Hickock was a stocky, balding man in an expensive suit; his wife, Glynnis, looked expensive, too.
Hickock fixed him with a stare. “What do you do, Barrington?” he asked.
“I’m a lawyer, and please call me Stone.”
“You can call me Mr. Hickock.”
“Thanks, Dick.”
Hickock managed a small smile. “What firm?”
“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld, but I practice privately, too.”
“What sort of practice? Financial?”
“Only if the transaction is perceived as being of a criminal nature.”
“Ah, a mob lawyer, eh?”
“No, my clients seem to arrive one at a time.”
“But they’re criminals?”
“I represent only the innocent, even if they’re proven guilty.”
Hickock laughed aloud. “And what did you think of this O.J. business?”
“If I should ever be charged with a double murder, I would be very pleased for Johnnie Cochran, Bob Shapiro, and Lee Bailey to represent me.”
Bill and Susan Eggers entered the room and greeted everyone. Stone liked Bill, but had always found Susan to be cold, even haughty. She had been Bill’s entree to the Four Hundred, such as they were. She shook Stone’s hand and seemed ready to ward off any attempt at a kiss.
Vance Calder arrived last, no doubt to make an entrance, and Stone found him to be just as handsome and charming as he was on the screen. He had been called the new Cary Grant, and Stone thought that appropriate. He also thought that Calder’s date was probably the most beautiful woman in New York. She was as tall as Calder, which wasn’t as tall as Stone had expected; she had shoulder-length hair the color of ranch mink and was wearing a mannish pinstriped, double-breasted suit. “This is Arrington Carter,” the actor said after he had shaken Stone’s hand. “Arrington, this is Stone Barrington.”
“Mr. Barrington,” the young woman said with a pleasingly southern accent, “you and I must never, ever marry.”
Stone and Calder both erupted with laughter, while she regarded them coolly. “Gentlemen, you make my point for me,” she said.
Stone had an urgent desire to sweep her out of the room someplace where he would not have to share her company with anyone else. Then he reminded himself who her date was, and what his own chances were of taking her away from a man whom People magazine, only the week before, had dubbed “the most beautiful man in America.”
They sat at a beautifully set round table and dined on caviar, followed by a crown roast of lamb, with bearnaise sauce on the side, and very good, fairly old wine. Stone was placed between Amanda and Arrington, and his hostess gave him the distinct impression that she would have arranged things differently if she had met the other woman beforehand.
Hickock was holding forth about the newspaper business. He took a swig of the Opus One ’89 and addressed Stone. “Do you read my newspaper?”
“Only for Amanda’s column,” Stone replied.
“Isn’t he sweet?” Amanda said, squeezing Stone’s thigh under the table.
“What about my editorial page?” Hickock asked.
“I only read your editorial page if I want to be annoyed,” Stone said.
Everybody laughed but Hickock. “I take it you’re a Democrat,” he said.
“A liberal Democrat,” Stone replied.
“These days nobody decides to become a liberal Democrat,” Hickock said. “It must run in your family.”
“On the contrary, my father was a Communist; so was my mother.”