Melancholy Baby

32

Sitting at the bar in the Four Seasons Grill Room under the several-story ceiling, sipping a martini made with Grey Goose L’Orange vodka, I was on my first date since Richie got married. Unless you counted Ike Rosen. Granted, it was a working date. It was still a date. The room was full of well-dressed people who looked successful in that New York way, including my date.

“So how did a beautiful woman like you,” he said, “turn out to be a detective.”

I had hoped for a more original opener. But he had said beautiful.

“I was an art major in college,” I said.

“Art history?”

“No,” I said. “I paint.”

“Wow,” Peter said. “I’d love to see some of your work.”

He was drinking Glenfiddich on the rocks in a squat, manly glass.

“I hope you will,” I said.

“So, how’s that segue to detective work?” he said.

“I needed to earn a living until my paintings began to sell,” I said. “And my father was a cop. I like the work. It’s interesting. Sometimes I’m helpful to people. And I get to set my own hours.”

“You live alone?” he said.

“I live with Rosie, the world’s most beautiful bull terrier.”

“Being the world’s most beautiful bull terrier,” Peter said, “is not necessarily a challenge.”

I stared at him without speaking. He looked at me and smiled.

“She must be very beautiful,” he said. “I gather you’re not married.”

“Divorced,” I said.

He nodded as if to say, “Aren’t we all.”

“Anyone in your life right now?” he said.

“Right now?” I said. “You.”

“Well, aren’t you literal,” he said.

I smiled. “So why did you decide to see me?” I said.

“I had a premonition,” he said.

“The names I mentioned didn’t count?”

“Well, hell,” he said, and sipped his scotch. “I knew Ike Rosen, at least.”

“The receptionist didn’t expect you to see me.”

“Just that feeling,” he said.

He gave me a little toast with his glass.

“You know... this could be the start of something big.”

“And you never heard of Lewis Karp.”

“Must you keep carping on him?”

I smiled.

“That’s awful,” I said.

He nodded.

“Awful,” he said.

“You represent Lolly Drake?”

“I do,” he said. “And Andy Wescott — you know, the star of that cop show. And Chuck Wells, the news anchor.” He smiled. “Lawyer to the stars,” he said.

“What’s she like?” I said.

“Lolly?”

I nodded.

“Just what you see and hear,” he said. “Smart, tough woman. Sees clearly, thinks clearly. And a knockout to boot.”

“Do you know where she started?” I said.

“Oh, hell, East Overshoe, someplace. I don’t know. The Midwest. Some rinky-dink eight-watt radio station. She was their” — he made quote marks in the air and lowered his voice — “law correspondent.”

“And it built from there?”

“Yeah. It became a ‘call-in, ask Lolly’ kind of program, and then the subject matter broadened” — he waved his hand — “the rest is history.

“The firm has represented her since she went national,” he said. “I took her on personally, I’d say, about ten years ago.”

“She fun to work with?”

“You bet,” he said. “You always know where you stand with Lolly.”

“But is she fun?” I said.

“Probably not as much fun as you. Why the interest?”

“Hell,” I said. “What woman wouldn’t be interested. She’s a hero to us all.”

“I can see why she would be,” Peter said.

“Do you do all her legal work?”

“We do everything,” Peter said. “Legal, representation, the whole deal.”

“I’d love to meet her,” I said.

Peter tilted his head.

“Might be possible,” he said. “Would you like dinner here, or would you like to come back to my place?”

“Do you cook?” I said.

“Elegantly,” he said.

“And would there be something really good for dessert?” I said.

He smiled at me and let the question hang for a moment.

Then he said, “I guess that would be pretty much up to you.”

It was possible that Peter would turn out to be the enemy. I was alone in New York. My ex-husband had remarried.

“Let’s find out,” I said.