“That’s what I’m drinking,” II said to Herbie.
“It’s the patriotic thing to do,” Herbie replied, echoing what Stone had once said to him. “A fine American whiskey.”
“My son has been telling me of your exploits at Woodman and Weld,” II said.
“‘Exploits’ is a colorful word to describe such a short career,” Herbie said.
“There’s nothing wrong with a young man’s being in a hurry, Mr. Fisher,” II said, “as long as he doesn’t take too many shortcuts along the way.”
Herbie smiled. “Choosing one’s shortcuts carefully is always a good idea. I wouldn’t like to get caught off base.”
“That’s a good way of putting it,” Bentley said. “I know it’s short notice, but do you think you could join Bobby and me for dinner here?”
“Thank you, sir, I’d like that.”
Bobby excused himself and went to the men’s room.
“Your son is a very bright young man,” Herbie said. “He doesn’t have to be told twice what to do. I think he’s going to do very well.”
“It pleases me to hear you say that, Mr. Fisher. I worried when he decided to go into the law. I suppose I had some hopes of his joining the family firm.”
“What is the family firm?” Herbie asked.
“The Bentley Company. We manufacture precision machine parts for the oil, aircraft, and aerospace industries.”
“Of course,” Herbie said. “I think I read something in Fortune a few months ago about the company.”
“I’m the third generation,” II said.
“Perhaps Bobby will be the fourth yet,” Herbie said, “but I think he needs to prove himself in an unconnected field first.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, I surmised it.”
“Well, Mr. Fisher, you’ve given me new hope.”
Bobby returned.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” II asked, rising. The two younger men followed him to the dining room, where they were given a corner table.
Herbie noticed that Mr. Bentley took the gunfighter’s seat, facing the room. They received menus and ordered, and Bentley chose an expensive French claret for them.
“Tell me, Mr. Fisher,” II said, “what would you do if a client of yours found themselves faced with an unjust and potentially dangerous lawsuit? Do you have any experience with commercial litigation?”
“We’re a large enough firm to have people experienced in every area of the law,” Herbie said. “I think of myself as a generalist. If my client were faced with such a problem I would assemble an expert team from the firm’s partners and act as liaison between them and my client.”
“That’s a very sensible way to proceed for someone in your position,” II said.
Their dinner arrived, and II led the discussion from one subject to another for an hour. When coffee arrived, he said, “You know, I had hoped that when Bobby had acquired some experience at his firm, I might ask him to represent the firm in some area or other. I had thought that some years might pass before I had the opportunity to do that, but since he’s obviously found a good place to be in the firm, maybe I can make it happen more quickly.”
“I would be happy to help in any way I can,” Herbie said, “and I’m sure Bobby would, too. We can put the best of Woodman and Weld at your disposal.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” II said, then ordered them a fine brandy.
20
Stone was having a sandwich at his desk when the phone rang. Joan had gone to the bank, so he answered.
“Hi, Stone,” a silken and very familiar voice said. “It’s Tiffany.”
Tiffany Baldwin was the United States attorney for the Southern District of New York, and something of an old flame of Stone’s. He did not wish to hear from her, but he didn’t want to alienate her, either, given her position. “Hi, Tiff,” he said, as pleasantly as he could manage.
“Something came across my desk involving a client of yours,” she said.
“Oh? Which client?”
“One Herbert Fisher. Seems Mr. Fisher got the funds in a brokerage account as part of a divorce settlement.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” Stone said. “I believe I wrote to you about it some months ago.”
“Some months ago releasing the funds would have been out of the question, given the criminal history of the former Mrs. Fisher, but things may have changed. Now, discussing the matter is not out of the question.”
“I would be very pleased to discuss that at your convenience,” Stone said.
“I would find it convenient to have dinner at Daniel tonight, then have a drink at your place.”
Stone hoped she didn’t hear him grit his teeth. “Of course, Tiff. May we meet at Daniel at eight?”
“We may,” she said. “See you there.”
Stone hung up and called Daniel immediately. The place was, arguably, the most expensive restaurant in New York and was packed every night, but he managed to get to the maitre d’ and finagle a table, which would cost him. He hung up, relieved, and wondered what the hell had suddenly moved Tiffany to call him about this now, months after she had ignored his written request.
Stone arrived on time and ordered a drink in the bar. Tiffany, who was reliably late by nature, joined him twenty minutes later, and he had a second drink with her. The bourbon in his veins led him to appreciate her appearance more than he might have when sober. She was a tall woman, slim, with long blond hair and a particularly fetching shape, including impressive breasts, which were on display this evening, barely contained by a tight black dress with a precipitous decolletage.
“How is the fighting of crime going?” Stone asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep his gaze at eye level.
Tiffany leaned in on her elbows, which allowed her breasts to pretty much roam free. “Tough, but we’re winning.” They sat at a small table, which allowed her to run a fingernail up his inner thigh.
“That’s encouraging to hear,” Stone replied, crossing his legs in self-defense. This was a voracious woman, and he knew he was not going to make it through the evening without feeding her pleasure.
The maitre d’ materialized and led them toward the main dining room, pausing long enough to palm the C- note that Stone dangled in his fingers for the man to snag.
“I’m impressed that you could get this table on short notice,” Tiffany said, arranging herself so that she could cast an eye over the room for familiar faces.
“So am I,” Stone said.
Menus arrived, and they ordered dinner.
“May we have champagne?” Tiffany sort of requested.
“Of course,” Stone said, opening the wine list and running an eye over the right-hand column, the one with the prices. He chose one that was only $250.
The next hour and a half were spent in hyper-expensive gorging, and then they stumbled out into the street and lucked into a quick cab. It took less than ten minutes to drive to Stone’s house, go upstairs, strip, and dive into the sack.
“I trust there are no cameras present this time,” she said from her perch atop him. She alluded to an occasion when, without Stone’s knowledge, a bad person had wired his bedroom for both video and audio, then sent a copy of a tryst between himself and Tiffany to Page Six at the New York Post. Fortunately, the angle of the camera’s view had made it impossible to entirely identify either of them, though some accurate guessing took
