Shortly, he spotted Devlin Daltry, slim and dressed entirely in black and momentarily alone, so he set his champagne glass down on a pedestal next to a lump titled “Doubt,” walked quickly over to the man and offered his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Daltry,” he said, squeezing his hand, and with his other taking him by the arm and steering him out of the hearing of others.
Daltry followed, because he had to. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“My name is Stone Barrington, and I am the attorney representing your former friend, Celia.”
“I don’t have to talk to you,” Daltry said, attempting and failing to free himself from Stone’s clutches.
“That’s right, you don’t,” Stone replied. “But you have to listen for just a moment, or I’ll break your hand.” He squeezed it for emphasis.
Daltry winced. “All right, get it over with.”
“I’ve come here to tell you that your relationship with Celia is over from this moment and that, should you attempt to see her or even contact her ever again, I will see that a world of legal and financial problems falls on you from a great height and makes your life not worth living. This will be in addition to the criminal penalties that will follow, and follow you they will, right into Rikers Island. And finally-and this is entirely personal, not legal-after all that is done, I will find a quiet moment with you alone and leave you in a condition that will prevent you from making any more of these awful little things you dare to call ‘sculptures.’ Is all that perfectly clear?” He squeezed Daltry’s hand again for emphasis.
“Yes,” Daltry grunted.
“I hope I won’t find it necessary to see you again.” Stone released the sculptor from his grip, walked out of the gallery and got into his waiting cab. “Sixty-fifth and Madison,” he said.
He walked into La Goulue, one of his favorite non-Elaine’s restaurants, twenty minutes later to find Celia waiting for him at his usual table, sipping a glass of wine. He gave a kiss to Suzanne, who ran the place, then slid into his seat. “Sorry to be late,” he said. “It’s a long trip from SoHo.”
“You went to the opening?” she asked.
“I did,” he replied, waving at a waiter and making drinking motions. “His stuff is awful, soulless.”
“I can’t disagree. Did the two of you talk?”
“I did all the talking,” Stone said, “but he seemed to get the message.”
She looked doubtful. “Devlin is not very good at getting the message. I’m afraid I haven’t been completely truthful with you.”
Stone took a sip of his drink and wondered what was coming next. “I’m listening,” he said.
“I mean, it’s not that I’ve lied to you; it’s just that there’s more to Devlin than I’ve mentioned.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s wilder than he looks.”
“How do you mean, ‘wilder’?”
“He’s capable of attacking men twice his size and of doing damage.”
“And has he found attacking men twice his size a profitable activity?”
“He hits unexpectedly, then runs, and he can run very fast.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said, taking another sip. “Anything else?”
“He’s also capabl
e of hiring people to do his dirty work for him. A couple of weeks ago, I was followed out of a restaurant I used to frequent by two men, and it was obvious what they had on their minds. Fortunately, I made it into a cab before they got to me, and I lost them. This is why I don’t want Devlin to know where I’m living. These days, I make it a rule not to go anywhere I usually go. I’ve even dropped two clients that he knew about, because I was afraid I’d come out of their buildings and find Devlin or those two men waiting for me.”
“I think that’s very wise,” Stone said. “Our next move is to get a temporary restraining order against him.”
“I told you before, that won’t stop him.”
“It often doesn’t stop the aggressor, but violating it has legal consequences up to and including jail time, depending on how pissed off the judge is.”
“All right, if you think that’s best.”