LOITERING
Stuart Woods
G.P. PUTNAM’S SONS
1
ELAINE’S, LATE.
Stone Barrington arrived at his table at the same time as his usual Knob Creek on the rocks and made a mental note to increase the waiter’s tip. This generosity was blown right out of his mind as he took his first welcome sip, because entering the restaurant immediately after him, as if she had been following him in another cab, was his girlfriend, Tatiana Orlovsky. Stone was surprised to see her, because earlier in the day he had asked her to dinner and she had declined. Her excuse had been better than the I-have-to-wash-my-hair standby, but not much, and she had declined an invitation the evening before as well. They had been seeing each other for some months, and she pleased him more and more. He stood up to greet her.
“Hello,” she said.
“May I take your coat and get you a drink? I have a business dinner in a few minutes, but we have time.”
She sat down without removing her coat, a bad sign. “No,” she said, “I’m not staying. There’s something I have to say to you.”
Very bad sign: “Say to you,” not “talk with you.” His inference was that a response would not be entertained. “All right,” he said, taking a long drag on his bourbon. He had a feeling he was going to need it.
“Henry is moving back in,” she said. Henry Kennerly was her estranged husband, and in Stone’s experience and from her stories, he was an unreconstructed drunk and bully.
“Tati,” Stone said, as gently as possible, “are you out of your fucking mind?”
“He’s been sober for ninety-one days,” she replied, choosing not to address the issue of her sanity. “He’s never done that before.”
“And how long do you expect him to remain in that condition?”
“He’s a new man, or rather an old one, the one I knew when I fi rst met him. He has melted my heart.”
Stone felt his sex life leaving his body, like a departing spirit.
“Tati . . .”
“Stop,” she said, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “It won’t do any good to talk about it. Our time together has been wonderful, and I’ve enjoyed every moment of it, but it’s not going anywhere, and besides, this is my marriage I’m talking about.”
Stone wanted to remind her that it had been an unpleasant and abusive marriage for years, but he uncharacteristically managed to sense the obvious, that she was in no mood to talk. He shrugged. She stood up, and he stood up with her. She walked around the table, gave him a light, sweet kiss on the lips, then walked out of the restaurant. As she made her way through the tiny vestibule, one man flattened himself against the wall to let her pass, while another held the outside door open for her. Stone could see a cab waiting with the rear door standing open; she got into it and rode away down Second Avenue into what had become a blowing snowstorm. The two men entered the restaurant and walked toward Stone. The taller of the two was Bill Eggers, his law school buddy and currently the managing partner of the prestigious law firm of Woodman & Weld, to which Stone was of counsel, which meant that he was hired to handle the cases the firm did not wish to be seen to handle.
The other man was a stranger, shorter, heftier and squarershaped than Eggers. Stone did not know him but presumed he was the client Eggers wanted him to meet with.
“Evening, Stone,” Eggers said, shaking his hand. “This is our client, Warren Keating.”
Stone shook the man’s hand and offered them both a chair. “How do you do?” he said.
“Ordinarily I do very well,” the man said, sitting down, “but . . .”
“Warren has a problem I think you can help him with,” Eggers interrupted.
“I hope so,” Stone replied. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Scotch,” Keating replied quickly. “Laphroaig, if they have it.”
“Two,” Eggers said.
“They have it,” Stone replied, lifting an eyebrow in the direction of a waiter, who scurried over and took their order.
“And another for me,” Stone said, tossing off the remainder of his bourbon.
Eggers looked sharply at Stone but didn’t comment.
“How can I help you, Mr. Keating?” Stone asked.
“It’s Warren,” the man said. “I . . .”
“Do you mind if I sum this up for you, Warren?” Eggers said, interrupting again.
Stone reflected that Eggers did not interrupt clients without a good reason.
“All right, Bill,” Keating said wearily.
“Warren runs a multigenerational family business,” Eggers began.
“Elijah Keating’s Sons,” Keating said. “My great-grandfather started it when he got home from the Civil War.”
Stone nodded, but he had never heard of it.
“This is not what you would call a mom-and-pop business,” Eggers continued. “The company manufactures industrial equipment and tooling; they operate nineteen factories around the world.”
“We’ve run out of Elijah Keating’s sons,” Keating said. “My only son is the most recent generation, and he . . . has no interest in coming into the business. I’m getting on, and I’m weary of the travel involved in running a worldwide operation.”
“Warren has accepted an offer from a multinational company—a very, very substantial offer.”
“Congratulations, Warren,” Stone said.
“Not yet,” Keating replied. “I need my son’s consent.”
“Warren’s great-grandfather’s will was very specifi c,” Eggers said. “Each living heir must agree to a sale of the business.”
“My father has already signed off on the sale,” Keating said. “He’s old, and he was initially against it, but he’s finally seen the wisdom of the sale.”
“I see,” Stone replied. “And your son hasn’t consented?”
“He doesn’t know about it,” Keating replied. “At least not to my knowledge.”
“Warren and his son have not been in touch in recent days,” Eggers said. Stone figured he was being
