“Okay. You walk into a bar in a not-so-hot neighborhood, strike up a conversation with some guy who looks like he’d do anything for money, and you make the deal and give him half. He could just start drinking at another bar and keep your money; in fact, if he’s smart, that’s exactly what he’d do. But let’s say he goes through with the deal, commits a clean murder, leaves no evidence, collects the rest of his fee and goes away. All of this is unlikely, of course, because he’d probably make mistakes that would get him caught, and then, to get a light sentence, he gives you to the D.A. on a platter. The D.A. will find witnesses in the bar who saw the two of you together; you’re the kind of girl who’s not easily forgotten. Or suppose, a year or two down the line, your hit man gets arrested for some other crime, something petty, like burglary. He doesn’t want to do time, so he does a deal where he gets immunity for Devlin and you get the death penalty. In short, you can’t rely on a person who will kill for money.”

She laughed and dropped his head. “All right, I won’t kill him. What should I do?”

“Unless you want to leave town or spend the next few years as a kind of fugitive in your own city, you have to confront him. Legally, I mean. Would you like for me to visit him and tell him what you can do to him in court? That might cool his ardor.”

“What a good idea!” she enthused. She kissed him lightly on the penis. “Now, how about that breakfast in bed?”

20

Stone made it through breakfast without having to perform again, which was just as well, because he was nearly too sore to walk properly. He saw Celia to the front door, and she took an invitation from her purse and handed it to him.

“Devlin has a show opening tomorrow night at this gallery in SoHo. It might be a good time to speak to him.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stone said. “How about lunch at La Goulue, Sixty-fifth and Madison at one o’clock the day after?”

“See you there,” she said, planting a serious kiss on his kisser.

Stone disengaged with reluctance and limped to his office.

Joan came in, bearing the Post. “I won’t ask why you’re late,” she said. “I saw her leave from my window.”

“Thanks for not asking,” Stone said, accepting the newspaper, which was open to Page Six. Four excellent photographs of Bernie Finger and Marilyn the Masseuse adorned the upper quarter of the page, and tiny strips of black covered only their most private parts. “Wow,” Stone breathed, as he read the story, which made mincemeat of Bernie’s slander suit.