“Who the hell was that?” Eggers asked.

“You remember that time when you wanted to catch a client’s husband in flagrante delicto, and you asked me to find a photographer, and Bob Cantor, who usually does that sort of work for me, was out of town and recommended his nephew, and the nephew fell through the skylight while taking the photograph?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that.”

“Well, that was Herbie Fisher.”

“Holy shit, didn’t you have that guy shot?”

“I wish.”

“And now he’s a member of the bar?”

“No, it’s just one of Herbie’s fantasies, probably cooked up to impress the hookers.”

“How do you know they’re hookers?” Eggers asked.

Dino spoke up. “Just take a look,” he said, nodding in the direction of Herbie’s table.

One of the girls was sitting close to Herbie, exploring his ear with her tongue, while the feet of the other, toes pointing downward, could be seen to protrude from under the tablecloth. Herbie wore a beatific expression.

“If Elaine sees that,” Dino said, “she’ll grab somebody’s steak knife and kill them all.”

“Okay,” Eggers said, “they’re hookers. But that page of names he showed you was from the Legal Review, and they published the names today of those who passed the bar.”

“Then somebody took the bar exam for him,” Stone said.

“Probably the same guy who took G. W. Bush’s exams at Yale and Harvard,” Dino said.

Their first course arrived, and they dug in.

Elaine came over and sat down. “You ordered the porterhouse?” she said.

“Right,” Dino replied.

“For three of you?”

“It’s a big steak.”

“It’s a steak for two; you can carry home the leftovers, like always.”

“Elaine,” Stone said, “what’s the difference if three of us finish the thing here?”

“The difference is one main course,” she said. “Do the arithmetic.”