Chapter Eight
Ward sat with Reza at a table hidden in the corner of the Occidental Grill. Ward cradled his usual glass of Maker’s Mark bourbon between his two hands while Reza sipped a Jack Nicklaus made with the Occidental’s fresh lemonade.
They watched Peter York, seated at the magnificent dark wood and etched glass bar, its walls, like every wall in the restaurant, covered with black framed, white matted photos of the many presidents, politicians, moguls and celebrities who’d passed through its doors since the Willard’s opened the restaurant in 1906. Peter was not old enough to legally drink – 21 years in the US – but either the bartender thought he was or, more probably, he had one of the many readily available fake IDs. “Even more unlikely,” Reza commented with a wink, “the pale liq
