Lucid Intervals

27

Michael’s was a restaurant on West Fifty-fifth Street that catered to the publishing and media crowd, and Stone wondered why Hackett had chosen it. It was a wide-open room with contemporary furniture and good art on the walls. Michael Mc-Carty, the owner, had opened his first Michael’s in Santa Monica, California, in the late 1970s and the New York place not long afterward.

Hackett was already seated at a prime table when Stone arrived on time. They shook hands, and Stone took a seat. “This is a publishing hangout,” Stone said. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s close to my office, and the food is great,” Hackett replied.

“That’s about all I demand of a restaurant, except for fine wines, good service, attractive decor and beautiful women to look at.”

“Who could ask for more?” Stone said.

Hackett had already ordered a bottle of wine and poured Stone a glass. “One of my favorite chardonnays,” he said. “Far Niente.”

“One of mine, too,” Stone said, sipping the delicious wine.

Menus were brought, and Hackett, with Stone’s permission, ordered sweetbreads with morel mushrooms for both of them.

“I wasn’t kidding yesterday,” Hackett said.

“That’s what I’d like Bill Eggers to think,” Stone said.

Hackett laughed. “You can use me as a ploy, if you like, but I’m serious.”

“And I’m seriously appreciative,” Stone said, “but I’m very happy with my arrangement with Woodman and Weld. It gives me a lot of freedom.”

“What sort of freedom?”

“I can travel pretty much when I like: I enjoy Maine and the Florida Keys. I fly myself around.”

“What do you fly?”

“Something called a JetProp. It’s a Piper Malibu that’s had the piston engine replaced with a turbine. Does two hundred sixty knots at twenty-seven thousand feet.”

“I fly myself, too,” Hackett said, “except I have a new Cessna Citation Mustang. I just got type-rated last month.”

“What did that require?”

“The usual program is two awful weeks in a simulator in Wichita with a lot of classes and an FAA check ride at the end, but I couldn’t take that big a chunk of time off, so I hired an instructor and learned everything over about a six-week period, then took the check ride. Who’s your tailor?” Hackett asked, suddenly changing the subject.

“Doug Hayward, in London,” Stone said. “Doug died last year, but his cutter, Les, is still there, and the shop’s open.”

“Doug has made my clothes for thirty years,” Hackett said.

“I hear you were in the Paratroop Regiment,” Stone said.

“Went in at eighteen,” Hackett replied, “a fresh little Scot right out of a croft in the Shetlands.”

“What happened to your accent?” Stone asked.

“I was led astray by American women.”

Stone laughed. “They’ll do that.”

“God bless ’em,” Hackett agreed. “I can still produce a burr on demand, but I’ve been an American for a long time. How about if I give you an occasional assignment?” Hackett asked.

“If it’s something that wouldn’t conflict with a Woodman and Weld client, sure,” Stone said.

“I’ll have to give that some thought,” Hackett said. “I’m thinking of becoming a Woodman and Weld client myself.”

“That would make it a lot easier for me,” Stone said.

“Will you give me your frank personal assessment of the firm? In confidence, of course.”

“If I were a business client looking for outstanding legal representation, wide influence and excellent political connections, I’d put my business there,” Stone said. “I think that in their various fields they’re the best.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Hackett said, “and very much what I’ve heard from other sources. Do they do patent work?”

“They do, and they do it very well.”

“I own a business that builds armored vehicles out of ordinary cars,” Hackett said, “and we’ve developed some parts and processes that I’ve managed to keep very close to our vest. I’d like to patent them and, eventually, license them to other builders.”

“I’m sure the firm would be delighted to handle that for you. Would you include all the company’s legal work?”

“That seems a logical way to proceed,” Hackett said. “I believe we spent close to two million on legal last year.”

“Shall I speak to Bill and have him set up a meeting with a couple of people in patents and intellectual property rights?”

“Do that,” Hackett said.

“I have a lightly armored vehicle, myself,” Stone said. “A Mercedes E55.”

“We’ve done a couple of dozen of those,” Hackett said. “Where’d you buy it?”

“The local Mercedes dealer had taken the order from a fellow reputed to have very serious Italian friends. Unfortunately, his friends caught up with him shortly before it was delivered. I bought it from the widow, through the dealer.”

“That’s one of ours,” Hackett said. “I remember the situation. You ready for a new one yet?”

“Well, it’s several years old, now, but with low mileage, so I’m happy for the moment.”

“I’ll give you a better deal than you got before,” Hackett said.

“It actually saved my life, once. Somebody took a shot at me from the back of a motorcycle. It needed a new window, a windshield and a couple of other parts, but it kept me safe.”

“I love an endorsement like that,” Hackett said. “Usually we get those from Africa or the Middle East; nice to have one at home. Seems we have more and more in common, Stone.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

“Have you ever flown a jet?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“One day soon, let’s go out to Teterboro and take a little trip. I’ll let you fly left seat.”

“I’d love to do that.”

THEY FINISHED LUNCH, Hackett signed the check, and they walked a couple of blocks together.

“I’m sorry you won’t think of joining me full-time,” Hackett said, “but I will find some projects for you.”

“It might be politic to arrange things through Bill Eggers,” Stone said.

“Of course. By all means, let’s be politic.” He stopped, and they shook hands.

“Thank you for a very good and interesting lunch,” Stone said. “I’ll have Bill arrange a meeting for you.”

“I’ll look forward to it, Stone,” Hackett said. He turned and walked toward Fifty-seventh Street and his offices.

“Oh, Jim,” Stone called.

Hackett turned back. “Yes, Stone?”

“Something I meant to ask you: have you ever heard of a man named Stanley Whitestone?”

Hackett scratched his nose. “I have. He got cashiered out of MI6 some years back, dabbled in business with Lord Wight, I believe. Why do you ask?”

“I recently heard the name, and I was curious.”

“Would you like to meet him tomorrow?”

Stone sucked in a breath. “Yes, thank you, I would.”

“You’re in Turtle Bay, aren’t you?”

Stone gave him a card.

“I’ll pick you up at one tomorrow,” Hackett said. “You’ll be home by dinnertime.”

“Thanks, Jim.”

“Don’t mention it.” Hackett turned and walked away.

STONE WALKED A little farther, then took out his cell phone and called Eggers.

“Stone? How did it go?”

“I believe I made a little rain for you, Bill.”

“How so?”

“Hackett would like to meet with your best patents people about a business he owns, making armored private cars.”

“Sounds good,” Eggers said.

“It’s better than that,” Stone said. “Please him, and he’ll give you all of that company’s legal work. He says they paid their attorneys a couple of million last year.”

“Very good indeed, Stone. Did you and Hackett come to any sort of private arrangement?”

“No, we didn’t,” Stone replied. “He offered me some projects, and I asked him to arrange them through you.”

“Good man,” Eggers said. “Do you want to attend the patents meeting?”

“Not unless I need a good nap,” Stone said. “Bye-bye, Bill.”