Book 11 in the Stone Barrington series

ELAINE'S, LATE, For some reason no one could remember, Thursday nights were always the busiest at Elaine's. Stone Barrington reflected that it may have had something to do with the old custom of Thursday being Writer's Night, an informal designation that began to repeat itself when a lot of the writers who were regular customers gathered on Thursdays at the big table, number four, to bitch about their publishers, their agents, the size of their printings and promotion budgets, their wives, ex-wives, children, ex-children, dogs and ex-dogs.

The custom had withered with the imposition of smoking rules, when Elaine figured that number four needed to be in the smoking section, and since the new, no-smoking-at-all law came into effect, Writer's Night had never been revived. Anyway, Stone figured, every night was Writer's Night at Elaine's, and that was all right with him.

On this particular night, every table in the main dining room was jammed, and the overflow of tourists and nonregulars had filled most of the tables in Deepest Siberia, which was the other dining room. The only times Stone had ever sat in that room were either when Elaine had sold the main dining room for a private party, or when he was in deep shit with Elaine, something he tried to avoid.

Tonight, however, Elaine was fixing him with that gaze that could remove varnish. He had been to a black tie dinner party and had stopped by for a drink afterward, just in time to secure his usual table, the last available. Now he was sitting there, sipping a brandy, and not eating dinner. Elaine strongly preferred it if, when one sat down at a table, especially on a night as busy as this, one ordered dinner. She didn't much care if you ate it or not, as long as it got onto the bill.

To make matters worse, Dino had wandered in, having also dined elsewhere, and had sat down and also ordered only a brandy.

Suddenly, Elaine loomed over the table. "You fucking rich guys," she said.

"Huh?" Stone asked, as if he didn't know what she meant.

She explained it to him. "You go out and eat somewhere else in your fucking tuxedos, then you come in here and take up a table and nurse a drink."

"Wait a minute," Dino said, "I'm not wearing a tuxedo."

"And I'm not nursing this drink," Stone said, downing the rest of his brandy and holding up his glass, signaling a waiter for another. "And you may recall, we were in here last night, eating with both hands."

"A new night begins at sunset," Elaine said. "Now get hungry or get to the bar." She wandered off and sat down at another table.

"You feeling hungry?" Stone asked.

"Yeah, a little," Dino replied.

Stone handed the waiter his glass. "Bring us an order of the fried calamari," he said, "and get some silver and napkins on the table, so it'll look like we're ordering."

"You think that'll work?" Dino asked, looking sidelong at Elaine.

"Maybe she'll get distracted," Stone said. "Bring us a bottle of the Frascati, too, instead of the brandy," he said to the waiter. "And some bread."

"The bread is a good move," Dino said. "You don't think she really meant that about going to the bar, do you?"

The bar crowd and the restaurant crowd at Elaine's were occupied by different tribes, each of whom acknowledged the presence of the other only when eyeing their women. Neither Stone nor Dino had ever had a drink at the bar.

"Nah," Stone replied. "It's just her sense of humor." He looked up and was elated to see Bill Eggers, the managing partner of Woodman amp; Weld, the law firm to whom Stone was of counsel, coming in the front door. Stone waved him over and pumped his hand.

"Sit down and order dinner," Stone said.

Eggers sat down. "I already ate," he said.

"Shhh, Elaine will hear you. Order something for Christ's sake." Stone shoved a menu at him.

"Why?"

"You want to drink at the bar?"

Eggers opened the menu. "I guess I could eat some dessert."

"Good."

"I've been out with a new client," Eggers said. "He'll be here in a minute; he went to get his limo washed."

"Huh?"

"He wants to make sure it's hand washed," Eggers explained, "and he doesn't trust his driver to do it right."

"And you want this guy for a client?"

"Actually, you want this guy for a client, because he wants you for his lawyer."

"You mean he asked for me?"

Eggers nodded. "Go figure."

A new client did not usually ask for Stone; he first came to Eggers with some embarrassing, awful problem: a private detective in the employ of his wife had photographed him in bed with a bad woman; his son had been accused of the date-rape of his headmaster's daughter; his wife, drunk, had driven his Mercedes through a liquor-store window. Like that. Eggers then hunted down Stone, whose lot it was to handle the sort of thing that Woodman amp; Weld did not want to be seen handling. In return for this service, the firm would occasionally hand him a nice personal-injury suit that could be settled quickly.

"What's his problem?"

"He doesn't have one, that I know of," Eggers said. "He's a rich Texan, which may be redundant; he's a good-looking guy who attracts women like blackflies on a May day in Maine; and he's unmarried."

"What kind of problems could he possibly have?" Dino asked. "Has he killed somebody, maybe?"

"Not that he mentioned."

"How'd you come by him?" Stone asked.

"He was recommended by another Texan client, a very valuable one, a client you are not to go anywhere near."

"And he just asked for me, out of the blue?"

"Out of the clear blue. He said, and I quote," and here Eggers lapsed into a broad drawl, "' I hear you got a feller, name of Barrington, does some stuff for you. I want him to handle my little ol' account.'"

"He must be planning to kill somebody," Dino said. "Maybe drum up some business for me?" Dino was the NYPD lieutenant in charge of the detective squad at the 19th Precinct, sometimes called the Silk Stocking Precinct because it covered the Upper East Side of New York City. He had been Stone's partner, back when Stone had been a police detective.

"Here he is now," Eggers said, nodding toward the front door.

A man of about six-four and two hundred and twenty pounds, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, wearing a western-cut suit and a broad-brimmed Stetson, filled the front door.

"He looks like one of the Sons of the Pioneers," Dino said.

Stone hated him on sight. "Make sure he orders dinner," he said to Eggers.