6
J. Herbert Fisher, formerly a loser of the Olympic class, but now an ace young attorney at Stone Barrington’s firm, Woodman amp; 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 rib 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?”
“Sean, this lady would like a Laphroaig on the rocks, my tab.”
“Sure thing.” There was the sound of ice hitting a glass, then of glass hitting the bar, then liquid striking ice. The result was set down in front of the young woman.
“I reckon that took about twenty seconds,” Herbie said. “That should get me more than the benefit of the doubt.”
“You’re right,” she said. “You can ask me two questions.”
“One: May I have the sixty-second version of your biography? Two: Will you have dinner with me?” He watched her expression, which did not change. “I am reliably informed that there is a restaurant at the rear of this establishment.”
“Okay,” she said, “here goes.” She took a deep breath: “Born in New York City twenty-nine years and two months ago, educated in the public schools and at Columbia University, followed by one year of Columbia Law School: boring. Joined the NYPD as a patrol officer, served four years, quit when I didn’t make detective, went to work for a security company called Strategic Services for three years, then quit to become a P.I. That’s the twenty- second version-you’ll have to pry the rest out of me over dinner.” She raised her glass, then took a long, grateful swig of the single-malt scotch. “I’m hungry. How long will it take you to get a table?”
“Follow me,” Herbie said, tossing two twenties on the bar and leading the way aft. A moment later they were wedged into a corner of the crowded dining room. She polished off her drink and raised her glass. “Join me in another?”
Herbie instructed a waiter, and the drinks appeared. He raised his glass. “I know that single-malt scotch is delicious,” he said, “but it will eventually eat your liver.”
“You worry about your liver, I’ll worry about mine,” she replied. “What else do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with your name.”
“Harp O’Connor,” she said. “Call me Harpie or Harpo and I’ll show you that kick of mine in a painful place.”
“I perceive that you are Irish.”
“You are very perceptive. Both sides. I’m first generation. My mother is a nurse, my father, a bartender who owns the bar.”
“Why aren’t you drinking in his place?”
“The surveillance there is intrusive, and the old man won’t let me have more than one drink. And he’ll eighty-six any man I talk to.”
“All good reasons for drinking somewhere else,” Herbie said.
“Your turn, Herb.”
“Fisher, and I don’t like extensions of my first name, either. Born in Brooklyn thirtyish years ago, played hooky from the public schools, followed by NYU Law School.”
“What happened to college?” she asked.
“I finessed that.”
“How’d you get into law school without pre-law?”
“I passed the bar. That impressed the admissions committee enough to allow me to enter. I finished in two years with a three-point-nine GPA.”
“Okay, so you’re smart. Are you employed?”
“I’m a senior associate at the firm of Woodman amp; Weld.”
“Do they give you anything responsible to do there?”
“One of my clients is your former employer, Strategic Services, whose CEO, Michael Freeman, gave me the business.”
“Mike Freeman is a smart guy,” Harp said. “One of the reasons I left was that I couldn’t get anywhere near him.”
“You seem to have a history of quitting when your employers won’t give you responsibility quickly enough.”
“Well put. I decided I’d be happier if I had all the responsibility. That’s what being self-employed is all about.”
“Why a P.I.?”
“Because that’s what people were willing to pay me to do. One of Strategic’s clients asked me to investigate a couple of his employees in my spare time. As a result, both employees were fired, and I was hired. Word about me somehow got around that hiring me more than paid for itself, and other work appeared. Now I’m well afloat.”
“Admirable,” Herbie said.
They both ordered steaks and onion rings, and Herbie picked out a good red from the list.
Well,” Harp said, when they had finished dinner and reduced the bottle to half a glass. “I’m not tired, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Show me where you live,” she said.
“That’s direct.”
“Saves time. One of the ways I judge people is by how they occupy the spaces they live in. If you live in a rat hole, tell me now, and I’ll be on my way.”
Herbie signed the check and pulled the table out for her. “Come with me,” he said.
They took a cab over to Park Avenue, to Herbie’s building. They took the elevator up, and when they walked into his apartment she didn’t take her coat off until she had had a look around. Finally, she handed him her coat. “You’ll do, Herb,” she said.
