“Please, it’s Marshall.”

“Marshall, I have some business for you, if you want it—a young lawyer with two million dollars to invest.”

“My bottom limit with clients is ten million,” Brennan said. “Who’s the young man?”

“I am he,” Herbie said, “and I’ll make it five million. That’s the best I can do.”

“Okay,” Brennan said. “My secretary will send you the documents, and you send me a check, then we’ll set about making you rich.”

“Thank you, Marshall. I’ll look forward to that.”

Brennan turned toward Stone. “How about you, Stone? From what I hear you’ve got money that needs to be put to work.”

Stone had thought about this before but hadn’t known how to approach Brennan. Word was, he was almost impossible to hire these days. “I’ll send you a check for twenty-five million of mine and ten million of my son’s. He’s at Yale, in the drama school.”

“You have his power of attorney?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll send you the paperwork this afternoon.”

Their food arrived, and they dug in.

AFTER LUNCH, the three men walked out of the restaurant to find cabs.

“Herb,” Brennan said, looking him up and down, “you dress very well.”

“Thank you, Marshall.”

“I’m aware that I’m pretty much clueless about clothes. Would you take me on as a patient?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call you for lunch again, and you can take me shopping.”

Stone and Herbie put Brennan into a cab, then hailed one for themselves.

“Man oh man,” Herbie said, “I’m investing with Marshall Brennan! I would never have been able to swing that on my own.”

“If it’s any consolation, Herb, neither would I,” Stone said.

13

DINO LOOKED morosely around P.J. Clarke’s. “I don’t think I can have dinner here every night,” he said. “There are too many people I don’t know.”

“I know how you feel,” Stone said, enjoying his second meal of the day at Clarke’s. “Maybe after we’ve been coming here as long as we went to Elaine’s, it’ll be better.”

“Do we have to wait that long?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“How about ‘21’?” Dino asked.

“I was in there the other night. Too many of the people were kids in their twenties who shouldn’t be able to afford ‘21.’”

“You put your finger on it,” Dino said. “Them and rich people from out of town. I liked it better in the old days.”

“Everything was better in the old days,” Stone agreed.

“We sound like a couple of codgers,” Dino said.

“Speak for yourself, pal. I’m not in codgerdom yet.”

“Then why are we talking about the old days?”

“They weren’t the old days, until Elaine died. Now, suddenly, they’re the old days.”

“That’s how codgerdom happens,” Dino pointed out. “One day, you’re just a regular guy, having dinner three times a week at his favorite joint, then the next day the joint closes, and wham! You’re a codger. You’ve got all of Arrington’s money now,” Dino said. “Why didn’t you buy Elaine’s?”