Larry stood, too. “Who was that?”
“Fredrick, over at La Calvados. The girl has come in for lunch. Let's go!”
La Calvados was the swankiest French restaurant in Greater Washington, a city not devoid of swank restaurants. Only the upper-echelons in governmental circles could afford its tariffs; the clientele was more apt to consist of business mucky-mucks and lobbyists on the make. Larry Woolford had eaten here exactly twice. You could get a reputation spending money far beyond your obvious pay status.
Fredrick, the maître de hôtel, however, was able to greet them both by name. “Monsieur Hackett, Monsieur Woolford,” he bowed. He obviously didn't approve of La Calvados being used as a hangout where counterfeiters were picked up the authorities.
“Where is she?” Steve said, looking out over the public dining room.
Fredrick said, unprofessionally agitated, “See here, Monsieur Hackett, you didn't expect to, ah, arrest the young lady here during our lunch hour?”
Steve looked at him impatiently. “We don't exactly beat them over the head with blackjacks, slip the bracelets on and drag them screaming to the paddywagon.”
“Of course not, monsieur, but—”
Larry Woolford's chief dined here several times a week and was probably on the best of terms with Fredrick whose decisions on tables and whose degree of servility had a good deal of influence on a man's status in Greater Washington. Larry said wearily, “We can wait until she leaves. Where is she?”