Stone Barrington 06-11

me to cook you dinner again.”
    “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, making an unsuccessful effort not to laugh.
    “You’d better be.”
    “My co-op board meeting is tonight.”
    “Hey, that was fast.”
    “Lucky timing, that’s all. I just barely got my financial statement and my letters together in time. They’re passing those around among themselves now. I haven’t felt this naked since the last time I was with you.”
    “Yeah, they’re probably showing that stuff to the guys at their clubs, too. Think you’ll pass the investigation of your sex life?”

    “What!!!?”
    “You didn’t know they do that?”
    “They don’t.”
    “There were two detectives on my doorstep when I came home this afternoon.”
    “And what did you tell them?”
    “I had to tell them everything…”
    “Everything?”
    “I had to; it’s a felony to lie to a detective in a sexual investigation. Haven’t you read the whole text of the Patriot Act?”
    Then she began laughing. “Good one; you almost had me. But I’m going to make you pay for that.”
    “I’ll look forward to it.”

20
    STONE WAS WAITING when Tiff’s car pulled up out front. It had begun to snow, lightly at first, but now fat flakes were being deposited in large numbers, collecting on the sidewalks, while cars beat them to pulp in the streets.
    “Good evening,” she said as he got into the rear seat with her.
    Stone kissed her. “Good evening. Where are we off to?”
    “Rao’s,” she said. “Do you know it?”
    “I’ve been there, but not nearly often enough. How did we get a table?” You didn’t get a table at Rao’s; you owned it, or you didn’t: It was as simple as that.
    “One of my colleagues willed it to me.”
    “He died?”
    “He went back to Washington; it’s the same thing. So I get his table, same night every week.”
    Rao’s was in Spanish Harlem, way uptown, and they took the FDR drive up the East Side of Manhattan, while the Lincoln’s wipers tried valiantly to deal with the increasing snow.
    They arrived to find the usual collection of limos and expensive cars outside, some of them abandoned, with the keys left in them, in case somebody needed to move them. Prominent among them was a bright red Hummer, with a driver.

    “Who the hell would drive a Hummer in New York?” Stone asked.
    “It’s your town; you tell me,” Tiff said.
    Inside, the place was packed, as it was every night. Their booth, along the south wall, was ready for them, and Stone took the seat facing the bar, where it was easier to see a waiter. It was also easier to see the motley crowd at the bar—people who had congregated there, hoping that somebody would have a coronary on the way to the restaurant and, thus, make a table available. The place seemed to draw its share of wiseguys, too. A few months back, one of them had shot another of his ilk, when he drunkenly complained too loudly about a dinner guest who had spontaneously begun to sing an aria. The events had been exhaustively covered in newspapers and magazines, and now a lot of people seemed to think that a shooting was a regular occurrence at the restaurant, though it was the only instance in the more than one hundred years of its existence.
    A waiter brought them drinks, then Frank Pellegrino, the owner and grandnephew of the founder, came over and pulled up a chair. Frankie looked familiar even to people who had never been to Rao’s, because he was also an actor, most recently playing a recurring role on the FBI team assigned to bring Tony Soprano’s mob to justice.
    Kisses and handshakes were exchanged.
    “So what’s it going to be tonight?” Frankie asked. A detailed discussion of what was available ensued, and they ordered more dishes than they could possibly eat.
    “It’s okay,” Tiff said, “I’ll take the leftovers home to the Waldorf Towers.”
    Stone ordered a bottle of wine and looked around the room: His eyes came to rest on the nose of a man in a booth across the room. Most of the rest of him was blocked by the wing of his booth; the nose was terribly familiar, but Stone couldn’t quite place it.
    Dishes began to arrive, and they tried, but failed, to keep up. There was veal, shrimp, an eggplant dish, chicken and, of course, pasta.

    “You know, this is the best plain tomato sauce I’ve ever tasted,” Stone said. “I don’t know how Frankie does it.” Frankie also cooked.
    “You’re right. In Washington I used to buy it by the jar at my neighborhood