Page 4 of The Presidents Shadow

I CANNOT SHAKE the images of Jericho from my mind. Still, when Margo suggests that we all go to dinner to celebrate Maddy’s big day, I agree.

“What’ll it be, Maddy? High-class French food or down-home barbecue?” I ask.

To everyone’s surprise, Maddy says, “I could go for a big honkin’ chunk of porterhouse steak.”

“You’re on. But before we go eat, I have a question for you.”

“I smell one of Lamont’s dad jokes coming,” says Margo.

“What do you get when a waiter drops your steak on the floor?” I ask.

Maddy doesn’t miss a beat. “Ground meat.” Groans. Fifteen minutes later, we’re seated at the last great steak house in New York City, the Strip House.

Margo, who really knows her way around a wine list, orders her favorite Burgundy, a Chambertin, vintage 2032. I order four sixteen-ounce steaks. “One medium, one rare, one very rare, and one that’s blue. ” Margo and Jessica seem confused.

Maddy says, “Blue means that the steak is as close as possible to being raw.”

“This girl is unbelievable,” I say. “First she knows my dad joke. Then she knows my secret food info. I’ve got nothing left to teach her. I guess CCNY was good for something.” I bite down on how I’d like to finish the sentence, something about wasting her talents on the government.

We all toast Maddy. Then, at her suggestion, we raise a glass to the memory of Jericho.

Everything is turning out okay… except for the five obnoxious young professionals at the next table. Margo glances over and identifies them as “a bunch of jerks, finance guys.”

Maddy says, “Yeah, but two of them are women.”

“Okay,” I say. “A bunch of finance jerks, men and women. Does that make it better?”

Maddy says not at all. But the tables are so close that it’s hard to ignore this offensive group, and the mood that was just beginning to lift evaporates.

“So,” one of the men at the other table goes on, “I said, ‘Don’t waste my time if you don’t have a minimum of four hundred million to drop on this deal.’”

Another man chimes in. “The big question is, did you get the babe to come back to your place?” Everyone laughs. Even the women. Disgusting.

They all roar at comments like “That IG guy didn’t know a Treasury bond from his ass or his partner’s ass or his boss’s ass.”

“Hey,” Maddy says, working hard to stop contempt from entering her voice. “Do you guys think you could keep your voices down?”

The people at the other table look at one another and laugh. One of the two women even parodies Maddy’s question with old-fashioned sarcasm. “Weeeellllll, excuse me!” the woman says. And, of course, all her colleagues laugh.

“You’re a bunch of spoiled goons,” Maddy says.

One of the men fakes a combination of sincerity and seduction, saying, “Oh, maybe if that grumpy little girl joined our table she might have a little fun. How about it, babe?”

I have a front-row seat to this clown show, and I’ve just about had enough.

Only Margo notices the glint in my eyes, and a smile pulls at the side of her mouth.

Then we hear Finance Guy One gesture to Finance Guy Two and say, “Hey, Andrew, pass some of that Strip House special steak sauce this way, bro.”

Andrew does what he’s asked to do. But not exactly. He turns the pitcher of hot brown sauce over the head of Finance Guy One.

“What the f…?” The man jumps to his feet, brushing sauce off his clearly expensive suit coat. “That’s not funny, dude.”

Maybe not to him, but Margo and I laugh hard. Jessica and Maddy turn to see what’s happening.

Finance Guy Three is on his cell phone. He gestures to his pals and says, “Keep it down, guys. I’m on an important…

” But he’s not being important for long.

His super-duper, newer-than-new cell phone bursts into flames, and Number Three has no choice but to drop the flaming phone into his drink special: a ninety-dollar-a-glass tumbler of Macallan Scotch.

The smell of melting plastic mixed with high-end liquor fills the room as other patrons leap to their feet.

But their gaze isn’t being drawn to the action inside the restaurant; they’re all looking at the sidewalk outside, where three teenagers are arguing.

I can sense that the sidewalk confrontation is about to become dangerous, very dangerous. Sure enough, one of the teens pulls out a switchblade and plunges it into the throat of another. The young victim falls to his knees, bleeding, hands clutching at the blade.

I’m on my feet and through the door, jumping over the body oozing blood onto the sidewalk. Meanwhile the two perps are running like crazy down Sixth Avenue.