CHAPTER 3Kintyre returned home about noon. Gerald Clayton caught him on the phone with an invitation to lunch. Kintyre accepted readily. He had his share of false pride, but not so much that he wouldn’t let a millionaire pick up the tab for a good meal.
The Fairhill Hotel sat in a swank area on the knees of the summer-brown hills walling the Eastbay. Kintyre parked his hand-me-down among mammaried Cadillacs and rump-sprung Plymouths and strolled into the lobby.
Clayton rose from a chair. “Ah, there, Bob, how are you?” He shook hands and moved toward the elevator. “Thought I’d have lunch sent up. But if you’d like a drink beforehand—”
“No, thanks. Maybe a bottle of beer with the meal. Uh, what’s the occasion of all this?”
“We’ve things to talk about. Not too urgent, I guess, but I’m goi
