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Swansons had been married ten years. They suited each other. Deena’s appetite for even more fame, money, and power was just as voracious as her husband’s.
    When Deena Swanson had called and requested their presence, Jerry was delighted. The firm had been representing her for several months on minor matters, but Jerry figured being summoned to her home meant things were definitely looking up: maybe they were going to get her husband’s account. He liked that idea a lot.
    â€˜Why do I have to come along?’ Steven grumbled as they sat in the back of Jerry’s chauffeured town car on their way to Deena’s Park Avenue apartment, one of the Swansons’ three permanent residences.
    â€˜Because we don’t know what she wants,’ Jerry replied patiently. ‘It could be simple. Maybe it’s complicated. Two minds are better than one.’ A pause, and then a sly, ‘Besides, the rumour is she likes her coffee black.’
    Steven narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’ he said sharply.
    Jerry was unperturbed. ‘You heard.’
    Shaking his head, Steven said, ‘You’re an asshole, Jerry. Sometimes I don’t think you ever took it out of college.’
    â€˜Took what out of college?’ Jerry inquired innocently.
    â€˜Your fucking brains.’
    â€˜Thank
you
.’
    The car stopped at a red light. Jerry studied two girls crossing the street. One, a bouncy redhead, really got his attention. ‘Do you think she sucks c—’
    â€˜Don’t even say it,’ interrupted Steven grimly. ‘Y’know, Jerry, you should get married and stop behaving like a dirty old lawyer.’
    â€˜Married?’ Jerry’s voice filled with undisguised horror. ‘What makes you think I’d ever be that stupid?’
    Every so often Steven wondered how their friendship had endured since college… They were so different, and yet he couldn’t imagine a more loyal and supportive friend than Jerry Myerson. Jerry had seen him through so much – including a disastrous marriage to a wild Puerto Rican dancer named Zizi, his many years as a crusading assistant D.A., and finally the long years painstakingly trying to find out the identity of his father. When he’d finally discovered his father was the infamous Gino Santangelo, Jerry had congratulated him.
    â€˜Hey – now you’ve got one white ball and one black,’ he’d joked. ‘The man can play in both courts. Not bad, Steven. There’s a little larceny in you after all.’
    The discovery was a shock, but life went on, and Steven weathered the revelation. With Jerry’s help he threw himself into his work, deciding to specialize in criminal law. He’d discovered his vocation and loved it. Soon he developed quite a reputation as one of the best defence attorneys around. He was the first to admit that without Jerry he certainly wouldn’t be a partner in one of the most successful law firms in New York. Jerry had supported him all the way. So what if he conducted his personal life like the ideal
Playboy
subscriber? Underneath his sexist front the man had heart, and that’s what really counted.
    Deena Swanson was a coolly attractive woman with chiselled features, dead blue eyes, and very pale red hair cropped in a thirties bob. She was one of those women of indeterminate age – white pulled skin without a line in sight, perfect makeup, and a slim figure clad in a tailored grey skirt and an expensive silk shirt. Steven figured her to be anywhere between thirty and forty, it was impossible to tell. What he could tell was that she didn’t look happy.
    She greeted them with a limp handshake, receiving them in a spacious living room filled with African artefacts, sculpture, and fine paintings. Above the mantel hung an impressive oil painting of Mr. and Mrs. Swanson, she clad in a pink ball gown, and Martin Swanson sporting a white tuxedo. Both faces wore the same