“Don’t worry, you’ll have the grits and some eggs to cut the grease. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, y’know.” Billy Bob picked up a bowl of what looked like a dozen eggs, whisked them briefly with a fork and dumped them into a skillet holding a quarter pound of melted butter. “Have a seat,” he said. “Oughta be two minutes, now.” He turned the steaks again.
Stone got a container of fresh orange juice out of the Sub-Zero and poured two glasses, put some coffee on, then set the table and sat down. Reconsidering, he got up and found two steak knives, then sat down again.
Billy Bob forked the steaks onto the two plates, then scooped out some grits, then filled the unoccupied portion of the plates with scrambled eggs. He took a bottle of Tabasco sauce and sprinkled it liberally over his eggs, but when he tried for Stone’s plate, Stone snatched it away.
“Hold the Tabasco,” Stone said. “You’re trying to put me in the hospital, aren’t you?”
“Aw, it’s good for you.” Billy Bob sat down and sawed his steak in half. It was blood rare, blue in the middle.
So was Stone’s. He got up and put it back on the grill, then sat down and started on his eggs and grits.
“You like your meat burnt, then?” Billy Bob asked through a mouthful of food.
“I like it medium to medium rare,” Stone said, getting up and flipping the steak. He waited another couple of minutes, then removed the meat to his plate.
“Real nice morning out there.” Billy Bob said. “I brought in your paper.”
“The forecast for this morning was six degrees Fahrenheit,” Stone said.
“Yeah, I guess it’s about that,” Billy Bob agreed.
“You call that a real nice morning?”
“Well, the sun’s shining bright,” Billy Bob said. “That’s good enough for me.”
“Did you come to New York without an overcoat?” Stone asked.
“I never really needed one,” Billy Bob said. “I spent a week in Nome, Alaska, on an oil deal once, in the middle of the winter, and I got by all right without one. What’d you do with my gun?”
“I locked it in my safe,” Stone said. “You can have it back when you’re on your way out of town.”
“You folks sure are fussy about what a man carries,” Billy Bob said.
“It’s not us folks; it’s the NYPD.”
“You’re my lawyer; get me a license for the thing.”
“You have no idea what you’re asking,” Stone said. “The process is so long and drawn out that most people stop when they see the forms. And in the end, you only get it if you can prove you carry diamonds or large amounts of cash.”
“How large is a large amount of cash?”
“I don’t know, fifty grand, maybe.”
“Well, shoot, I’m carrying that right now. I mean, it’s in my briefcase. That’s pocket money where I come from.”
“In New York it’s an invitation to get hit over the head. You think that had anything to do with your getting shot at last night?”
“You know, I’ve been thinking on that, and you know what? Them bullets was fired at your side of the car.”
Stone stopped eating. “They were not fired at me.”
“Well, we just don’t know that, do we? You made any enemies lately?”
“I’m a lawyer,” Stone said. “People don’t shoot at lawyers.”
“Why, shucks,” Billy Bob said, “in Texas, every lawyer I know is packin’. Don’t you ever pack?”
“Sometimes, when it’s called for.”