“And armored, too,” Stone said. “Just in case anybody intends to do you harm.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. When I went car shopping a while back, they were wheeling it into the showroom. Some mob guy had ordered it and had got himself popped the day before it arrived.”
“Bad timing.”
“Good for me, though. I was being shot at, at the time, and I bought it from the widow at a nice discount. The armor is only good for small arms—no land mines or rockets.”
“You get a lot of land mines and rockets on the streets of New York?” she asked.
“Not as many as we used to. Giuliani discouraged that sort of behavior, and Bloomberg seems to be following his lead.”
They arrived at 1 West Sixty-seventh Street on time for their table at Café des Artistes, and they were seated immediately. Stone ordered two champagnes fraise des bois.
“What’s that?” Carpenter asked.
“A glass of champagne with a dose of wild strawberry liqueur.”
The drinks arrived. “I like the murals,” Carpenter said, looking around at paintings of nude nymphs greeting conquistadores.
“They’re a big reason this is one of my favorite restaurants,” Stone said. “Notice that, while they have different faces, the nymphs all seem to have the same body. I think the artist, Howard Chandler Christy, must have had a favorite model.”
“I hope we aren’t here entirely for the nudes,” Carpenter said.
“Fear not, the food is excellent.” He glanced at his watch. Herbie should be in position on the roof by now.
Stone ordered them the charcuterie and the bourride, a seafood stew in a thick, garlicky sauce.
“Mmmmm,” Carpenter said, tasting it. “Good thing we’re both having this, what with all the garlic.”
“Felicity,” Stone said. “No kidding?”
“No kidding. It was my grandmother’s name.”
“And what is your last name?”
“I’m not sure I know you well enough to tell you,” she said.
“After last night, I should think you’d know me well enough to tell me anything,” Stone said.
She laughed. “All right, it’s Devonshire.”
“Like the county?”
“Exactly.”
“Felicity Devonshire. Sounds like an actress on Masterpiece Theatre.”
“What’s Masterpiece Theatre?”
“It’s a program on our Public Broadcasting System that features British television plays.”
Stone checked his watch again: nine-thirty. Herbie should be calling any second.
“Why do you keep looking at your watch?” Carpenter asked.
“Sorry, something’s going on tonight, and I should get a call saying it went well.”