Class Act

The after-office crowd at P. J. Clarke’s was at its peak when Stone arrived. Dino wasn’t there yet, so Stone squeezed himself into a spot at the bar and raised his chin toward the bartender, who already had his hand on the Knob Creek bottle.

“You have a broad back,” a female voice said from behind him. “Is there a face at the top of it?”

He turned around for a glimpse of his neighbor, then turned all the way around. “Will this do?” he asked pointing a finger at his head.

She was tall, slender, and had a lot of dark, wavy hair. If she had a brain, then she was about all Stone required of a woman. She was wearing an expensive-looking black mink coat. “I suppose it will have to do,” she said, “if that’s all you’ve got.”

“It’s the best I can manage on short notice,” Stone said. “What is your name, if I may ask?”

“You may,” she replied. “I’m Tara Wilkes.”

“Great-granddaughter of Ashley Wilkes? Do I detect what’s left of a Southern accent?”

“If you have sharp ears.”

“And I suppose your mother was a Gone With the Wind freak.”

“An accurate supposition. You’d be surprised how few notice the name at first bite.”

“Nobody reads thousand-page novels anymore.”

“I don’t know,” she said, “it still sells a zillion copies a year.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Apart from your name, do you share any other features of the novel?”

“Well, I’m nicer than Melanie’s sister-in-law, India, but not as nice as Melanie.”

“That’s all right. Nobody is as nice as Melanie.”

“You know,” she said, “I think we’re somewhere past the point where courtesy dictates that you tell me your name.”

“I apologize for all my shortcomings,” Stone said.

“That’s Rhett’s line.”

“I apologize for my discourtesy and my lack of attribution. My name is Stone Barrington.”

“That sounds almost pretentious. Is it from a novel?”

“Not from one I’ve read or ever heard of. Stone is from my mother’s family and Barrington from my father’s.”

“Then it’s honestly come by, unlike mine, which my grandmother thought was cheap.”

“You’re lucky your mother didn’t call you ‘Scarlett.’ ”

“That would have been too cheap, even for my mother.”

Dino pushed his way to the bar behind Tara. “Don’t mind me,” he said to her.

She looked down at him. “Does it matter if I do?”

“Really,” Stone said, “don’t mind him. He’s with me.”

“He’s your date?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking, but only that. However, I’m flattered that you think I could do better. Tara, this is Dino Bacchetti. Dino’s wife travels a lot, either on business or to get away from him, or both, and I have to buy him dinner when she’s gone or he would starve to death.”

“Well, I suppose you two are going to dine now.”

“We were hoping — at least I was — that you’d dine with us. You’re so much more attractive than Dino.”

“I accept your judgment and your invitation,” she said.

They were working their way through the crowd toward the dining room at the rear, when Dino asked, sotto voce, “Where’s Hilda?”

“She had to go back to Florida, a sick father.”

“What time did she fly out?”

“Sometime after five,” Stone said. “That’s when she called.”

“Interesting,” Dino said.

“What?”

“You know the bookie, Tiny Blanco?”

“I’ve seen him at a clam house downtown.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Dino said. “That’s where he got wiped this afternoon, around three o’clock.” He paused for effect. “Two in the head.”