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“Then let’s get out of here.”
They took the elevator down to the garage where Fred and the Bentley were waiting and headed down Fifth Avenue. They had just turned the corner when Bridget tugged at Stone’s sleeve. “Look,” she said, nodding toward the sidewalk.
Stone looked. Standing in the gutter was Junior, lookingvery much like a drowned rat, his thumb out to passing cars. “I don’t think that even the kindest-hearted person would want someone that wet in his automobile,” he said.
“Oh, it’s not that long a walk to the Athletic Club.”
“A lot farther to the Yale Club,” Stone said.
THIRTY
When Stone got to his office the following morning, Joan was waiting for him. “Wonderful party last night,” he said. “I never knew you were such a hostess.”
“Thank you. I’ve had too few opportunities to show it,” she replied. “My mother taught me well.”
“I’ll look forward to the next one. What’s on this morning?”
“Do you know a Judge Fitzroy Barron?” she asked.
“Everybody knows him,” Stone said, “though we’ve not met.”
“Yes, you have. You shook his hand at the party last night.”
“Oh God, and I didn’t even recognize him?”
“He recognized you. He’d like you to come to see him at ten o’clock this morning. At 740 Park Avenue.”
Stone looked at his watch. “Half an hour. Tell Fred to saddle the Bentley, while I change into a better suit.”
—
Stone walked into the lobby of the fabled building, widely thought to be the finest residence in the city. He gave his name to the desk man and took the elevator upstairs. He was greeted by a butleresque figure in a black suit. “Mr. Barrington, please follow me.” The man led him through two other rooms into a library that would have been at home in the depths of Harvard. The judge rose to greet him from a wing chair before the fire. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, offering his hand.
“Judge Barron. I’m sorry I didn’t get to spend more time with you last evening.”
“That’s all right. You seemed to be every woman’s favorite dance partner, so how could I impose? Please have a seat. Coffee, or something stronger?”
“Strong coffee would suit me fine,” Stone said, taking a chair. The butler must have anticipated him, for he appeared at Stone’s elbow with a silver tray bearing a fine china cup of coffee. “Thank you, Judge.”
“I’d like it if you’d call me Fitz,” the elder man said. “There’s too much formality in my life.”
“Thank you, Fitz. And I’m Stone.”
“I’ve followed your career with interest since you joined Woodman & Weld,” he said.
Stone gulped.
“Oh, I know about all those cases nobody over there wants to talk about. We all handled a few of those in our extreme youth.”
Stone couldn’t imagine one of America’s most distinguishedjurists handling those cases. Barron had retired from the Supreme Court at seventy-five, on principle, and he still seemed a vigorous man.
“Last night,” the judge said, “I couldn’t help noticing your handling of Edwin Charles Jr.”
“I’m sorry you noticed, sir,” Stone said. “It took me a couple of tries to get it right.”
“Well, you didn’t actually kill him,” Barron replied, “and I imagine that required great restraint.”
Stone chuckled. “Not that it didn’t cross my mind.”
