying to nail down a space at the bar. He considered elbowing back but decided that the elbower might outweigh him. He peered over his shoulder and found empty space, until he ratcheted his gaze down a few inches and located the top of a blond, female head. Herbie didn’t exactly mind tall women, but he wasn’t all that tall himself, and he found it comforting when he could look slightly down at a female.
“Pardon me,” he said, “are my ribs crowding your elbow?”
She looked up at him, revealing a strikingly pretty face. “Not anymore.”
“Pretty good elbow,” Herbie said to her. “Did you play high school football?”
“Oddly enough I did,” she said. “I was an ace kicker: thirty-two extra points and eighteen field goals my senior year. Would you like to experience my field goal attempt?” She waved frantically at a bartender who was busy being busy elsewhere.
“Maybe later,” Herbie said. “May I get you a drink? I have influence here.”
She shot him a withering glance. “If you can produce a Laphroaig on the rocks right here”—she tapped the bar in front of her—“within sixty seconds, I’ll give you . . . the benefit of the doubt.”
Herbie made sure his gaze did not leave hers. He raised his right index finger and made a twirling motion.
A bartender materialized. “What can I get you, Herb?”