“Send them one on me, and make sure you tell them it’s from me.”

Gianni headed for the bar.

“You think Carmine is having you followed?”

“Carmine or Bernie. I think they’re trying to intimidate me.”

“Is it working?”

“Not yet.” Stone watched as the drinks were delivered to their table and Gianni delivered the message. The two tried to look baffled but raised their glasses in thanks to Stone and drank. Both looked stricken, and one of them waved Gianni back. A brief conversation took place: What the hell was this Scotch? Gianni explains that Stone specified it. They glower at Stone.

“Message received,” Dino said. “I have to tell you, I think it’s a faulty strategy to deliberately annoy people who are already considering beating you up.”

“I don’t think they’ve been told to do that yet, or they would have done it as soon as I left the house this evening.”

“They followed you from your house?”

“Yep.”

“I hope you locked up tight.”

“I always lock up tight.”

“Did you set the alarm?”

“Yep.”

“You forget to do that a lot.”

“Dino, I set the alarm, all right?”

“Whatever you say.” He sounded doubtful.

Stone got out his cell phone, dialed a number and, when it answered, punched in several numbers.

“What was that all about?”

“I was setting the alarm.”

“You can do that with your cell phone?”

“It’s a new feature I just got.”

“That’s a good idea for somebody who’s always forgetting to set the alarm.”

“I don’t think Dattila would have my house broken into. Would he?”

“Stone, if those two guys are Dattila’s and if they haven’t already beaten you up after tasting that Scotch, then this is a war of nerves. And if that’s what it is, then turning over your house would be exactly the sort of thing Dattila would do. It’s all about driving you nuts.”

“Order me the spinach salad, chopped, and the spaghetti carbonara,” Stone said, rising. “And loan me your backup gun. I’ll be back shortly.”

Dino passed him a small automatic under a napkin, and Stone slipped it into a pocket. He went outside to get a cab, then he saw the black Lincoln. He went over and tapped on the driver’s window, and it slid down.

“Yeah?” a thick voice asked.

“You’re driving the two guys inside?”

“Yeah.”

“My name’s Barrington; they said you could run me down to Turtle Bay and back. I’m a friend of Carmine’s. Only take a couple of minutes.”

“Okay,” the man said.

Stone heard the electric locks click, and he got into the backseat. When they reached his house, Stone had a quick look around inside to be sure nothing had gone amiss during the time the alarm had not been set, then he went up to his dressing room, opened the safe and took out the little Tussey.45 and a holster. Shortly he was back at Elaine’s. Stone opened the door. “Thanks very much,” he said to the driver.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, I almost forgot: The two guys said they wouldn’t need you anymore this evening.”

“Great,” the man said. “The game’s still on, I think.”

“Good night,” Stone said with a cheery wave. “Enjoy the game.” He went back inside and sat down, slipping Dino his backup piece under the table. The spinach salad appeared before him.

“You checked the house?”

“Yeah, everything was fine.”

“Did you set the alarm when you left?”

“Shit,” Stone said, getting out his cell phone and going through the procedure again.

“You always forget to do that,” Dino said.

“Dino, if you say that again I’m going to dump this salad over your head.”

“Good thing you got that cell phone feature; it’ll be invaluable.”

Stone sighed deeply and began eating his salad.

At the end of the evening, Stone and Dino walked out to look for a cab home. A moment later, the two gorillas appeared at the curb, looking around, mystified. One of them got on his cell phone, apparently looking for his driver.

“Have a nice evening, fellas,” Stone said as he got into a cab.

12

Stone was working his way through his mid-morning when Joan buzzed. “Bernard Finger on one.”

Stone picked up the phone. “Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Bernie Finger, Stone! Didn’t your girl tell you?”

“You’d better hope she’s not still on the line, Bernie, because if she heard you refer to her as my girl, she’d do terrible things to you.”

“Whatever,” Finger said. “You free for lunch?”

“To what end?”

“I thought we’d have a little chat and see if we can sort this thing out.”

“All right.”

“Twelve-thirty at the Four Seasons grill room?”

“All right.”

“And Stone, they require a tie and jacket.”

Stone was going to skewer him with an acid remark for that, but Finger had already hung up.

Bernard Finger, Stone was surprised to see, had claim to a well-placed plot in the hottest power-lunch real estate in the United States of America. While being escorted to the table, Stone did a mini sweep of the room and turned up half a dozen business moguls, plus Barbara Walters; Morton Janklow, the literary agent and attorney; and Henry Kissinger. And that was just a mini sweep.

Finger didn’t bother to rise to greet him, a sign that he considered his guest inferior in status, but offered a hand attached to a wrist wearing a gold Rolex with many diamonds in its bezel. So, Bernie was left-handed. “How you doin’, Stone?” he asked, as if he didn’t really care.

Stone shook the hand by grabbing the fingers, preventing a grip. “Just fine, thanks.” He sat down.

“I’ve already ordered,” Finger said. “Important meeting. What’ll you have?”

“A small salad and the Dover sole,” Stone said to the waiter. “And a glass of sauvignon blanc.”

“You know,” Finger said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, giving Stone a close view of thousands of dollars of hair plugs embedded in his scalp, “I hear around town you’re a fairly smart guy. How’d you let yourself get involved in this ridiculous thing?”

“Oh, well, let’s see,” Stone said, screwing up his face for thought and staring at the ceiling. “Egregious violence perpetrated in a public place upon an innocent by a man with deep pockets. That clears my bar for case acceptance.” He looked at Finger and smiled. “I’ll bet it clears your bar, too, Bernie.”

“But Stone, didn’t you consider who you’re suing?”

“Bernie, it’s not like Carmine Dattila is the archbishop of New York; he’s a cheap hood-all right, an expensive hood-who makes his way in the world by preying on those weaker than he. He’s a piece of dog shit in the gutter, Bernie, and I have to wonder what kind of lawyer would represent him in a public courtroom.”

Finger went all pink, but his response was cut off by a tray of a dozen fat oysters set before him. He ate four of them, emptying them from the shell into his mouth, before he managed a reply. “All right, let’s just stay away from personal abuse here.”

“Stop insulting my intelligence, and I’ll stop insulting your client list.”

Finger ate four more oysters. “Look, let’s cut to the chase; I want to make a proposal!”

Stone dug into his salad. “So, propose.”

“What we’ve got here is your stubborn client and my stubborn client. Carmine is never, repeat never, going to cough up a thin dime of his own money to buy your client off.”

“That’s okay,” Stone said. “When I win in court, and I will, I’ll just attach everything connected with him-lock, stock and coffeehouse. I’m sure I can wring a nice piece of change out of his visible assets.”

“You think Carmine has assets? Jesus, Stone, not even his fucking pinkie ring is in his own name; even his clothes, for legal purposes, are borrowed. You’re talking about drilling a dry well, and that’s going to cost you a lot of time, and time, as any lawyer knows, is money.”