Joan came into his office and put a box on his desk. “Sorry, the printer couldn’t get them done yesterday.”
Stone opened the box and removed one of Mitzi’s new cards. “Very nice,” he said. “That should do the trick.”
AT SIX THIRTY sharp Stone’s bell rang. When he opened the door, it was filled by about six feet four inches of Irish American, dressed in a black suit with a black tie.
“Evening,” he said. “I’m Tom Rabbit.”
Stone shook the extended paw. “Good to meet you, Tom.”
“You ready?”
“Yep.”
“She’s in the car already.”
Stone set the alarm and locked the door, then walked to the car. Tom had the door open for him. He slid in beside Mitzi and kissed her on the cheek.
“Don’t say anything about yesterday afternoon when Tommy is around,” she whispered, before the driver could get into the car.
“Right.” He handed her the box of cards. “Your credentials.” She opened the box and inspected the contents. “Hey, very good,” she said, tucking some of them into her small purse. “Makes me feel like I really live there.”
“Is it a nice place?”
“Haven’t you seen it?”
“Nope.”
“It’s a fucking palace,” she said. “Sorry, I’m talking like a cop. Got to get over that.”
“I’m glad you’re comfortable there.”
“My room is better than anything at any hotel in this city,” she said.
“I wouldn’t talk about that tonight,” Stone said. “The card will say everything that’s necessary to impress Sharpe.”
“What’s Sharpe like?” she asked.
“Reptilian,” Stone replied, “but women seem attracted to him.”
“Oh, we love reptiles,” Mitzi said, laughing. “They can always be relied on to slap us around and steal our money.”
“I’m sure Derek Sharpe won’t disappoint,” Stone said.
They drove downtown and arrived at Sharpe’s building to find half a dozen drivers waiting outside in their cars, mostly black Lin colns, the preferred transport for New York ’s affluent, who don’t like to arrive at a party in a taxi.
The building looked like a factory, except for the huge murals splashed on the outer walls.
“Ugh,” Mitzi said.
“Be sure to compliment Sharpe on them,” Stone said.
The elevator held a dozen arriving guests without crowding any of them and opened into a huge space filled with big canvases and many people. Some sort of pop music Stone didn’t recognize was blaring from a sound system.
“His paintings are worse than I expected,” Mitzi said.
“Sharpe may be, too,” Stone replied. He steered her to a bar and collected two plastic flutes of champagne. “This is as bad as the paintings,” Stone said, sipping his.
“Shall we hunt down Mr. Sharpe and introduce me?”