Unintended Consequences

stuff?”
    “I have connections.”
    “You want to join me for dinner at Patroon tonight? Viv is still cleaning up after the party last night. Eight o’clock?”
    “You’re on. I’m glad you don’t have to do the dishes.”
    Stone worked through the afternoon, then went upstairs to his study for a drink. Joan buzzed him. “Your package from Marcel has arrived,” she said. “Shall I bring it up?”
    “Sure,” Stone said, and collapsed into his easy chair.

60
    S tone sat, too worn out even to get up and get himself a drink. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, a man was standing in the doorway. He hadn’t heard him approach.
    He was small, perhaps five-five or -six, and wiry, with short, thick gray hair. He looked to be fiftyish, and he was wearing a well-fitted, three-piece tweed suit.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. His accent was Cockney.
    “Good afternoon,” Stone replied. “Where did you come from?”
    “Ms. Robertson escorted me from her office.”
    “Ah, you’re here to deliver a gift from M’sieur duBois.”
    “That is correct, sir. My name is Frederick Flicker.” He handed Stone a thick buff-colored envelope. “My credentials.”
    “Credentials?” Stone asked.
    “My particulars, Mr. Barrington. I would be grateful if you would peruse them. If you have any questions, I would be pleased to answer them.”
    Stone opened the envelope and shook out a couple of sheets of paper and a binder holding many more pages.
    “May I get you a glass of your bourbon while you’re reading them, sir?” Flicker nodded toward the bar.
    “Yes, thank you,” Stone replied. “Fill a whiskey glass with ice, then fill it with bourbon.”
    Flicker did as instructed, selecting the Knob Creek without being told.
    Stone took a sip. “How did you know which bourbon?”
    “Your reputation precedes you, sir.”
    Stone set the papers in his lap. “Why don’t you just tell me about yourself, Mr. Flicker? I’m too tired to digest all this. And please sit down. Fix yourself a drink, first, if you like.”
    “Thank you, sir, but no,” Flicker said. He sat down. “First, to business. I was born fifty years ago next month in London, the East End, within the sound of Bow Bells.”
    “Which makes you a genuine Cockney, does it not?”
    “Just so, sir,” Fred said in his genuine Cockney accent. “I was educated at the local grammar school but could not afford to attend university, so at seventeen I enlisted in the Royal Marines. I served thirty-two years in the Commando Brigade, retiring with the rank of regimental sergeant major. I fought in Northern Ireland, Iraq, and Afghanistan. And, since I understand you sometimes have security concerns, you should know I was twice the Royal Marines pistol champion.”
    “That is an impressive record, Mr. Flicker.”
    “I would be pleased, sir, if you would call me Fred.”
    “Certainly, Fred.”
    “After my retirement I was at loose ends, so I attended a renowned school for butlers in London, and after that, the Bentley chauffeurs’ training course, plus a course in high-performance and defensive driving. Then I was employed for a year by M’sieur duBois at his Paris home and office as second butler. I regret to say that I found my character and nature incompatible with those of the head butler, whom I thought insufferably French, with a profound disrespect for anything English, so I tendered my resignation ten days ago, leaving with a resounding recommendation from M’sieur duBois, which you will find in my file.”
    “I see,” Stone said, and he thought he was beginning to. “Fred, am I to understand that you are a gift to me from M’sieur duBois?”
    “Quite right, Mr. Barrington. M’sieur duBois has given you one year of my service, paid in advance. After that, we will see if we may reach an accommodation regarding the future.”
    “Well,” said Stone, “welcome to my household, Fred.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Fred said. “Might I begin by asking Ms. Robertson to give me a tour of the house and kitchens and to introduce me to the cook?”
    “What a good idea,” Stone said.
    “Oh, and I presume you have a wine cellar?”
    “I do.”
    “Then perhaps I should immediately cellar the dozen cases of very fine French wines that M’sieur duBois has also sent you. After all, wine is a living thing.” In Fred’s Cockney accent, this came out as “Woyne is a wivving fing.”
    Stone laughed. “I don’t think