“Ash, type up your notes and send a copy to Bob, Herb Fisher, and myself.” Stone checked the time. “Then call your girlfriend and take her out to a nice dinner.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Ash said.
“You still need to eat.”
Ash glanced at his watch. “But…but, the notes won’t take me that long, and it’s only five.”
“We try to keep civilized hours around here unless we have no other choice. But if you’d rather go back to the Seagram Building and stay until midnight, I won’t stop you.”
Ash shot to his feet, shaking his head. “No, no. Civilized hours sound great.” When he reached the doorway, he stopped and looked back. “You’re sure?”
“Ask me again, and I might change my mind.”
“I retract the question,” Ash said, then made himself scarce.
Nodding in the direction Ash had gone, Bob said, “I think this one has promise.”
“Only time will tell.”
Chapter 16
Stefan Howard took one ofthe last open seats at the bar in P. J. Clarke’s and motioned for the bartender. The guy held up a finger, indicating he’d be there soon, then returned to finishing the drink he was working on.
Normally, this might have annoyed Stefan. He didn’t like being put on hold. But today he was in a celebratory mood and was willing to overlook the slight.
“Good evening,” he said, turning to the woman next to him.
She was a looker. Straight blond hair, plump lips, and sleepy blue eyes that were begging to be stared into.
She gave him a quick, tight-lipped smile, then turned to the woman on the other side of her.
“What the hell is your problem?” he muttered.
She made no sign that she’d heard him. Which was just as well. Getting into a tiff with a lowlife like her would be a waste of energy. Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to ask her to join him for dinner. He wouldn’t cheat on Sara like that.
The bartender finally came over. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. What can I get you?”
“You have champagne?”
“We do. Veuve Clicquot. It’s by the bottle.”
“Oh.”
“We also have prosecco and cava by the glass.”
“Those are champagnes?”
“Sparkling wine. Taste like champagne without the label.”
“I’ve heard of prosecco, I think.”
“Shall I pour you a glass?”
“Why not?”
The bartender left to fetch his drink.
While he waited, Stefan pulled out his phone and opened his message app. He glanced around to make sure no one else could see his screen, then tapped on the message he’d received that morning from Rudy Grove in Chicago.
