Moriarty’s steak and chop house on Sixth and Fifty-second, Velda and I sat in the bar across from Hy Gardner in a booth we were lucky to have. Mid-evening, the endless line of stools was full and the restaurant beyond was hopping, producing a drone of conversation punctuated by clinking glass and an occasional dropped dish, making for real privacy. We ate first and talked no business. My kind of business, like what had happened yesterday afternoon in an elegant suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, did not make for polite table talk, even in my circles. Then we settled in for drinks and the real reason I’d called this meeting. And I didn’t even have to call it to order. “I made a few more inquiries,” Hy said, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand, a plump cigar in the other. The way he was peering at me over the glasses said he’d really come up with something. I’d already filled him in on the phone about the party crasher at the bridal shower, giving him more than the papers had. The columnist’s blue suit and darker blue tie were typically crisp, but his face sagged from a long day.
