Class Act

8

Stone was wrapping up his day when Joan buzzed. “Will you accept a call from the president of the United States?” she asked.

“Oh, all right.”

“I knew you’d be excited.”

There was a click. “Stone?” Holly said brightly.

“One and the same. Where are you?”

“In New York, as it happens. Dinner tonight? I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more notice, but I was locked into the UN all day.”

“You mean dine out in public, like in a restaurant?”

“Sort of. I’ve booked a private dining room at Peter Luger. I’m dying for a steak.”

“Is there a bed in that room?”

“I’ve got that all worked out,” she said. “You’re sleeping at the Carlyle, so bring a change of socks.”

“Will do.”

“Eightish,” she said. “We’ll arrive in separate cars.” She hung up.

Stone hung up, too. The thing with the cars was always a problem. If they arrived anywhere together, the paparazzi were waiting for them when they left. On departure, Holly went first, taking the crowd with her, so Stone could get to his car unmolested.

When Mickey got home he asked the driver to wait and take them to the restaurant. His key worked. He showered, dressed in his best suit, and was waiting for Louise at the front door, having robbed his secret stash of some more money.

At the restaurant they were seated at her favorite table; a Rob Roy was brought for her and a single malt Scotch for him.

“So,” she said, “how was your business day?”

“It went well. I had to fly to Maine to see a client.”

“How much did that cost?”

“He paid. The yield here could be great.”

“How soon?”

“A week or two.”

“A toast to income,” Louise said, raising her glass.

“I’m all for that,” Mickey said, sipping his Scotch. He ordered the porterhouse for two, and they had another drink.

“Trying to soften me up?” she asked.

“Trying to relax you. You deserve it.”

“God knows I do.”

Stone got to the restaurant first and was shown to the private room. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of the restaurant floor and Michael O’Brien seated across from an older, attractive woman. That must be the mother, he thought.

Holly arrived and closed the door on the Secret Service agent behind her.

They enjoyed more than a momentary kiss.

“I suppose we could just clear the table and do it here,” she said.

“I like a softer bed,” Stone said, holding her chair for her. A waiter arrived with an icy martini and a Knob Creek on the rocks.

“To escape,” Holly said, toasting.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I thought I was going to get stuck with a bunch of diplomats,” she said, “but I weaseled out of it.”

They had finished their porterhouse when Louise removed an envelope from her bosom. “I have a little surprise for you,” she said. “Open it later.”

Mickey thought of excusing himself to the men’s room and opening it there, but he resisted and tucked it away. He didn’t want to annoy her.

“Oh, go ahead,” she said.

He opened the envelope and removed a check for what he at first thought to be twenty thousand dollars, but he knew that was too much for a gift. Then he looked again. “Two million dollars?” he blurted.

“I sold some stock you were going to inherit anyway,” Louise said. “But I want it understood what it’s for.”

“I’m flabbergasted,” he said, reading the number again.

“First, you pay off your bookie. I want your promise that you will give up gambling, cold turkey. Otherwise, you’ll never have a thing. Then I want you to buy a nice, little apartment.”

“I like my present apartment,” he said.

“Well, you can sit around there for the next forty years, waiting for me to die, I guess. I had in mind something you could move a wife into.”

“First, I have to find a wife,” he said.

She raised her glass. “To a better wife, next time.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Now Mickey excused himself to use the men’s room. He got out his phone and made the call while standing at the urinal.

“It’s Mickey. Gimme Al.”

“Al don’t want to speak to you. He just wants to know when.”

“Tomorrow morning at ten, at my bank. He knows where that is. He gets paid then.” He heard a keyboard clicking.

“It’ll be eighteen-five with the vig.”

“Done.” He hung up, zipped his fly, turned around, and ran slap into Stone Barrington. “What are you doing here.”

“Having dinner, like a normal human being,” Stone replied, moving past him to occupy the urinal. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m taking my mother to dinner.”

“Did you bring your blackjack?” Stone asked.

“What are you talking about?” Mickey sputtered.

“Every worn-out cop has one. If it ever touches a client of mine again, I’ll deal with you myself. I have a blackjack, too.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Mickey shouted, exiting the men’s room.

“I intend to,” Stone said to himself, adjusting his clothing. He went to rejoin Holly.

Later, in bed at the Carlyle, they made up for lost time.