Kisser

by Stuart Woods

  When he walked into his office his phone was ringing. He picked it up. “Stone Barrington.”

  “It’s Willie Leahy.”

  “Hi, Willie.”

  “You’re lucky you’re not dead,” Willie said.

  “Tell me why you think that.”

  “You were followed from the lawyer’s office in Atlanta.”

  “By whom?”

  “Well, after I tapped him on the back of the neck and went through his pockets, he was identified as an Atlanta P.I. named Wallace Higgs.”

  “And you think he meant us harm?”

  “He was carrying a loaded Glock and a homemade silencer.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But we settled everything at the lawyer’s office. Max wrote her a check for everything.”

  “Tell her to cash it quick,” Willie said.

  “Willie, how was it that you happened to be in Atlanta and happened to be following us?”

  “I’ve been following you since LaGuardia,” Willie said. “I was in steerage, while you were drinking champagne up front.”

  “Why were you doing that?”

  “I like the lady. I didn’t want her to go to Atlanta, and I didn’t want anything to happen to her.”

  “Willie, you can bill me for that one.”

  “Don’t worry,” Willie said, and then hung up.

  Stone called Carrie on her cell.

  “Hey, Stone. Forget something?”

  “Yes. Be sure you deposit that check the moment the bank opens tomorrow and tell them to call the Atlanta bank and ask them to put a hold on the funds.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Usually,” Stone said. “Just do it. Talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up and began to go through the mail on his desk.

  25

  STONE ARRIVED AT Rita’s apartment fifteen minutes early. The elevator opened directly onto the foyer, and Mitzi met him at the door with an affectionate kiss on the lips. “Please come in,” she said.

  Stone followed her into the living room and stopped to have a look around. It was a large room with a seating area that would accommodate a dozen people around the fireplace, another seating area at the west end, and a seven-foot Steinway grand piano at the east end, which wasn’t in the least crowded.

  “What do you think?” Mitzi asked. “Do I have good taste?”

  “Well, Ralph Lauren does,” Stone said. He nodded toward the painting over the fireplace. “Love the Hockney.”

  “Isn’t it something?”

  “I wish I could afford his work,” Stone said.

  “There were some very nice New York scenes on your bedroom wall,” she said.

  “My mother’s work.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “She thanks you.”

  “Can I get anybody a drink before I disappear?”

  Stone turned to see Rita entering the room. She gave him the same sort of kiss that Mitzi had, one that caused a stirring.

  “Sure,” Stone said.

  Rita poured the drinks from a wet bar concealed behind some paneling.

  “It’s a beautiful apartment,” Stone said, “but you’d better get rid of the photographs on the piano, the ones of you and your parents.”

  “Oh, God, I forgot about those,” Rita said. She scooped them up and put them in a drawer.

  Mitzi ran out of the room and came back with an armful of silver frames. “I brought these from home,” she said, arranging them on the piano. “My family.”

  “Good work,” Stone said. The phone rang, and Mitzi picked it up. “Yes? Send them up, please.” She hung up. “We’re on.”

  “I’ll be in my room,” Rita said. “I hope I don’t hear any shooting.” She left the living room.

  “Which lamps did dear old Ralph, the family friend, bring over?” Stone asked.

  “The pair at each end of the sofa.”

  “They’re not Lauren’s-they’re antiques,” Stone said.

  “Ralph has a wonderful eye for antiques,” Mitzi replied. “And I called him yesterday and squared things.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He was delighted to hear from me, and amused by my situation and happy to help.”

  The doorbell rang, and Mitzi went to answer it. She came back with Derek Sharpe and Hildy Parsons and another couple, whom Sharpe introduced as Sig and Patti Larsen. Sig looked Swedish; Patti didn’t. Drinks were offered and accepted, and a uniformed maid appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  They arranged themselves before the fireplace.

  “Sig is my financial manager,” Sharpe said, “and he’s very good. Mitzi, I thought you might need some New York help in that line.”

  Here was an interesting move, Stone thought. If Mitzi bit, then Sharpe would, in no time, have a complete picture of what he could steal from her.

  “I’m very well taken care of in that respect,” Mitzi said. “My father has three people in his office who do nothing but handle our family’s money.”

  “Perhaps I could meet with them sometime,” Sig said.

  “They’re in Charleston, and they hate New York,” Mitzi said.

  “You know, I’m going to be in Savannah early next week,” Sig said. “Perhaps I could pop up to Charleston and see them.”

  “I’ll ask Daddy,” Mitzi said.

  “I’m at your disposal,” Sig said.

  “Where are we dining?” Mitzi asked.

  “I’ve booked us at Sette Mezzo,” Sharpe replied. “In half an hour.”

  This was interesting, Stone thought. Sette Mezzo didn’t take credit cards, only cash, unless one had a house account.

  Mitzi picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Please be downstairs in twenty minutes,” she said into the instrument.

  “I love your Hockney,” Hildy said, speaking for the first time. “I saw it at my father’s gallery, of course.”

  “Yes, I’m very pleased with it,” Mitzi said.

  “Oh, by the way,” Hildy said, “I ran into Ralph Lauren this morning; he sends his regards.”

  “That’s sweet of him,” Mitzi said. “Do you like the lamps?”

  “Very much,” Hildy said, and Sharpe murmured an assent.

  “Ralph found them at one of the Paris flea markets,” Mitzi said.

  “Wonderful places,” Patti Larsen interjected.

  “Aren’t they?” Mitzi said.

  Conversation continued along these lines until they finally made their way downstairs. Stone and Mitzi got into the Bentley, and the other two couples boarded their own black Town Car.

  “How did drinks go?” Tom asked from the front seat of the Bentley.

  “Just as you’d expect,” Mitzi said. “We’re all squared away on the Hockney and Ralph Lauren.”

  “ Lexington and Seventy-sixth, please, Tom,” Stone said.

  SETTE MEZZO WAS, as always, crowded with the voluble, so Stone reckoned their conversation would be subdued at a table for six, since they wouldn’t be able to hear each other. They were shown to a corner table, which helped. Sharpe revealed himself as never having been to the restaurant by ordering martinis for everyone. If he had been there before, Stone thought, he would have known that the restaurant served only wine, except for secret bottles of Scotch and vodka kept for more demanding guests. Stone now knew that he would be buying dinner.

  Mitzi was seated between Sharpe and Sig Larsen, and Stone between Patti Larsen and Hildy Parsons. This meant that Stone would have difficulty, in the noisy restaurant, understanding what Sharpe and Larsen were saying to Mitzi, not that she would have any difficulty handling them.

  “So, Stone,” Patti Larsen said, “what do you do?” Her hand crept onto his knee.

  “I’m an attorney,” Stone replied. “I sue people.”

  She removed her hand. “How nice for you.”

  “Usually,” Stone replied.

  “Where is your office?”

  “I’m of counsel to
Woodman & Weld, but I work from offices in my home.”

  “That’s cozy,” she said. Her knee was now rubbing against his.

  Stone turned to Hildy and made conversation.

  WHEN THE CHECK came, Stone picked it up and signed it, avoiding a scene where Sharpe and Larsen would be short of cash. What the hell, he thought, Bill Eggers would be getting the bill anyway.

  BACK IN the Bentley, Stone asked Mitzi how it had gone at dinner.

  “They were pressing me about Sig giving me financial advice,” Mitzi said.

  “Was that true about the financial people in your father’s office?”

  “Yes, but there’s only one; I made up the other two.”

  “Why don’t you call him and ask him to make up a fictitious financial statement and stock portfolio?” Stone suggested. “Something that will water Sharpe’s mouth?”

  “What a good idea,” she said. “I’ll do it first thing Monday morning. That should thicken the plot.”

  “I think that, after they see your statement, you should broach the subject of drugs. I’d advise you to tell them the stuff is for friends, not for you. You don’t want to get into a situation where you’re pressed to actually use something around witnesses. That could blow your case.”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” Mitzi said.

  “Believe her,” Tom added.

  Stone did.

  26

  STONE GOT A CALL from Bob Cantor the next morning. “Hey, Bob.”

  “Hey, Stone. Willie Leahy thinks he and his brother should be back on Carrie’s case.”

  “Yeah, he told me he followed us to Atlanta.”

  “And he told you about the P.I. with the loaded gun and the silencer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t that make you think the Leahys should be back on the case?”

  “But the P.I. was in Atlanta, not New York.”

  “Max has already made one stab at her, so to speak, in New York. Why wouldn’t he try again?”

  “Because Carrie settled everything with him in Atlanta. He even wrote her a check.”

  “Has the check cleared?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “And why, if it clears, do you think Max would lose interest in hurting her?”

  “Well…”

  “In my experience, guys who hate their ex-wives go right on hating them, even after giving them the money. In fact, they hate them more after giving them the money.”

  “You have a point,” Stone admitted.

  Joan buzzed him. “Carrie Cox on two.”

  “Hang on, Bob.” Stone put him on hold and pressed the button for line two. “Carrie?”

  “Hi. I’m at the bank, and they’ve put a hold on the funds in Max’s account. The check will clear tomorrow.”

  “That’s good news. Hang on a minute, will you?” Stone went back to Cantor. “Bob, let’s put them on her for another week.”

  “It will be done,” Cantor said and then hung up.

  Stone went back to line two. “I’ve got some news,” he said. “Good news, I hope.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, God, what now?”

  “Willie Leahy followed us to Atlanta on Friday, and he caught an Atlanta private investigator following us.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Bob Cantor makes the point that ex-husbands hate their ex-wives even more after giving them money, and the P.I. was carrying a loaded gun and a homemade silencer.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means that he planned to shoot us-or at least, you-quietly, so nobody would notice.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Max.”

  “Who else hates you?” Stone asked.

  “Nobody-at least not enough to actually have me murdered.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Then it’s Max. I’ve put the Leahys back on you; cooperate with them, will you?”

  “Oh, Stone!”

  “Do you want to make it to opening night? Someone who hates you might love to prevent your dream from coming true.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I see your point. All right, I will welcome Willie and Pete back into my life.”

  “Give them a nice gift, a necktie maybe.”

  “I’ll give them some new cologne-the one they wear is toxic.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Gotta run; I’m due at rehearsal. Dinner tonight?”

  “Come over here, and I’ll cook you something.”

  “Done. Seven?”

  “Good.”

  She hung up.

  FIFTY FEET from Carrie Cox’s front stoop, Willie Leahy sat in his car surveying the street. He got out of the car and looked both ways, then crossed the street and looked again.

  The speaker/microphone for the radio on his belt popped on. “We’re ready. Everything okay?”

  “Everything okay,” Willie replied. He crossed the street, got into the car, and drove up to Carrie’s stoop. Peter hustled her into the car. “Where we off to?” Willie asked.

  “To Stone Barrington’s house,” she replied.

  “Gotcha.” Willie headed for Turtle Bay.

  As he turned into Stone’s block, he slowed. “A guy I don’t like, across the street from Stone’s,” he said. “Black raincoat.”

  “Drop me here,” Peter replied, “and go around the block.”

  Willie did so. “Carrie, lie down on the backseat,” he said.

  “Will do. Are there bad guys?”

  “Maybe. We’ll know soon.” Willie drove slowly past the man and made mental notes: five-eleven, two hundred, suit and tie under the raincoat, forty to forty-five. He drove around the block.

  PETER LEAHY PUT his hands in his coat pockets and walked down the block at a normal pace. As he came up to the man in the black raincoat he stopped behind him and whispered in his ear, “Don’t turn around.”

  The man froze.

  “The guy who lives in that house doesn’t like loiterers,” he said.

  “It’s a free country,” the man replied, not moving.

  Peter flipped up the lapel of his coat and removed a four-inch-long hat pin that had belonged to his grandmother. He gave the loiterer a quick jab in the ass.

  The man cried out and spun around. Then, walking backward, he shoved his hand inside his coat and made his way down the block.

  “If you pull that thing on me, you better kill me with the first shot,” Peter said.

  The man kept his hand inside his coat but didn’t draw anything. He turned and now began walking fast, hurrying away.

  “And don’t come back,” Peter called after him. He looked over his shoulder, saw Willie coming, and held up a hand for him to stop. He waited until the watcher had turned the corner before he waved Willie on. They hustled Carrie into the house.

  STONE MET THEM at the door. “Any problems?”

  “Just one,” Peter said. “I sent him on his way.”

  “How’d you do that?” Stone asked.

  Willie showed him the hat pin.

  Stone laughed. “I haven’t seen one of those things since I was a kid.”

  “You’d be surprised how useful it can be,” Peter said. He turned to Carrie. “Are you staying the night?”

  “Yep,” she replied.

  “Then we’ll leave you in Stone’s capable hands.”

  The Leahys departed.

  27

  STONE WALKED CARRIE DOWN to the kitchen, put her duffel on the dumbwaiter, and sent it upstairs. Then he poured them both a Knob Creek, and they sat down on the large kitchen sofa.

  Carrie rested her hand lightly on Stone’s crotch. “You know what I like about you?”

  “I think I’m getting an idea,” Stone said.

  “Exactly. And it’s always ready to go.” She began kneading.

  “How could it not be, under the circumstances?”

  “Until I met you it had been a long time s
ince I had gotten anywhere near as much sex as I wanted.”

  “I’m glad to be of service,” Stone said.

  She unzipped his fly and put her hand inside. “Men don’t really understand how much sex women need,” she said.

  “I’m beginning to get the picture,” Stone said.

  She pulled him down on the sofa, took down his trousers, shucked off her slacks, and straddled him, taking him inside her. “How’s that?”

  “Mmmmm,” Stone replied.

  “Oh, I’m going to come,” she said.

  “Don’t wait for me.”

  She didn’t.

  “You’re so easy,” Stone said. “Again.”

  “Here I come.” And she did. “How about you?”

  “I’ll save myself for later,” he said.

  She lay down beside him on the sofa and put her head on his shoulder. “I know I can be a pain in the ass,” she said, “but I really appreciate the way you’ve been protecting me.”

  “You’re paying for it,” Stone reminded her.

  “Yes, but I never would have arranged it for myself. You’ve thought of everything.”

  “I’ve tried to.”

  She sat up, pulled her sweater over her head, and undid her bra, freeing her breasts. “I’m dining naked tonight,” she said, then started on his clothes.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I wear an apron while I’m cooking,” Stone said. “Gotta watch out for those spatters.”

  “You do that, sweetie. I’ll still get to look at your ass, which is very nice, by the way.”

  “Same to you, kiddo.”

  “Did you ever take dance?” she asked him.

  “Ballroom, when I was twelve-my mother insisted.”

  “You’ve got a dancer’s ass,” she said. “Muscular and tight.”

  “Maybe I should start wearing leotards,” he suggested.

  She laughed.

  THEY DINED, NAKED, on veal chops and risotto.

  “This is wonderful,” she said, tasting the risotto. “What do you put in it?”

  “You watched me make it.”

  “I was watching your ass,” she said.

  “Combine some butter and olive oil in a pan; add twelve ounces of Arborio rice, some salt, and the zest of a lemon; and sauté until the rice turns golden. Start adding small cupfuls of hot chicken stock, stirring until each addition is absorbed before adding the next, and continue until a whole carton has been absorbed. Then stir in the zest of another lemon, a couple of fistfuls of Parmigiano-Reggiano, and half a carton of crème fraîche, and serve. Takes a little less than half an hour.”