The phone rang, and Joan buzzed him. “Bill Eggers,” she said.

Stone picked up the phone. “Hello, Bill.”

“I had a call from Mike Freeman this morning,” Eggers said.

“I heard.”

“Then you know we’re getting all their business?”

“I heard.”

“You and I will work closely to supervise it,” Eggers said.

“I heard.”

“And I hear you have a new airplane.”

“I heard.”

“Is that all you can say?”

Stone sighed. “Bill, I can hardly speak. I’m just letting it all sink in.”

“You do that,” Eggers said, and hung up.

Stone buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“Please book me a table at Elaine’s at nine.”

“I’m afraid you have plans for this evening.”

“What?”

“It’s Herbie Fisher’s wedding reception at the Hotel Pierre, at seven, dinner to follow.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes, and remember, Herbie is your second-biggest client.”

Stone groaned. Herbie Fisher was a royal pain in the ass, one of those unfortunate people who never did anything right. Herbie had won a big number in the lottery a while back and had offered Stone a million-dollar retainer to handle all his legal affairs. Stone had been in a financial bind at the time, and in a weak moment he had accepted the money. “How much would it cost me to buy my way out of representing him?” he asked Joan.

“You couldn’t afford it,” Joan said, and hung up.

THREE

Stone arrived at the Pierre late and, consulting the list of private rooms, was surprised to see that Herbie’s wedding reception was in the Grand Ballroom. Stone made his way there and found an acquaintance, Peter Duchin, at the piano, leading a full orchestra. He stopped by the bandstand.

“Hey, Stone,” Duchin said.

“Evening, Peter. Who the hell is paying for all of this?”

“The father of the bride, of course.” Duchin nodded toward a couple dancing past the bandstand. “Jack Gunn, the financier.” Gunn was a handsome man in his sixties, who was dancing with a much younger woman.

Stone thanked the bandleader and made his way to the bar. Suddenly, Herbie Fisher was at his elbow, dressed in white tie and tails and towing his new wife.

“Hi, Stone,” Herbie shouted over the din. “This is my wife, Stephanie.”

“How do you do, Stephanie,” Stone said. “I wish you both every happiness.” Privately, Stone felt that little happiness was in store for the couple. Herbie’s last fiancée had taken a dive off the terrace of the Park Avenue penthouse Herbie had bought with his lottery winnings.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Herbie, Stone,” the young woman said. “I hope we’ll be good friends.”

Stone thought she sounded quite normal for someone who had just married Herbie Fisher. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Fisher?” he asked.

“I’d be delighted,” Stephanie replied.