Stone Barrington 06-11

judges in this town. That credibility is the most valuable asset I have in defending a client, and I don’t want to lose it. I hope I make myself perfectly clear.”
    “Perfectly clear, Marc,” Stone said, finishing his coffee. He looked at his watch. “Well, I think I’d better be getting back to L.A. Thanks for your hospitality.”
    Marc stood up and shook his hand. “And don’t forget, if you get horny, call Vanessa; don’t go sneaking into Arrington’s bedroom. If that got out, it could screw us all.” He handed Stone his card, with Vanessa’s number scrawled on the back.
    Stone nodded and put the card into his pocket. “I take your point.” He left the house, got into the car, which smelled of Felipe Cordova’s Nikes, and headed back toward L.A.

    He was back at Centurion Studios by eleven-thirty, and Betty met him at the door of the bungalow, looking rattled.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked, tucking a finger under her chin and lifting her head.
    “I’ve just had a very peculiar conversation with Dolce, if you can call it a conversation,” she said. “Actually, it was more of a tirade.”
    “Oh, God; what did she say?”
    “She went into some detail about what she would do to me if I ever, as she put it, ‘touch him again.’ She means you, I believe.”
    “I’m sorry about that, Betty; this has nothing to do with you, really.”
    “That’s not the impression I got,” Betty said. “Frankly, she sounded nuts to me. I’m scared.”
    “Tell you what,” Stone said. “Why don’t you take a trip to Hawaii, do some scouting for just the right place when you bail out of L.A.”
    Betty brightened. “You think you could get along without me for a while? Careful how you answer that.”
    Stone laughed. “It’ll be tough, but I’ll manage.”
    “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” Betty said. “I’ll get you some help from the studio secretarial pool, then call the travel agent.” She headed for her office.
    “Any other calls?” he asked.
    “Brandy Garcia called; said his friend has already got your message.”
    “I’ve no idea what that means,” he replied, covering his ass.
    “Oh, and I almost forgot: Dolce says you’re to meet her at the Bel-Air for lunch at one o’clock.”
    “She’s in L.A.?”
    “Yep. And she said, ‘Tell him to be there without fail, or I’ll get mad.’ ”
    Stone gave a low moan.
    Betty picked up her phone and dialed a number. “Try to keep her busy long enough for me to get out of town, okay?” she called to him.
    “I wish I could reverse our roles,” Stone replied.

Thirty-eight

    S TONE ARRIVED AT THE BEL-AIR ON TIME AND WITH trepidations. What will I do if she starts shooting? he asked himself. What if she only makes a scene? What then? He liked to think he had had less than his share of arguments with women, and that he managed that by being easy to get along with. He had a dread of public disagreements, especially in the middle of places like the Bel-Air Hotel.
    He wasn’t sure where to meet her, so he wandered slowly through the lobby and outside again, toward the restaurant. Then he saw her, seated at a table in the middle of the garden café, wearing a silk print dress, her hair pinned to the top of her head, revealing her long, beautiful neck. Her chin rested on her interlocked fingers, and her mien was serene.
    “Oh hello, Mr. Barrington,” the headwaiter said as he approached. “Mrs. Barrington is waiting, and may I congratulate you?”
    Stone leaned over and spoke quietly, but with conviction. “There is no Mrs. Barrington,” he said. “The lady’s name is Miss Bianchi.”
    “Yes, sir,” the man said, a little flustered. “Whatever you say.” He led Stone to the table and pulled out a chair for him.
    Stone sat down and allowed her to lean over and brush his cheek with her lips.
    “Hello, my darling,” she purred.
    “Good afternoon, Dolce.”
    “I hope you’re enjoying your stay in Los Angeles.”
    “I can’t say that I am,” he replied, looking at the menu.
    “Poor baby,” she said, patting his cheek. “Maybe it’s time to go back home to New York—yet again.”
    “Not for a while.”
    “But what’s to keep us here?” she asked, all innocence.
    “Business is keeping me here,” he replied.
    The waiter appeared. Dolce ordered a lobster salad and a glass of chardonnay, and Stone, the taco soup and iced tea.
    “Why are you in L.A.?” he asked, hoping for a rational answer. She began rummaging in a