“I know somebody who knows somebody on Page Six at the Post.” Page Six wasn’t on page six; it was just the name of the biggest gossip column in town.

“I’m not sure how Eggers would respond to having Woodman and Weld on Page Six.”

“Well, we’re not going to get it in the Wall Street Journal,” Joan said.

“You have a point. Go ahead and speak to your friend; Page Six is what Eggers deserves.” He worked his jaw back and forth; it was sore.

The phone rang, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice. Yes, he’s right here.” She handed Stone the phone. “A client.” She walked back toward her office.

“Stone Barrington.”

“Hi, it’s Herbert Q. Fisher.”

Stone couldn’t suppress a groan.

“I hear you’re having trouble getting Dattila served.”

“Where did you hear that?” Stone demanded, annoyed.

“I got my sources.”

“Well, Mr. Dattila was duly served an hour ago.”

“You think he’ll respond?”

“I’m not clairvoyant, Herbie; we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“If he doesn’t, we’ll take everything he’s got.”

“Herbie, it was tough enough serving Dattila; think how hard it would be to take property from him, under any circumstances.”

“But we’d have the power of the court on our side.”

“So far in Mr. Dattila’s life experience, the courts haven’t laid a glove on him. Now go away, Herbie; I’ve got work to do.”

“I’ll check with you tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother; I’ll call you when Dattila sends us a check.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“I’m sort of sore and tired; I’m going to go upstairs and take a nap.”

“But you never take naps.”

“Today is the exception.” He hung up and walked to the elevator. He didn’t feel like climbing stairs.

Stone woke up in his darkened bedroom and looked at the bedside clock: nearly eight. He rolled out of bed and into a shower.

At eight-thirty he walked into Elaine’s, feeling somewhat more human. The Knob Creek was on the table as soon as he sat down.

“You’re looking a little rough,” Frank, one of the two headwaiters, said. “What happened to your face?”

“I bumped into something.”

“It’s turning a funny color.”

“It is?” Stone got up, went into the men’s room and checked the mirror. It was, indeed, turning a funny color. He went back to his table, where Dino had arrived and was taking a sip of Stone’s drink.

“I don’t know how you drink that bourbon stuff,” he said, making a face.

“It’s the patriotic thing to do,” Stone explained, “instead of drinking that foreign gunk you’re so partial to. Bourbon is our only national whiskey these days. Do you know why it’s called Knob Creek?”

“I give up.”