“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes, and remember, Herbie is your second-biggest client.”
Stone groaned. Herbie Fisher was a royal pain in the ass, one of those unfortunate people who never did anything right. Herbie had won a big number in the lottery a while back and had offered Stone a million-dollar retainer to handle all his legal affairs. Stone had been in a financial bind at the time, and in a weak moment he had accepted the money. “How much would it cost me to buy my way out of representing him?” he asked Joan.
“You couldn’t afford it,” Joan said, and hung up.
THREE
Stone arrived at the Pierre late and, consulting the list of private rooms, was surprised to see that Herbie’s
wedding reception was in the Grand Ballroom. Stone made his way there and found an acquaintance, Peter Duchin, at the piano, leading a full orchestra. He stopped by the bandstand.
“Hey, Stone,” Duchin said.
“Evening, Peter. Who the hell is paying for all of this?”
“The father of the bride, of course.” Duchin nodded toward a couple dancing past the bandstand. “Jack Gunn, the financier.” Gunn was a handsome man in his sixties, who was dancing with a much younger woman.
Stone thanked the bandleader and made his way to the bar. Suddenly, Herbie Fisher was at his elbow, dressed in white tie and tails and towing his new wife.
“Hi, Stone,” Herbie shouted over the din. “This is my wife, Stephanie.”
“How do you do, Stephanie,” Stone said. “I wish you both every happiness.” Privately, Stone felt that little happiness was in store for the couple. Herbie’s last fiancée had taken a dive off the terrace of the Park Avenue penthouse Herbie had bought with his lottery winnings.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you from Herbie, Stone,” the young woman said. “I hope we’ll be good friends.”
Stone thought she sounded quite normal for someone who had just married Herbie Fisher. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Fisher?” he asked.
“I’d be delighted,” Stephanie replied.
Stone led her to the dance floor and they danced. Stephanie was brunette and small, around five-two, Stone thought, without the heels. “How did you and Herbie meet?” he asked her.
“At P.J. Clarke’s, at the bar,” she replied. “I had just come back from a year abroad after graduating from Smith.”
“Are you going to have a career?” he asked.
“I’m joining my father’s firm after the honeymoon,” Stephanie replied. “I’ll be working as a trader, to start.”
“Are you his heir apparent?”
“I am.”
“I hope you’ll take charge of Herbie’s money,” Stone said. “He can be rather impulsive in the way he spends it.”
“Oh, I already have,” she replied, laughing, “and just in time, too.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Herbie has such a good heart,” she said, “but no head for figures, unless they’re female. I’m going to make him a rich man.”
“I thought he was already rich,” Stone said.
“He’s down to his last ten million after the lottery win,” she said. “In my family, that’s not rich—that’s slightly well-off. I’ve put him on an allowance, and I’m redecorating the apartment with my own money and some family things.”
“I’m glad to hear that, too,” Stone said, remembering what the apartment had looked like on his only visit there.
“Oddly enough, Herbie has very good taste in art. We’ve already bought some pictures he chose. He’s not so good on furnishings and fabrics, though.”