The phone rang, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice,” she said in her best secretarial tones, then she listened and covered the phone with her hand. “It’s Henry Stead, from Page Six.”

Stone had had one previous conversation with Stead a few months before. He pressed the speakerphone button. “Good morning, Mr. Stead.”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington. I trust you’ve seen Page Six today.”

“Mr. Stead, I know this will come as a crushing disappointment, but I am not a regular peruser of either your newspaper or your page.”

“And yet you managed a timely riposte to Bernie Finger’s account of your luncheon at the Four Seasons.”

“My secretary’s taste in newspapers is not so lofty as mine, and, from time to time, she may share some tidbit with me, particularly if it takes my name in vain. Today, so far, she seems to actually be doing her work, so she has shared nothing. Care to give me the short version?”

“Well, yesterday we ran a mention of Bernie’s current extramarital affair. Bernie, of course, sued us immediately, so today we ran the corroborating photographs, featuring a naked Bernie on a penthouse terrace with an equally naked masseuse named Marilyn. Tomorrow, we expect to report that Mrs. Finger has filed for divorce. In fact, I believe the story is already set in type.”

“And however did you get Bernie to pose for these pictures? I’ve met him only once, at the aforementioned luncheon, but he certainly didn’t seem built for nude photos.”

“Oh, your good friend Mr. Cantor supplied the photographs.”

“I’m afraid the only Mr. Cantor with whom I am acquainted is Eddie, of the banjo eyes, and I believe he is far too dead to supply you with nudies of Bernie Finger.”

Stead managed an appreciative chuckle. “Mr. Barrington, this page appreciates your contributions to our output, and as long as we can maintain this friendly relationship, you will have our gratitude, expressed in our treatment of you in these pages.”

“Mr. Stead, while I am always appreciative of kind treatment, I cannot offer a quid pro quo, not being the gossipy sort, but I wish you well in your endeavors, particularly with regard to Bernie Finger. I bid you good morning.” He disconnected.

“Nicely done,” Joan said. “Tell me, did you ever feel even a twinge of conscience about this? I wasn’t really sure you’d go through with it.”

“A twinge, yes, for about half a minute. Then I remembered Bernie’s attempt to sabotage my reputation with his altered-state account of our lunch, and I started to feel really good about screwing him, which is how I still feel.”

“And how about torpedoing his marriage? Do you expect to reap any karma for that?”