“Yes, Mr. Barrington, it was the young lady again; she wouldn’t leave a number, but I got it on the caller ID.” She read out the number, and he wrote it down. “The name that came up on the screen was Grimaldi’s; I think it’s a restaurant. The concierge would know.”
“Please switch me to the concierge.”
“Concierge desk.”
“This is Stone Barrington; do you know a restaurant in L.A. called Grimaldi’s?” He gave her the number.
“Yes, sir; it’s on Santa Monica Boulevard, I think, though I haven’t booked a table there for anyone in a long time. It’s sort of an old-fashioned place, not exactly chic.”
“Could you book me a table there at eight?”
“Of course, sir; for how many?”
“Ah, two.”
“I’ll book it and call you back if there’s any problem.”
“Thanks; I’ll stop by the desk on the way out and pick up the address.” He hung up, thought for a moment, then dug in his pocket for a number and dialed it.
“Hello?”
“Betty? It’s Stone.”
“Hi there; I was just thinking of you.”
“Telepathy at work. You free for dinner this evening?”
“Sure.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Beverly Hills; why don’t I meet you at the Bel-Air?”
“Seven forty-five?”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you in the car park. You want me to book something for us? I can always use Vance’s name.”
“Not necessary; I’ll see you at seven forty-five.” He hung up and started to get dressed.
Betty climbed into the passenger seat and gave him a wet peck on the cheek. “Where are we going?”
“A place on Santa Monica called Grimaldi’s.”
“Don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” she said, “and I didn’t think there was a restaurant in L.A. I’d never heard of.” She looked at the address on the card in his hand. “That’ll be somewhere down near the beach; let’s take the freeway.”
Stone followed her directions, and they found the restaurant, its entrance tucked in a side street off Santa Monica.
“How’d you hear about this place?” Betty asked as they approached a glass door, which was covered with credit card stickers.
“I’ll tell you later,” he said, opening the door for her.
They descended a staircase which emerged into a large basement dining room, half full of diners, with low ceilings and elaborate decor—textured wallpaper and heavy brocade drapes much in evidence. Stone gave his name to the headwaiter, and they were shown to a banquette table in the middle of the room, where they sat beside each other with their backs to the wall.
“The decor is right out of the fifties,” Betty said, looking around her. “It looks like a set from an old black-and-white Warner Brothers movie.” A waiter appeared, took their drinks order, and left them a heavy velvet-bound menu. “This thing must weigh ten pounds,” she said.
Stone opened the menu and was astonished at the range of dishes, which were from every region of Italy. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this,” he said. The waiter came with their drinks. “Give us a few minutes,” Stone told him. “It’s such a big menu.”
“Would you like some recommendations?” the waiter asked.