Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(90)

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sight of someone she recognized climbing from a limousine that had stopped outside. She stiffened in shock then nudged Pierette, who looked out and said, “Oh, shit.”

Seconds later, Emil Farquist rolled in, bypassing the waiting line, followed by Hawkes, Cowper, and an elderly man, thin, long-limbed, craggy-faced. Farquist was in full voice, greeting the maitre d’ — and for that matter, all in the room — with slurred best wishes for this joy-filled season. More than a little tipsy.

According to Arthur, the wannabe Conservative leader had been in a sweat to get away this afternoon, something about an important staff meeting. Does one normally get drunk at a staff meeting?

The party of four was led to a newly cleared table near the kitchen. Margaret guessed the less-than-prime location annoyed Farquist; his ebullience faded and his voice — his words unclear — took on a complaining tone.

Hawkes, clearly embarrassed, was urging him to sit, but Emil resisted, and turned and scanned the restaurant. He blinked a couple of times, as if in confusion, as he focussed on the table in the cozy window alcove, at his staring enemies.

Abruptly, though with a slight misstep, he turned away and called out: “Michele, champagne, s’il vous pla?t!” He expelled Hawkes from his chair, subsided into it, so he could sit with his back to his foes. A fifth chair remained empty — Margaret presumed it was for Cowper’s nervous junior.

Arthur, who had gone silent mid-anecdote, looked questioningly at Pierette, then Sierra. “Who’s the thin man?”

“That would be my old friend Sam Puhl.” Sierra waved. Puhl returned a mock salute. They remained for a while in eye-to-eye combat, like gunslingers facing off.

Margaret was aware that Puhl’s two investigators were being subpoenaed. He didn’t seem very happy; perhaps that was why. Michele, the chef, hung about their table, clucking over them as champagne was poured.

Of those at Margaret’s table, only Sierra, a foodie, had taken the kitchen tour the Q offered, and now his counterpart, Puhl, rose to do so. Farquist also stood, but to gesture at someone at the entrance, a tough-looking older dude in a Stetson.

Arthur had to twist around to look. “O’Reilly,” he said. “Wouldn’t you know.”

Jack O’Reilly, the billionaire oilman, proud bankroller of the most right-wing of right-wing causes.

O’Reilly gave Farquist a manly hug. He shook hands with the others before he sat, talking loudly, maybe a few drinks to the worse himself.

The important staff meeting had amounted to two guys sharing a bottle, Margaret decided. Farquist would have been hitting the oilman up for campaign funds.

Everyone fell in line when Margaret declined dessert and coffee — the vibe in here had become strained, edgy. Arthur asked for the bill, Margaret visited the washroom, and Sierra quietly wandered off to the kitchen.

Later, as they enjoyed a moonlit stroll by the park, Sierra explained: “Sam was expecting me, of course. It would have been discourteous to ignore each other.” The brief tête-à-tête had involved queries about their mutual well-being, a jest at Sierra’s failed vow to retire, and Sierra’s own jibe about an illegal wiretap.

“Sam expressed credible surprise and concern. He is a proud professional. He would not want his prestigious agency to be involved in something messy. And he is agitated over his two underlings being subpoenaed.”

“What else did you read from him?” Arthur asked.

“A hearty optimism. He hints he has something up his shirtsleeve. But he is an expert bluffer.”

Arthur blew out a cloud of breath. Margaret took his arm, slowed him while the others carried on. “Tell me why you’re so preoccupied.”

“They’ve made an offer. We’ll talk at the hotel. Just you and me.”

§

An hour later, Margaret was perched on Arthur’s bed in a state of high tension as he paced and talked. A settlement proposal. Seven-and-a-half million, but they would likely go down to six, maybe five. A judgment against them could be much higher. These matters had to be weighed.

He sounded so formal. This was not her gentle, caring Arthur, her lover and husband. This was her lawyer.

“Plus an apology?” She could barely utter that word.

“Carefully worded. Based on incorrect information, that sort of thing.”

“But five million?”

“A substantial mortgage on the farm can handle some of it. Bully will advance a hefty partnership draw. Lots of trials left in me.”

Margaret watched for a sign he was merely having fun with her. “Why are we discussing this, Arthur?”

“I have a duty to inform you.”

“You also have a duty to advise me.”

“Cowper insists the door to settlement will close on Monday, when you take the oath. That’s either a threat or a bluff. ”

“Darling, are our chances really so terrible?”

Arthur had already spent half an hour analyzing those for her. The several soft spots in the plaintiff’s case, the glaring hole in Margaret’s: the missing, possibly non-existent video. The risk of massive damages should Chief Justice Cohon-Plaskett conclude Margaret conspired with a man on the lam to destroy Farquist’s reputation.

“They are not good.”

“How not good?”