Small Town

And that was what this dinner was about. He knew that, and his three dinner partners knew it, and so did Claudia Gerndorf and that demi-hoodlum from Local 802 of the Amalgamated Federation of Widget Makers. Anyone who recognized the four of them could figure out why they were sitting there together, washing down sole meunière with pinot grigio.

Meanwhile, he told his cop stories. The three men seemed to enjoy them.

“NOW THAT’S INTERESTING,” MAURY Winters said. “To your left, four men sitting together, the waiter’s just now pouring their wine.”

She looked, saw three men in suits and one in a blazer, and asked what was interesting about them.

“That they’re here together,” the lawyer said. “Recognize anybody?”

“No,” she said, and considered. “The one in the blazer looks familiar. Who is he?”

“Nobody at the moment, but a few years ago he was police commissioner.”

“Of course, Buckley, but no, that’s not right. Buckman?”

“Buckram, sweetheart. Like a fine binding. First name Francis, but don’t call him Frank. He prefers Fran. The other men, well, I recognize two of them, and they’re both real estate machers, and so’s the third, I’d be willing to bet you. Do you suppose they’ve banded together to help our former top cop find an apartment?”

“I have a feeling the answer is no.”

“But to find a job, that’s another possibility altogether. How’s your tornado?”

Her dish was tournedos Rossini, filet mignon capped with foie gras, tender as butter and wonderfully savory, and his mispronunciation was an affectation, a part of the diamond-in-the-rough image he’d perfected. His gray hair was shaggy, his suit imperfectly tailored for his fleshy physique, and his tie showed the odd food stain. She wasn’t sure of his age but knew he was well into his sixties, and the years showed in his face and carriage. And yet he remained an extremely attractive man, and how fair was that? If a woman let herself go like that, no one would look at her twice. With a man, well, if he had the right sort of energy emanating from him, you overlooked some of the flaws, called the rest character, and wound up with wet panties.

“My tornado is gale force,” she told him. “If there’s a trailer park in the neighborhood, its days are numbered. How’s your veal?”

“It would make a PETA activist rethink his whole program. I’ll tell you, it’s a pleasure to watch a woman with an appetite.”

“Oh?”

“People say they hate to eat alone. What’s so terrible? You go to a nice restaurant, you take a book, you eat a meal at your own pace. Listen to me, but do I listen to myself? I’m out five nights a week with someone adorable, and they’re all either trying to lose weight or trying to keep from gaining it, and either way, as far as their value as company, you’d be better off going to a whorehouse with Ed Koch. See, you laugh. They don’t get my jokes, or maybe they just don’t think they’re funny. You eat, you laugh, Susan, you can call me for free legal advice for the rest of your life.”

“As long as I keep on eating and laughing.”

“Why would you want to stop? You never gain an ounce, you got a better figure than the models.”

“Why do you go out with them, Maury?”

“Besides the obvious?”

“You don’t have to take them to L’Aiglon for that.”

“Them I don’t take to L’Aiglon. Them I take to someplace flashier, so they can say they’ve been there. But what they are is arm candy, darling. Look at that alte kacher, out with that sweet young thing. He must have something, the old bastard.” He shrugged. “Anyway, they’re cute, they’re cuddly, they’re adorable, they’re like a kitten or a rabbit. You don’t expect to have a conversation with a bunny rabbit, do you?”

“It would be one-sided.”

“But you’d still want to pet it,” he said, “and stroke it behind the ears.”

“So why did you call me? Old times’ sake?”

They’d had an affair, if you wanted to call it that, a dozen years ago, not long after her marriage came apart. They’d already known each other — her ex was an assistant district attorney whom Maury had befriended after excoriating him in court, and who had since crossed the aisle and set up as a defense attorney, and you could bet she’d never call him for free legal advice, the asshole.

He hadn’t taken her to L’Aiglon, but it had been something comparable, Le Cirque or La Côte Basque, something French and fancy, and over Drambuie he told her he kept an apartment in town, for when he had to stay over, and he’d like nothing better than to show it to her.

She’d said, “You’re married, right?”

“Absolutely!”

“Good,” she’d said. “Because you’re a very attractive man, Maury, and I’d love to spend a little quality time in your apartment, but I don’t want to get involved any more than you do.”