Shannon said, “We go to the same gym.”

I frowned. “I thought you went to Bing’s, like me?”

A shrug. “I used to. I switched to the Solstice Fitness Center, few months ago.”

I frowned deeper. “Over on Broadway?”

Shannon nodded.

“Isn’t that a little pricey?”

Bigger shrug. “I got a deal on a membership. Have a personal trainer and everything. Just ’cause I’m retiring doesn’t mean I want to grow a gut.”

He kind of already had grown one, but I didn’t say anything.

Our food came. Crisp cold salad with iceberg lettuce and garlic dressing. The rib-eyes thick and tender, mine blood-rare the way I like it. We shared two orders of Pete’s legendary hash browns with onions, and the chow was such that conversation got mostly sidelined for a while.

I was keeping half an eye on Sheila and not just because she was worth at least that. On two occasions Colby got up and happy accidents let him come back into contact with her. Happily contrived accidents, I figured.

Once when he got up to go to the head, which took him past her station, that gave him an excuse to pause and jaw with her a while, on his way back to the booth.

Another time he joined her at the bar where she was chatting with the white-shirt, black-bowtie bartender, who was another good-looking guy in his late twenties or early thirties, but just maybe lacking the Colby kid’s bank book. The Wall Street heir took her by the arm—not rough at all, and I was watching for that—and walked her over to one side and then they were talking in a serious way.

Not an argument. But not chit-chat or flirtation, either. These two knew each other. The bartender was taking this in, glaring at them as he filled orders. What the hell was that about?

We were having a round of after-dinner highballs as I watched Colby and the hostess discussing something near the bar again, and the bartender maybe resenting it. I wondered if the bartender was just a friend of Sheila’s who maybe knew Colby had been treating her roughly, and was considering stepping in and doing something about it. In which case, hurrah for the bartender.

I said to Shannon, “I thought Colby dated the debutante crowd.”

“He does. Sometimes.”

“Not always?”

“He’s been known to date models.”

“The Vogue variety?”

Shannon sipped his highball. Shook his head. “More like Playboy and Penthouse. He parties at the Tube in Chelsea.”

The Tube was more blue jeans than Armani, a trendy spot known for multiple lounges with such funky themes as an S & M dungeon, Victorian library, and a dance floor with cages, plus hot-and-cold-running cocaine.

After a final round of drinks, the little retirement get-together petered out, and Shannon and his two partners all took their leave, after fighting over who would take the check. Pat won. I hadn’t made a bid, because I was always happy to see a cop pick up a check for a change.