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“That would explain it.”
“By the way, I’ve hired a secretary.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Alberta Page,” Joan said.
“Al for short?”
“Peaches.”
“What?”
“Alberta is a species of peach.”
“Peaches Page. I like it.”
“She starts tomorrow, but neither of us will be in; we’ll be working on the house together.”
“Can I help?” Stone asked.
“You’d just be in the way.”
“Right.”
“See you Monday.”
“Hold on. I’m going out in a few minutes,” Stone said, “got an appointment downtown, so turn on the answering machine.”
“Okay.”
—
Stone got out of the Bentley in Little Italy, a short distance from the La Boheme coffeehouse. He made a call. “I’m outside,” he said.
“Back room” was the reply. The man hung up.
Stone walked into the coffee shop, and a waiter caught his eye and nodded toward a door at the rear of the room.
Stone knocked, then entered. A man in his mid-thirties sat alone at a table and waved him to a seat. “Vito Datilla,” he said, offering his hand.
“Stone Barrington.” He sat down. The young man, he knew, was referred to locally as Datilla the Hun, as was his father before him.
“What can I do for you?”
“I represent the estates of Edwin and Annetta Charles,” Stone said.
The Hun’s eyebrows went up. “I see.”
“Perhaps not.”
“You do not wish to continue our business relationship?” He sounded hurt.
“The Charleses’ heir does not wish to. No offense intended.”
“I’ll try not to take any.”
“I would be grateful to you.”
