She leveled her gaze at him. “I don’t sing it often.”
“Then I’m all the more grateful for hearing it.”
“Who are you, Mr. Barrington?”
“I’m an attorney, and I’m here on business as well as pleasure.”
“Oh?” she said. “Are you suing me?”
“Far from it,” he said. “I’m here to see that you never have to work another day in your life, unless you want to.”
“Fortunately, I enjoy my work,” she said.
“That’s apparent from the way you do it.”
“Does this have something to do with Harlan Deal?”
“It does, and I’ll be brief, so that we can talk like two human beings again.” He took an envelope containing two copies of the prenuptial agreement and put it on the table. “I had a meeting with Mr. Deal this morning, and with his approval, I’ve made some substantial changes to this document. My advice to you, which is confidential, since it represents a conflict of interest, is to read it, consult a good attorney, then make a few more demands. He handed her his card. Have your attorney call me directly, and I’ll see if I can help with Mr. Deal.”
She tossed her head in a way that flipped her long, nearly white blonde hair over her shoulder. “Well, Mr. Barrington, you’re taking a risk; I could get you disbarred for that advice.”
“Not unless you’re wearing a recording device,” he said, looking her up and down, “and frankly, I don’t know how you could conceal one in that dress.”
She gave him a small smile, then picked up the envelope, opened it and carefully read the prenup. “Do you have a pen?” she said.
Stone held up his pen. “I do, but, again, I think you should consult an attorney.”
“I believe I just have,” she said, then took the pen from his hand and signed both copies of the agreement. “I think it’s generous as it is.”
“We’ll need a witness,” Stone said.
She beckoned her bass player, a very large and handsome African-American man who was sitting nearby. He came over, witnessed the documents and returned to his seat.
She handed Stone a copy, then folded the other and tucked it into her tiny purse. “Now, perhaps we can talk, as you said, like human beings.”
“By all means. Tell me, what is your surname?”
“I don’t have one,” she said. “I never liked my name much, so I stopped using it when I got out of college, which was fifteen years ago, and I had it legally changed ten years ago. Since then, I’ve managed to forget it.”
“I see,” Stone said. “Of what national extraction are you, or have you forgotten that, too?”
“My father was Italian; my mother, Swedish.”
“You seem to have taken on more Swedish characteristics than Italian ones,” he said.
“Don’t count on it,” she replied. “I still know how to use a stiletto on a dark night. Figuratively speaking.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“I have one more set to do,” she said. “I live in the hotel; perhaps when I’m finished, you’ll come up for a drink.”
She had managed to say that without sounding in the least like Mae West, but Stone still gulped. This was really a conflict of interest. “I’d like that,” he said, tucking away his legal ethics.
She played and sang another dozen songs, then thanked her audience, got up and walked past Stone’s table. She shook his hand, and her palm contained a card. “Give me ten minutes to freshen up,” she said.
Stone finished his drink, paid his check and stopped by the men’s room for a little freshening of his own, then he walked out onto Madison Avenue and hailed a cab. “Drive over to Park, then turn right on Seventy-sixth and let me out at the hotel entrance there.”
“Big spender,” the driver said.