“Well, then, by tomorrow night, you’re going to need a break and a hot dinner. Give me your new address, and I’ll send my car for you.”

“I can drive over, I guess. Give me some directions.” He juggled his notebook while driving and wrote down the address.

“About seven, then?”

“All right, about seven.”

“It’ll be very casual, and by all means, bring somebody, if you’d like.”

“Thanks, Vance; see you then.” He hung up. Well, all tight, he thought; we’re all civilized people; we can get through this. Then it occurred to him that he’d rather not get through it alone. He dialed Dolce’s office number and was put through to her immediately.

“Hello, there,” she purred.

“Hi, I got your message.”

“Any plans for the weekend?”

“Actually, yes, but why don’t you join me? I would have asked you this morning, but you had gone when I woke up.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I’ve just bought a place in Connecticut, and I’m moving in this afternoon. By tomorrow night I should have been able to make some sense of it, so why don’t you drive up tomorrow? Oh, there’s dinner with a movie star, tomorrow night, too.”

“Which movie star?”

“That’ll be a surprise. Get a pencil, and I’ll give you some very precise directions.”

She wrote them down. “How long will it take me?”

“Under two hours, from midtown.”

“I should be able to leave here by two.”

“See you around four, then.” They hung up.

Suddenly, he felt very much better about the following evening.

40

BRUCE GOLDSMITH STARTED PACKING HIS briefcase. “Millie, get in here!” he shouted. His secretary came in with a pad. “Where was Moyle staying?”

“At the Ritz-Carlton; he’s got a club-level room reserved.”

“Change it to a suite, a big one; the client can afford it, and have a car meet me at the airport—a Mercedes, not a Lincoln.”

“Right,” she said, making notes rapidly.

Goldsmith’s partner, Lester Moyle, walked into the office. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

“I’m taking the San Francisco deposition,” Goldsmith said.

“The hell you are; that’s my client.”

“And who gave her to you?”

“Listen, Bruce, I don’t know what’s going on, here, but this is very high-handed, and I’m not going to put up with it.”

“Les, shut up and give Millie your notes; I don’t give a shit whether you like it or not; I’m doing the deposition.”

“That tears it for me, Bruce,” Moyle said. “I’m sick of your prima donna act. You want to buy me out of the firm?”

“That’s fine by me, you little prick,” Goldsmith rejoined. “You know the formula by heart, I expect; figure out what your share is worth and draw up the agreement. Fax it to me in San Francisco, and I’ll sign.”