Barry had no time for Clarice’s friends who thought they were hot shit because their husbands had made a fortune at Morgan Stanley or Goldman Sachs in the 1980s. But he was in awe of girls like Samantha, who could trace their family fortunes back to the Van Rensselaers and the Carnegies. He also knew that as much as he was in awe of Samantha, society girls like her couldn’t get enough of real Hollywood players like him. And besides, Barry had seen her husband. He was a runt from Princeton. A dermatologist. That’s practically like being a skin care girl at Bliss spa or Georgette Klinger.

“So you’re doing a remake of The Maltese Falcon. That’s a great idea.” Samantha smiled at him. She really didn’t have much of an opinion about it, but it was something to say. She noticed a large blotch on the middle of his sweatshirt. There was something about his out-and-out slovenliness that she found surprisingly appealing.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” He took her hand.

“Barry, Barry,” another efficient girl called as she ran over to him.

“You tell the director if I don’t see the dailies of scene thirty-one tonight, I’ll be back here tomorrow. To shoot the fuckin’ thing myself.”

“But…” she stammered.

“I don’t believe in ‘but.’”

He grabbed Samantha under the arm. “We’re outta here.”

“So what do you wanna do?” Barry asked Samantha as he walked her toward his car.

“I don’t know. We could take a walk,” she answered.

“In Leonia, New Jersey? I can tell you haven’t spent much time here.”

“How ’bout a drink?” she asked. “We passed an Olive Garden restaurant a few blocks back.”

“You think I’d take a woman who has a reputation for setting the style standard in New York to the Olive Garden?”

“Actually, I’m a big fan of diners and coffee-shop food. Give me a tuna on rye anytime,” she answered.

“I know just the place, then. Best tuna in New Jersey.”

“Really?”

“A twelve-star salute in the fuckin’ Zagats.”

Barry seldom drove his own car. His driver Julian took him around the city and over the bridge to work every day. Barry spent most of his time in his car, talking on the phone, and Julian was well trained not to breathe a word of it. Like Yvonne and everyone else in Barry’s organization, Julian signed a detailed confidentiality statement.

“Julian, the Lincoln Tunnel Motor Lodge,” Barry offhandedly told his driver.

“You mean the place near the tunnel?” the driver asked.

“Well, it doesn’t sound like it’d be near the bridge.” Barry turned to Samantha. “Ever been there?” He smiled at her.

“Sure. My sister got married there.” Samantha’s lip curled up.

Barry smiled at her. “I’m glad I called you.” He put his hand in her lap. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”