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 maître 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 décolletage.
“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 maître 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 place.
“We are entirely alone,” Stone said, lying back and letting her do
the work. He waited until she had come three times and exhausted herself before rolling her off him and sitting up on one elbow. “Now to business,” he whispered in her ear.
“I released the account this afternoon,” she said. “Your client is now three and a half million dollars richer. Oh, and you can thank your friend Mike Freeman, who called the attorney general on your client’s behalf.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that at dinner?” he asked.
“Because if your wish had been granted too early, you might have been less interested in the latter part of the evening,” she said. “And I’m staying the night.”
“I hope you won’t mind if I get some sleep,” Stone said, rolling over and pulling up the covers.
“Not at all,” Tiffany said. “I’ll let you know when you’re needed.”
And she did.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING
, suffering from soreness, Stone called Herbie Fisher.
“Herbert Fisher’s office,” a female voice said.
“Good morning. It’s Stone Barrington.”
“Mr. Barrington, this is the receptionist. Mr. Fisher and his secretary are in a real estate closing at the moment. I’ll tell him you called.”
“Thank you.” Stone hung up, wondering what real estate sale Herbie was closing.
AN HOUR LATER
, Herbie called. “Sorry about not taking your call, Stone.”
“Not at all, Herbie. What were you closing?”
“A new client of mine, High Cotton Ideas, bought an old building in SoHo for its headquarters.”
“Oh, this is Marshall Brennan’s software start-up?”
“One and the same. I’ve already got a construction crew in the building, making it habitable for a shiny new corporation.”
“Then you’re a full-service attorney.”
“You betcha.”
“I have good news, Herbie.”
“By the way, it’s Herb, remember?”
“Of course, negligent of me.”
“What’s the good news?”
“Mike Freeman called his friend, the attorney general, on your behalf and yesterday the U.S. attorney released your ex’s brokerage account. You may now do what you will with the money.”
“That’s great news, Stone. After what I’ve seen and heard downtown, I’m going to put it all into High Cotton Ideas. My client is so happy with my services that he has offered me an investment opportunity.”
“I won’t ask you for details, to avoid having to explain myself to the SEC after the IPO takes place.”
“You give yourself good legal advice, Stone.”
“I do, thank you. And you owe me a very good dinner for what I had to do last night on your behalf.”
“I think I know exactly what that means,” Herbie said, “and I take the position that your lack of virtue was its own reward.”
Stone hung up, laughing.
HERBIE OVERSAW
the signing of the last of the closing documents, then invited Mark Hayes back to his office for a cup of coffee.
“How does it feel to own commercial real estate?” Herbie asked.
“It feels just great,” Mark said, “and I want to thank you for suggesting that I buy the building personally and lease it back to the company.”
“And I want to thank you for your invitation to invest with you,” Herbie said.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Mark said. He took a notebook from his pocket and did some scribbling, then ripped out the page and handed it to Herbie. “That’s the number of my shares you’ll get for investments of one, two, or three million dollars.”
Herbie took a quick look at the numbers and made a quick decision. “I’ll do the three million. I’ll draw up the documents, move the money today, and have a cashier’s check for you tomorrow.”
Mark nodded. “I’m impressed that someone your age can come up with that kind of cash on short notice.”
Herbie smiled. “I’m impressed that someone your age can start a company that’s worth the investment.”
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m willing to sell you these shares,” Mark said.
“I expect you can use the cash for the renovation of your new building. That way, you won’t need to mortgage it.”
Mark nodded. “My new architect and builder tell me it’s going to cost a million dollars a floor to make the space habitable, and I’m going to reinforce the roof, so that I can build myself a penthouse up there.”
“What a great idea! I live in a penthouse, and I can tell you, you’re going to love it.”
There was a rap on the door and Bill Eggers stepped in.
“Good morning, Bill,” Herbie said.
“I understand our new client is here,” Eggers said, offering his hand to Mark.
“Mark,” Herbie said, “this is our firm’s managing partner, Bill Eggers.”
“Good to meet you.” Mark rose and took Eggers’s hand.
“I’ve wanted to meet you since Marshall Brennan told me about your start-up,” Eggers said. “Are we meeting all your legal needs?”
“More than meeting them,” Mark said. “Herb has given me a wealth of good advice in a very short time.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Eggers said.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Mark said, “I have a computer to get back to. I’m unaccustomed to seeing daylight during the workday.”
They said their goodbyes and Mark left. Eggers took a seat, and Herbie handed him a cup of coffee.
“Well, Herbert,” Eggers said, “congratulations on making our new client happy.”
“Thank you, Bill.”
“Now, what have you done for me lately?”
Herbie laughed aloud. “Greedy, aren’t you?”
“You’d better know it.”
“Well, last night Robert Bentley the Third and I had dinner at the Brook with Robert Bentley the Second.”
Eggers’s eyebrows went up. “And?”
“And the elder Mr. Bentley says he’d like to give us some new business soon.”
“How soon?”
“I’m going to leave that up to him, and I’m not going to rush him. He said something interesting, though.”
“What was that?”
“He put this to me hypothetically: how would I handle a major piece of commercial litigation for a client?”
“Tell me what you told him.”
“I told him that we are a large enough firm to have specialists in every area of the law, and that I would assemble a team of our best litigators, then act as the firm’s liaison with the client.”
“Whew!” Eggers said. “I’m relieved to hear it. I’m glad you didn’t tell him you’d handle it yourself.”
“I’m young, Bill, but I’m not crazy.”
“Do you have any idea if he’s referring to a real lawsuit?”
“My guess is, yes. He described it as ‘dangerous.’”
Eggers frowned. “I’m not aware of anything like that looming in Bentley’s future.”
“Perhaps it hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps he’s thinking of suing, not being sued.”
“I’m going to have a word with our litigation department and see what we can find out. If Bentley comes to us with this, I want to be ready.” Eggers got to his feet and wandered out.
Cookie came in with a brown envelope and handed it to Herbie. “This just came by messenger.”
“Thanks, Cookie. You performed brilliantly in putting together that closing.”
“Thank you, kind sir.”
“You’re getting a fifteen percent raise, starting with your next paycheck,” Herbie said. “And it is richly deserved.”
Cookie smiled broadly, revealing small, beautiful teeth. “Thank you again.” She curtsied, then went back to her desk.
Herbie opened the envelope and removed the contents. It was a statement of his ex-wife’s brokerage account, with a letter saying that it had been released to him. He flipped through the pages, looking at the investments, then he called Cookie back in and handed her the statement. “Write a reply to the signatory of this letter, to be hand delivered, thanking him and instructing him to immediately liquidate all the shares, except the Apple stock, and to wire the proceeds to my checking account. Then write another letter to my banker, telling him that upon receipt of the funds he is to issue a cashier’s check for three million dollars, payable to Mark Hayes, and have it hand delivered to me.”
“It will be done,” she said.
“And when those are done, I’ll dictate a document transferring some of High Cotton Ideas stock to me, for Mark Hayes’s signature.”
“I shall return,” she said.
Herbie sat back and reflected that
things were going very well indeed for him, and that it had been his experience that whenever things were going very well for him he always found a way to screw it up. When he had won sixteen million dollars, net, in the lottery, he managed to blow six million of it in three months, and all he had to show for it was an apartment, a car, and some clothes. He resolved that henceforth he would devote himself to making his fortune grow, instead of blowing it. Now that he had money in Marshall Brennan’s hedge fund and an investment in High Cotton Ideas, he was off to a good start.
STONE MET DINO
for dinner at P.J. Clarke’s.
“Are we ever going to have dinner anywhere else?” Dino asked.
“I’m game,” Stone said. “Suggest somewhere.”
“I mean, I’ve always liked Clarke’s, but none of the regulars from Elaine’s are ever here.”
“That’s because, like us, they don’t know what else to do with themselves.”
“I miss them,” Dino said.
“Why? You didn’t spend a lot of time with them.”
“Yeah, but I miss them anyway.”
“Dino, I’ve got news for you: Elaine is dead, and Elaine’s is closed for good. Get used to it.”
“I’m trying.”
“Are you seeing the dancer, Rita?”
“Oh, yeah, but the hours may be more than I can deal with. Right now, she’s available in the evenings, because she rehearses in the daytime, then, after tomorrow night, she’ll only be available in
the daytime, when I’m working, because she’s performing at night. You going to the opening?”
“I think we’re sitting together.”
“Okay, and there’s the party at Sardi’s afterward. It may be the last time I see Rita.”