by Stuart Woods
“Sort of. I’ve booked a private dining room at Peter Luger. I’m dying for a steak.”
“Is there a bed in that room?”
“I’ve got that all worked out,” she said. “You’re sleeping at the Carlyle, so bring a change of socks.”
“Will do.”
“Eightish,” she said. “We’ll arrive in separate cars.” She hung up.
Stone hung up, too. The thing with the cars was always a problem. If they arrived anywhere together, the paparazzi were waiting for them when they left. On departure, Holly went first, taking the crowd with her, so Stone could get to his car unmolested.
* * *
—
When Mickey got home he asked the driver to wait and take them to the restaurant. His key worked. He showered, dressed in his best suit, and was waiting for Louise at the front door, having robbed his secret stash of some more money.
At the restaurant they were seated at her favorite table; a Rob Roy was brought for her and a single malt Scotch for him.
“So,” she said, “how was your business day?”
“It went well. I had to fly to Maine to see a client.”
“How much did that cost?”
“He paid. The yield here could be great.”
“How soon?”
“A week or two.”
“A toast to income,” Louise said, raising her glass.
“I’m all for that,” Mickey said, sipping his Scotch. He ordered the porterhouse for two, and they had another drink.
“Trying to soften me up?” she asked.
“Trying to relax you. You deserve it.”
“God knows I do.”
* * *
—
Stone got to the restaurant first and was shown to the private room. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of the restaurant floor and Michael O’Brien seated across from an older, attractive woman. That must be the mother, he thought.
Holly arrived and closed the door on the Secret Service agent behind her.
They enjoyed more than a momentary kiss.
“I suppose we could just clear the table and do it here,” she said.
“I like a softer bed,” Stone said, holding her chair for her. A waiter arrived with an icy martini and a Knob Creek on the rocks.
“To escape,” Holly said, toasting.
“I’ll drink to that.”
“I thought I was going to get stuck with a bunch of diplomats,” she said, “but I weaseled out of it.”
* * *
—
They had finished their porterhouse when Louise removed an envelope from her bosom. “I have a little surprise for you,” she said. “Open it later.”
Mickey thought of excusing himself to the men’s room and opening it there, but he resisted and tucked it away. He didn’t want to annoy her.
“Oh, go ahead,” she said.
He opened the envelope and removed a check for what he at first thought to be twenty thousand dollars, but he knew that was too much for a gift. Then he looked again. “Two million dollars?” he blurted.
“I sold some stock you were going to inherit anyway,” Louise said. “But I want it understood what it’s for.”
“I’m flabbergasted,” he said, reading the number again.
“First, you pay off your bookie. I want your promise that you will give up gambling, cold turkey. Otherwise, you’ll never have a thing. Then I want you to buy a nice, little apartment.”
“I like my present apartment,” he said.
“Well, you can sit around there for the next forty years, waiting for me to die, I guess. I had in mind something you could move a wife into.”
“First, I have to find a wife,” he said.
She raised her glass. “To a better wife, next time.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Now Mickey excused himself to use the men’s room. He got out his phone and made the call while standing at the urinal.
“It’s Mickey. Gimme Al.”
“Al don’t want to speak to you. He just wants to know when.”
“Tomorrow morning at ten, at my bank. He knows where that is. He gets paid then.” He heard a keyboard clicking.
“It’ll be eighteen-five with the vig.”
“Done.” He hung up, zipped his fly, turned around, and ran slap into Stone Barrington. “What are you doing here.”
“Having dinner, like a normal human being,” Stone replied, moving past him to occupy the urinal. “What’s your excuse?”
“I’m taking my mother to dinner.”
“Did you bring your blackjack?” Stone asked.
“What are you talking about?” Mickey sputtered.
“Every worn-out cop has one. If it ever touches a client of mine again, I’ll deal with you myself. I have a blackjack, too.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Mickey shouted, exiting the men’s room.
“I intend to,” Stone said to himself, adjusting his clothing. He went to rejoin Holly.
* * *
—
Later, in bed at the Carlyle, they made up for lost time.
9
Jack Coulter had seen the man behind the boulder and the barrel pointed his way. He had had the blinds drawn, and they had moved to the sitting room of their suite below. “I feel like a nap,” he said to Hillary.
“I’ll watch,” she said, taking her book with her.
Belowdecks, he stretched out on their bed, while Hillary read before the little gas fire in their sitting room. Jack stared at the ceiling, unable to nod off. He had thought that, by this time, he would have faded so deep into the background of the upper class of New York, Palm Beach, and Northeast Harbor that he would never have been noticed. Then came Michael O’Brien, almost out of the woodwork.
He and Hillary had given a rather grand dinner party in their Fifth Avenue apartment when, before they could sit down, men in black hoods with shotguns had walked into the penthouse and robbed their dinner guests, one by one, taking their jewelry and cash, a big haul.
Stone Barrington had been a guest, sitting on the terrace, when he heard the racking of shotgun pumps. He had taken his date’s jewelry and put it into a pocket, then called 911. The cops had been a little slow, and when they had burst in, weapons drawn, Michel O’Brien was among them, and the robbers were not. Jack hadn’t thought O’Brien was involved, but then Michael caught his eye and winked at him. He had recognized Jack, in spite of his older, slimmer, and better-dressed self. From then on Jack hadn’t slept as well, but he still had not been ready for the attack on Lexington Avenue.
Jack finally began to nod off. He knew now that he would have to become the aggressor, and they would have to get out of Maine at once. He drifted away.
* * *
—
At dinner at the Maine house that night Hillary took note that Jack personally locked all the doors and windows before sitting down.
“I read the weather reports in the Times today,” she said, “and it’s sunny and in the upper seventies in Palm Beach.”
“Oh, really? Sounds perfect. It’s a little dead here, what with all the summer people gone.”
“You’re looking quite good without the mask now. A touch of makeup, and you’d be a new man.”
“Would you like to nip down to Palm Beach for a few days, then? Until I’m completely recovered?”
“I would enjoy that.”
Over brandy after dinner, Jack found his cell phone and alerted their captain about their new flight plans.
* * *
—
The following morning the Coulters boarded their airplane and flew south.
Along the way, with Hillary sleeping, Jack moved to the rear of the airplane and picked up the satphone, tapping in the number.
“The Barringto
n Practice,” said the woman who answered.
“It’s Jack Coulter, for Mr. Barrington.”
“Of course.”
“Jack? It’s good to hear from you. How are you coming along?”
“Almost there, Stone. Another week, perhaps.”
“Where are you?”
“Flying south from Maine. We had an unfortunate encounter there, with our mutual acquaintance.”
“What came of it?”
“Nothing, as it happened. He was lying in wait for us along the shore of Somes Sound as we were cruising; he was armed with a rifle with a scope. Fortunately, I saw him, and we took evasive action. Now we’re on our way to Palm Beach. I’ll complete my recovery there.”
“Good idea.”
“Stone, I’ve taken all of this I can. Something must be done.”
“Careful, Jack.”
“I wondered if you knew someone who might discretely help.”
“Jack, I’m not in that business. Anyway, you are probably in a better position to know such a person than I.”
“I hate to return to the past.”
“I understand, but I can’t be a part of it.”
“You’re a wise man, Stone,” Jack said, “and I’m sure you’re right. Thank you for listening.”
“Anytime, Jack. My best to Hillary.” They both hung up.
* * *
—
Stone thought about it for a while, then called Bob Cantor, a jack-of-all-trades ex-cop and part-time private investigator.
“How are you, Stone?” Cantor asked.
“Good, but I have an acquaintance who isn’t.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You remember a cop called Michael O’Brien? Mickey?”
“Who could forget him?”
“My acquaintance would like to.”
“What does your acquaintance have in mind?” Cantor asked cautiously.
“Nothing drastic, but I want to know where Mickey is, every hour of the day. Can you put together a surveillance team?”
“Where does he live?”
“Brooklyn Heights, in his mother’s basement.” Stone gave him the address.
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“He was in Maine yesterday, looking for my acquaintance, and fortunately, didn’t find him. He was at Peter Luger last night, treating his mother, though with what money I don’t know. He’s reportedly a gambler, and not a good one.”
“Sounds like every mother’s dream. Does he have any income?”
“A full pension from the NYPD. He’s trying to screw my acquaintance out of millions.”
“Sounds like he has something on your acquaintance.”
“He does, but that’s not relevant.”
“It seems pretty relevant to your acquaintance, and to Mickey, too.”
“True, but you don’t need to know about that. If it becomes relevant, I’ll tell you.”
“Has Mickey threatened him?”
“He slugged him in the face with a blackjack on Lexington Avenue a week or so ago.”
“I’d consider that a threat. Where does your acquaintance reside?”
“Fifth Avenue in the low sixties,” Stone said. “If you see O’Brien around there, disturb him, but watch out for the blackjack.”
“I’ll get a couple of guys on him,” Cantor said.
“No gorillas. I don’t want Mickey to spot them and become overcautious.”
“Got it. I’ll be in touch.”
They both hung up.
10
Mickey woke early the next morning, had some breakfast, showered, shaved, and put on his good suit and a tie. He dusted off his briefcase and brought that, too. He was at his bank at opening time and asked to see the manager, Henry Solomon. He was the guy who called when Mickey was overdrawn.
“Good morning, Michael,” Solomon said. “What can I do for you?”
“I want to make a deposit,” Mickey replied.
“Any teller can help you with that.”
“Not this one. I also want to make a withdrawal.” He placed the check on the desk.
“I see,” the man said, his eyes widening slightly. “Your mother transferred some cash from her investment account yesterday.”
“And I want thirty thousand dollars in cash back.”
“Please wait a moment.” Solomon took the check and went into his private office.
Mickey wasn’t surprised. The man was calling his mother. Brooklyn Heights was like a small town; lots of people knew each other.
Soloman returned and sat down. He took out his pen, initialed a corner of the check, and handed it to Mickey. “There you are. Take it to teller number one.”
Mickey shook the man’s hand got a deposit slip from one of the tables, filled it out, and walked to the window. There was one customer ahead of him, and he used the time for a little discreet ogling of the teller, a small brunette who had paid little attention to him in the past. He moved to the window. “Hi, Geraldine, I want to make a deposit.”
“Of course, Mr. O’Brien,” she said, looking at the check. Her eyes widened more than her manager’s had.
“It’s Detective O’Brien, recently retired from the NYPD, but you can call me Mickey. I’d like thirty thousand in hundreds back, and a bank envelope.”
She counted out the money twice, and he handed her back a hundred. “May I have two fifties, please?”
She took the hundred and gave him the fifties. He counted out $18,500 and tucked it into the envelope. “A charitable contribution,” he said, tucking the rest into his pocket.
“Any time we can help, Mickey,” she said.
“You could help by having dinner with me tomorrow night,” he said. “Someplace nice.”
“I’d love to.” She scribbled her number on a bank card and handed it to him. “Let me know what time and where.”
“Certainly.” He walked to the front door and outside. His bookie, Tiny Blanco, a three-hundred-pounder, was waiting. “You better have it, Mick,” he said. “Eighteen big ones, plus fifty.”
Mickey slapped the envelope onto Tiny’s chest. “Count it,” he said. “And I want a receipt.”
Tiny riffled through the money without taking it from the envelope. “We don’t put nothing on paper,” he said. “My word is good.”
“Good enough for me, Tiny, and don’t come looking for more.”
“You want me to up your limit?”
“Nah, I’m giving up gambling. You took your last bet from me.”
“Mick, don’t be that way.”
“Bye-bye, Tiny,” he said, and walked away. Through a reflection in a shop window, he saw a car pull up and take Tiny away. That had been satisfying. He wondered what else he could do that morning that would be satisfying.
Mickey was stopped in his tracks by a display of houses and apartments in the window of a real estate agency. A woman at a desk barely looked up at him. “May I help you?”
“You may sell me an apartment, if you’re good enough at it.”
She regarded his suit for a moment, then stood and offered her hand. “I’m Marjorie Twist,” she said. “Call me Marge.”
“I’m Detective Michael O’Brien, NYPD, recently retired. Call me Mickey.” He shook the hand.
She indicated a seat at a round table in the middle of the room. “Let’s have a look at some photographs,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Living room, dining area, kitchen, two bedrooms with baths, and a study, where I can think.”
“In this neighborhood?”
“Yes.”
“You’re talking three-quarters of a million or more,” she said.
“Okay.”
She brought out a fat three-ring binder of photographs. “Have a look through
these, and mark anything that interests you.”
Mickey began leafing through the book, stopping to read the description of a place if he liked the look of it, then placing strips of paper to mark them. “I’m interested in these three,” he said.
She looked quickly at the three and noted the addresses, then went to a key safe, unlocked it, and extracted three clumps of keys. “Then we’re off,” she said.
He looked at the first two, each of which had problems—one was too close to a busy street; another had no trees on the block. Then he saw the third. It was exactly what he had described to her. It was the first two floors of a townhouse, and there was a garage and garden out back. “Who lives upstairs?” he asked.
“All three apartments have been renovated,” she said, “and the upper two will be let.”
“What are they asking for the duplex?” he asked.
“Eight hundred thousand.”
“And a selling price for the other two?”
“Two hundred fifty thousand each. They’ll bring very nice rents and only went on the market today.”
“I’ll offer a million for all three.”
“I can write it up, but honestly, I don’t think it will fly.”
“The owner has a lot of bills to pay for the renovation and new appliances. He could use the cash.”
“Shall I tell you what I think he would grab at?”
“Sure.”
“A million and a half. And I think that’s a fair price.”
“All right, I’ll offer a million and a quarter, but I won’t pay more. It’s take it or leave it. All cash at closing, and we can close as soon as he’s done with any finishing work.”
She opened her briefcase and set it on a kitchen counter. “I’ll write up the offer.” She filled out a form and showed him where to sign it. He did. “And I’ll need a hundred and fifty thousand for earnest money.” He wrote a check.
“Excuse me, I’ll make a call.”
She went into another room, where he could barely hear her voice, and talked rapidly for five minutes, then returned. “You’ve bought yourself a very nice property, Mickey.” She shook his hand. “Do you have a car?”
