STONE AND CAROLINE Whitehorn walked into the River Café and were immediately shown to a table, where a brunette version of Caroline sat waiting.
“Stone Barrington, my older sister, Charlotte Whitehorn,” Caroline said.
“I’m not that much older,” Charlotte said, offering Stone her hand.
“Ages older,” Caroline said.
“A year and a half,” Charlotte responded.
“Twenty months,” Caroline replied.
“Now, now, ladies,” Stone said. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Are you calling me a sleeping dog?” Charlotte asked.
“No, I’m simply employing a cliché, to no effect whatsoever. I suppose this argument has been going on your whole lives?”
“Ever since Caroline learned to count,” Charlotte replied. “How did you two meet?”
“Stone told me to go fuck myself,” Caroline replied.
“That always works with Caroline,” her sister said.
“Then he weaseled his way into this dinner by giving me a lift and threatening me with a stale sandwich.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Caroline means that I rescued her from a downpour and ferried her all the way from Gracie Mansion to here, and she only invited me to dinner when I said I’d pay for it.”
“That’s my little sister,” Charlotte said.
“She calls me that because she knows it makes me crazy,” Caroline said, “and you didn’t offer to pay until after I had invited you to join us.”
“Tell me,” Stone said, “are your parents still living, or are they reposing in an insane asylum somewhere?”
That got a laugh from both of them.
“I suppose we deserved that,” Caroline said.
“You must be related to Mikeford Whitehorn?”
“His granddaughters,” Charlotte said. “Our dad was Mikeford, Jr.”
Stone was jostled when someone passed his chair. He looked up, annoyed, to see the back of Donald Trask being seated two tables away with a much younger woman.
“Wasn’t that Donald Trask?” Charlotte asked.
“It was.”
“I read about him in the papers this morning. Isn’t he one of two suspects in his wife’s murder?”
“He is the only suspect,” Stone said firmly. “The police finally came to their senses about the other, entirely innocent, fellow.”
“Stone was the other suspect, until the mayor cleared him today,” Caroline said.
“You weren’t at that meeting,” Stone said.
“I was, sort of,” she replied.
“You were eavesdropping?”
“The mayor often asks me to do so. He sometimes likes to have a witness.”
“She’s just nosy,” Charlotte said. “If Donald Trask is the only suspect in his wife’s murder, what’s he doing dining at the River Café with someone a third of his age?”
“The police didn’t have enough evidence to cancel his reservation,” Stone replied.
“And women that young are the only ones stupid enough to be seen with him,” Caroline added.
“Are we certain about Stone’s innocence?” Charlotte asked, archly.
“Sort of certain,” Caroline replied.
“If I’m ever on trial for murder,” Stone said, “I hope you two are not on the jury.”
“Never mind,” Charlotte said, picking up a menu. “What are we having?”
A waiter came and took their order, and Stone ordered a bottle of the Far Niente chardonnay.
“Very nice,” Caroline said, sipping the wine.
“I ordered it because it has the most beautiful label of any wine,” Stone replied.
“So, apart from the aesthetics, you are ignorant of wines?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m also fond of the wine.”
“I think you’re right about the label,” Charlotte said, examining it, “and about the wine, too.”
“It’s good to have my judgment affirmed,” Stone said.
They had finished two courses and had ordered dessert when Stone rose. “Will you excuse me? Nature calls.”
They nodded. Stone left the table and headed back toward the entrance, where the restrooms were. When the thick door closed behind him, noise from the restaurant ceased. He attended to nature, and as he was zipping his fly, he heard restaurant noise again, then silence, then a voice.
“Turn around,” it said, and it was thoroughly unpleasant, as voices go.
Stone turned to find Donald Trask standing, leaning against the door, holding a small semiautomatic pistol in his outstretched hand.
“You’re under arrest,” Stone said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Yeah? For what?”
“For carrying a firearm in New York City without a license.”
“I have a license,” Trask replied.
“Revoked,” Stone said.
“Oh, what does it matter?” Trask said, then he fired the pistol.
Stone had already begun to turn away from him and to sweep an arm toward the gun, when he felt a sharp pain in his head and collapsed onto the floor, striking his head on the sink on the way down. He passed out just as he heard the door slam.
STONE CAME TO ON A GURNEY in the entrance hall of the restaurant with an EMT holding a bandage pressed to his head. His neck was wet and sticky where the blood had flowed down. A small crowd had gathered, including the Whitehorn sisters. “Are you all right, Stone?” Caroline asked.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. He tried to touch his head but ran into the EMT’s hand.
“Did you do this just to get out of buying dinner?” she asked.
The headwaiter was standing next to her.
“Put dinner on my account,” Stone said to him, then passed out again.
WHEN STONE WOKE again he appeared to be in someone’s beautifully furnished living room, except he was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by a bank of monitors, and he had a terrific headache. He groped for a call button but hesitated: Who would show up? God or Satan? This had to be the waiting room of one place or the other. He pressed the button. The door opened and a half dozen people entered the room led by a nurse.
She found a switch and sat him up in bed. “How are you feeling?”
“I have a terrible headache,” he said. “May I have some aspirin?”
A doctor stepped up beside her. “How about some morphine instead?”
“That will do,” Stone replied. Something was injected into a tube in his arm, and a moment later he felt warm, and the pain receded.
“You’ve been shot in the head,” the doctor said, “but not in a serious way. You’ll have a scar on the corner of your skull, but a plastic surgeon closed the wound, and it will be invisible under your hair.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Stone said. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m told you had a good meal, but you vomited it up in the ambulance. Between the scalp wound, which bled profusely, and the blow to the head, I’m afraid your suit may be a total loss. However, we’ve sent it to Madame Paulette to see what they can do with it.”
“What kind of a place is this,” Stone asked, “that it’s furnished like the Waldorf and sends bloody clothes to Madame Paulette’s?”
“You are in a suite at New York Hospital,” the doctor said.
The nurse handed him a menu. “What would you like?”
There was seared foie gras, a rack of lamb, and a soufflé on the menu. “A bacon cheeseburger, medium, and onion rings,” Stone replied. “How much does this room cost?”
“You’re not to worry about that,” the nurse said. “The Whitehorns are paying for it.”
“A policeman would like to speak with you,” the doctor said. “He has an Italian last name, but I can’t remember it.”