“Hell no. I’m just mad you didn’t take me with you.”
“Really?” Bennie looked up with the same warm rush she’d felt before, and David was smiling at her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now what are you doing there?”
“Picking a lunch partner. It’s either my friend Sam or a potential client, Mort Abrams.” Bennie found the message slips, so she had both numbers. “It’s almost noon, and I can’t decide who to eat with.”
“Oh, you lawyers have big problems.”
“Hey, it matters. At least today it does.”
“I’m just the undercover bodyguard. All I care about is where you’re gonna eat.”
“That’s all I care about too. And that, I already know.”
“Aha, I see,” David said, catching up, and Bennie smiled.
“You’re learning, sailor.”
Silverware jingled as busboys cleared empty tables, ice cubes clinked in scotch glasses carried on round trays, and waiters in white coats rustled as they moved professionally between the tables packed with lunchtime patrons, who were buzzing with laughter and conversation. The Palm was one of the most popular restaurants in the city because of location, not decor. The design was early steakhouse, and the walls were blanketed with hand-painted head shots of local celebrities, like TV weathermen. But with City Hall, the Criminal Justice Center, and major hotels within a three-block radius, politicians, lawyers, and tourists flocked to the place, gobbling down grilled New York strip steaks and humongous Gulf shrimp.
Bennie plucked one of her huge shrimp from its orangy sea of cocktail sauce. “This qualifies as a lethal weapon in most jurisdictions.”
“I am above size jokes, honey.” Sam scooped a cherrystone into his mouth and leaned over his plate of tiny clamshells, with a pool of gritty water at the bottom. “So tell me what progress the cops have made.”
“None. And thanks for the check, by the way. I did cash it, you devil.”
“Ain’t I a stinker?” They shared a table by the window, overlooking Broad Street. Indirect light brightened the spot, and Sam used it to examine his fingernails after he’d wiped his hands on the thick cloth napkin. “I’m so sorry about your client.”
“Me, too. Robert was a wonderful man. You would have loved him.”
“I’m sure. I love anybody who talks like Pepé Le Pew.” Sam sipped his ice water and eyed the traffic out the window, on Broad. “You think it was this tourist thing?”
“It’s a possibility.” Bennie stopped herself before she filled him in on her other suspicions, especially about Alice. Sam would just yell at her, or worry about her, which was worse. “I’m leaving this one to the cops.”
Sam set down his water in disbelief. “You are?”
“Yes.”
“You’re staying out of it?”
“Absolutely.” Bennie nodded in a way she hoped was convincing. Of course, this act could put a damper on her plan to interrogate whoever had waited on Mayer and Robert last night. She’d have to be clever and deceitful, neither of which came naturally to her. “I have too much to deal with right now, what with Alice and the firm’s finances, or lack thereof.”
“I quite agree.” Sam’s expression turned grave, the corners of his reddish mustache turning down. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss that somebody is out there targeting foreigners. The way the mood has been in this country lately, there’s a lot more xenophobia. It’s just another form of hate crime, and believe me, you don’t have to convince a gay man that hate crimes exist. I have a friend who’s gay and Iranian. He shaved his beard and went drag.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Bennie was drawing her own parallels, to the Brandolini case and the internment camps. She’d said good-bye to Mary before she’d left for lunch and felt proud of her. “Strange things happen when people feel threatened, don’t they?”
“Sure do.” Sam sighed. “Anyway, I have to tell you, as bad as I felt for your client, I felt worse for you. I don’t want to think about what losing his case means for you, Bennie. It’s a financial disaster. You have to let me give you some more money, at least lend it to you, with your house in play-”
“Not so fast,” Bennie interrupted him. “Robert’s murder may not drop me from the class action, if whoever succeeds him wants to continue the suit. I already have a call in to the vice president, who should know. And I’m getting phone calls from the other class members. I even had one invite me to lunch, but I chose you because you’re way more fun.”
“Also I’d pick up the tab.”
“Okay, that, too. Sorry. Also, guess what? I was offered two million bucks for my firm this morning.”
“What?” Sam dropped his clam fork. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?” So Bennie filled him in on the meeting with Linette. Sam’s thin, fair skin colored with excitement as she spoke, so brightly that she thought his navy-patterned bow tie was cutting off his oxygen. When she got to the part about the company Porsche, he got so hot and bothered that he had to take off his blazer. When she was finished, he reached over and put his fine, if clammy, hand over hers. “Bennie, I have one word for you. Sell.”
“Why?”
“No, three words. Sell, sell, sell.” Sam wet his lips “Or how about, sell right now. Or, sell it, honey.”
“I built that firm. I saw it through everything. I grew it to full staff. I worked my ass off. Why should I sell out?”
“It’s not selling out, it’s selling, and are you seriously asking me why? Why? You’re bankrupt, you idiot! Did you forget?” Sam rolled his eyes behind his hip glasses. “Bennie, listen up. Some money is better than no money. This is an essential financial principle, and even you can understand it. Take the money. Also three words.”
“But Linette’s only buying us to keep the class. He doesn’t care about Rosato amp; Associates.”
“So what?”
“I don’t want to practice class-action law.”
“Who cares? If you’re right, Linette doesn’t want you to, either. Be a consultant. Show up and say hi. Put your name on the papers.”
“That’s not lawyering.”
“So quit after a respectable time period and go lawyer somewhere else. With that kind of money, you can start another firm.” Sam’s eyes flared with urgency as a waiter came over with their lunch entrées. The waiter’s pristine white jacket read Westley and he was an older man, and balding. With an efficient air, he set a salmon filet in front of Sam and a strip steak in front of Bennie.
“Thank you,” Bennie said. She faced the waiter, arranging her face into a casual mask for Sam’s benefit. “Westley, you didn’t happen to work last night, did you?”
“No, miss,” the waiter answered matter-of-factly. “Yesterday was my day off.”
“Thank you,” Bennie repeated, watching the waiter remove her butter knife with some ceremony and replace it with a wooden-handled steak knife with a sharp serrated edge. Was this the kind of knife that had killed Robert? The thought nauseated her, but she made herself pick up the knife and turn it over. It was why she had ordered the steak, after all.
“Is anything the matter, miss?” the waiter asked, and Bennie shook her head.
“No, thanks. Everything’s fine. I was just curious, is this the knife you give with every steak?”
“Yes.”
“There aren’t bigger ones?”
“No, I’m sure this will be fine for your purposes. We use it for the prime rib and the filet mignon. Though if you wish another, perhaps I could ask around in the kitchen.”
“No. No, thanks.” The waiter left, and Sam eyed her warily.
“Don’t tell me, lemme guess. St. Amien ate here last night, before he was knifed to death.”
Ouch. “I’m just curious, okay?”