Swimming to Catalina

thanks for your help.” Stone said goodbye and hung up.
    He opened the second little envelope and the message froze him in his tracks.
    SORRY I MISSED YOU,it read.I’LL TRY LATER, IF I CAN. It was signed “A.”

11
    Stone immediately called the hotel operator. “I got a message signed ‘A.,’” he said. “What time did the call come in?”
    “It should be written on the message, Mr. Barrington,” the woman replied.
    “Oh, yes; less than half an hour ago.”
    “I’m double-checking…yes, that’s right.”
    “She didn’t leave a number?”
    “No, sir, just said she’d try and call later.”
    “Do you have caller ID on your phone system?”
    “Yes, sir, but we rarely use it.”
    “Would you please make a note that on all the calls I receive to make a note of the caller ID number?”
    “All right, I’ll do that; and I’ll let the other shifts know.”
    “Thank you.” Stone hung up. Vance had been right; getting his name into the trade papers had produced results. If only he’d been at home when she called. He fixed himself a drink from the bar, switched on the televisionnews, and watched it blankly, absorbing none of it. When his glass was empty, he got into the shower and stood under the very hot water, letting his muscles relax. Then, as he turned off the water, he heard the phone ringing. Grabbing a towel, he raced into the bedroom, but just as he reached for the instrument, it stopped ringing; all he heard was a dial tone. “Dammit!” he yelled at nobody in particular. He called the operator. “You just rang my suite, but I was in the shower. Who called?”
    “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. Stonegave 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