Free Mortal Stakes by Robert B. Parker Page B

one-hand push-up,” I said. “Gets them almost every time.”
    She didn’t take long. I had time to sip one more brandy before she reappeared in a backless white dress that tied around the neck and had a royal blue sash around the middle.
    Her shoes matched the sash, and so did her earrings.
    I said, “Hubba, hubba.”
    “Hub-ba, hub-ba? What on earth does that mean?”
    “You look very nice,” I said. “Where would you like to go?”
    “There’s a lovely restaurant uptown a little ways we could try, if you’d like.”
    “I’m in your hands,” I said. “This is your city.”
    “You are not, I would guess, ever in anyone’s hands, Spenser, but I think you’ll like this place.”
    “Cab?” I said.
    “No, Steven will drive us.”
    When we went out the front door, there was the same well-built black man, sitting at the wheel of a Mercedes sedan. He’d swapped his mess jacket for a blue blazer.
    We drove uptown.
    The restaurant was at Sixty-fifth Street on the East Side and was called The Wings of the Dove.
    I said.
    “Do you suppose they serve the food in a golden bowl?”
    “I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?”
    “Henry James,” I said. “It’s a book joke.”
    “I guess I haven’t read it.”
    It was only five thirty when we went in. Too early for most people to go to dinner, but most people had probably eaten lunch. I hadn’t. It was a small restaurant, with a lavish dessert table in the foyer and two rooms separated by an archway. The ceiling was frosted glass that opened out, like a greenhouse, and the walls were used brick, some from the original building, some quite artfully integrated with the original. The tablecloths were pink, and there were flowers and green plants everywhere, many of them in hanging pots.
    The maitre d‘ in a tuxedo said, “Good evening, Mrs.
    Utley. We have your table.”
    She smiled and followed him. I followed her. One wall of the restaurant was mirrored, and it gave the illusion of a good deal more space than there was. I checked myself as we filed in. The suit was holding up, I’d had a haircut just last week, if only a talent scout from Playgirl spotted me.
    “Would you care for cocktails?”
    Patricia Utley said, “Campari on the rocks with a twist, please, John.”
    I said, “Do you have any draft beer?”
    The maitre d’ said, “No.”
    I said, “Do you have any Amstel in bottles?”
    He said, “No.”
    I said to Patricia Utley, “Is Nedick’s still open?”
    She said to the maitre d‘, “Bring him a bottle of Heineken, John.”
    The maitre d’ said, “Certainly, Mrs. Utley,” and stalked toward the kitchen.
    She looked at me and shook her head slowly. “Are you ever serious, Spenser?”
    “Yes, I am,” I said. “I am serious, for instance, about discussing Donna Burlington with you.”
    “And I am serious when I say to you, why should you think I’d know her?”
    “Because you are in charge of a high-priced prostitution operation and are bankrolled with what my source refers to as heavy money. Now I know it, and you know it, and why not stop the pretense? The truth, Mrs. Utley, will set us free.”
    “All right,” she said, “say you are correct. Why should I discuss it with you?”
    A waiter brought our drinks and I waited while he put them down. Mine rather disdainfully, I thought.
    “Because I can cause you aggravation—cops, newspapers, maybe the feds—maybe I could cause you trouble, I don’t know. Depends on how heavy the bankrollers really are.
    If you talk with me, then it’s confidential, there’s no aggravation at all. And I might do another one-arm push-up for you.”
    “What if my bankrollers decided to cause you aggravation?”
    “I have a very high aggravation tolerance.”
    She sipped her Campari. “It’s funny, or maybe it’s not funny at all, but you’re the second person who’s come asking about Donna.”
    “Who else?”
    “He never said, but he was quite odd. He was, oh, what, in costume, I guess