by Stuart Woods
They parked just short of the front door to the old house and got out of the car. A portico wide enough for half a dozen cars was being constructed, and the old garage was being turned into interior space. They looked down the hill to where an enormous pit had been dug. Mike pointed. “Underground parking,” he said.
“It looks like a giant anthill,” Stone said. “I’ve never seen so many workmen on a site.”
“We’ve got three construction companies working two shifts,” Mike said. “Nobody is going to believe how quickly this hotel is going to open.”
“Where is Arrington’s house going to be?” Stone asked.
“Follow me,” Mike said, and led the way into the house, which was being enlarged to serve as the reception area and main restaurant. They walked down the central hallway and into the back garden, then around the swimming pool, to where a building was being framed.
“Here we are,” Mike said.
They walked through the rooms on plywood subflooring. The sound of electric hammers and saws was everywhere.
“This is good,” Stone said. In the original deal he had negotiated for Arrington to have her own house on the property. “It’s not as big as the old house, but it’s plenty big.”
“It’s your house now,” Mike said. “And Peter’s.”
“And yours, Mike, and yours, too, Dino, whenever you’re out here.”
“Free?” Dino asked, amazed.
“You can pay your own room service bill,” Stone said.
“That’s a pretty good deal,” Dino said, laughing. “How many bedrooms?”
“Four bedrooms, six baths, and two powder rooms, plus two staff rooms. Also, living room, dining room, kitchen, and a very nice study/library.”
“Are you going to let them rent it when you’re not here?” Mike asked.
“Maybe. It’s arranged so that the master suite can be locked off from paying guests.”
“That will help with the cash flow,” Mike pointed out. He found the architect and the construction foreman, and they began answering questions.
LATER, they checked into a three-bedroom cottage at the Bel-Air Hotel.
“What did you think about how things are going?” Stone asked Mike.
“I was impressed,” Mike said. “Everything is on schedule. Frankly, I hadn’t expected that.”
There was a large bowl of fruit on the entrance hall table, and a note addressed to Stone, from the manager. He read it aloud to Mike and Dino. “The Bel-Air welcomes the competition,” it said. “We’ll do our best to show you how it’s done.”
Everybody had a good laugh.
On the living room coffee table was a large flower arrangement, with an envelope. Stone picked it up and handed it to Dino. “It’s addressed to you.”
“It can’t be,” Dino said. “Nobody knows I’m here.”
“Nevertheless, it has your name on it,” Stone replied.
Dino took the envelope and opened it. His face fell.
“What?” Stone asked.
Dino handed him the note inside.
Stone read it: “I hope you had a good trip,” it said. “See you when you return.” It was signed, simply, “S.”
“Uh-oh,” Stone said.
“Yeah,” Dino agreed.
“What is it?” Mike asked.
“Nothing much,” Stone replied, “just a note from a serial killer of Dino’s acquaintance.”
24
THE FOLLOWING MORNING they visited the building site again and talked more with the architect and construction foremen, then they drove back to Burbank Airport and boarded the G-550. They were back at Teterboro in time for Stone and Dino to make the opening of Marla’s new show.
AT THE final curtain Stone and Dino stood and beat their hands together and cheered, along with the rest of the audience. Marla and Rita took their bows, and finally, the curtain fell again.
They strolled through Shubert Alley over to Sardi’s and were seated at a large round table, which gradually began to fill up. Marla and Rita arrived looking freshly scrubbed and excited.
“It was wonderful,” Stone said.
“Do you really think so?”
“Everybody in the house thought so, and the critics will, too. You’re looking at a long run.”
Dino turned to Rita. “Am I ever going to see you again?”
“I get one night off every week,” she said.
THE PARTY continued past midnight, then somebody arrived with a stack of newspapers, and the producer stood on his chair and read the reviews aloud, to appreciative applause from the crowd.
Stone looked around the room and saw someone familiar. He turned to Dino. “Hey, remember our final dinner at Elaine’s, when a tall redhead clocked some not-so-innocent bystander?”
Dino looked tense. “Yeah. Why?”
“Because I just caught a glimpse of her over there somewhere,” Stone replied, pointing.
“Oh, shit,” Dino said.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s Shelley.”
“Who’s Shelley?” Rita asked.
“Somebody Dino doesn’t want to meet,” Stone said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“There was some unpleasantness a while back.”
“What kind of unpleasantness?”
“Rita,” Dino said, “let it go. Please.”
“Well, I guess I know what you’ll be doing when it’s not my night off,” she said, digging him in the ribs.
“I will be bereft,” Dino said. “I promise.”
“Well, if it’s a promise, I guess ‘bereft’ is appropriate.”
Stone turned to Marla. “I hope you have more than one night a week off.”
“I’ll see the next couple of performances and give some notes, but then I’ll have to let go and just let it run. Then I’ll have plenty of nights off.”
“I’ll start thinking of ways to use them,” Stone said.
Dino excused himself and started across the room in the direction Stone had pointed.
“Uh-oh,” Rita said. “Is there going to be trouble?”
“I doubt it,” Stone replied. “Don’t worry, Dino can handle it.”
“He can always call in a SWAT team,” Rita said.
DINO MADE his way through the crowd while the reviews continued to be read. She was tall, so he kept his eyes riveted on the tops of heads. Then he spotted the red hair moving away from him. He pursued, but unless he used his elbows, the crowd kept him from gaining. The redhead pushed through a pair of swinging doors. Dino finally got there and found himself in the kitchen.
“Can I help you, sir?” a waiter asked in an unhelpful way.
“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” Dino said. He walked slowly through the busy kitchen, dodging waiters and men with knives, but he didn’t see her. Finally he came to the rear door and stepped out into an alley, which contained only garbage cans, lit by the lights from West Forty-fourth Street. He walked all the way down to the street and looked both ways. He thought he saw red hair in the back of a taxi, but then it was gone.
Dino went into Sardi’s by the front door and made his way back to the table. The two women were headed toward the ladies’ room.
“Any luck?” Stone asked.
Dino shook his head. “She went through the kitchen and out into the alley, then she was gone.”
“You’re going to have to do something about this, you know.”
“I know,” Dino replied. “I just don’t know what.”
THE WOMEN returned from the ladies’ room.
“It’s getting late,” Stone said to Marla. “Come home with me?”
“Oh, I’m exhausted,” Marla replied. “Just completely drained.”
“Dinner tomorrow?”
“Let me call you after I’ve seen the show again a couple of times.”
Stone sighed. “All right.”
She put her hand on his cheek and kissed him. “Just be patient for a little while.”
&nbs
p; 25
SHELLEY GOT into a cab. “Carlyle Hotel,” she said to the driver. She didn’t look over her shoulder. Dino would be back there somewhere, and she wasn’t ready to see him face-to-face again. The circumstances would have to be more favorable.
SHELLEY GOT out of the cab and walked into the Carlyle, then turned left into the bar. She could use a drink. She settled on a stool, ordered a cognac, and listened to the jazz trio, who filled the room with sound.
She had been there maybe five minutes when a man came into the bar and took a seat two down from her. He took off his hat and laid it on the bar, and she froze. She knew him; he was FBI. Bob something-or-other. He was assigned to the New York field office, and he had driven her around New York once, when she was on an official visit from Washington.
As casually as she could, she turned slightly away from him and checked out the room in the mirror over the bar. If this was a bust, there would be other agents backing him up and watching the doors. Then a woman came through the door from the direction of the ladies’ room and sat between Bob and Shelley. Another agent. Was this socializing or a setup?
Shelley drained her glass, put a twenty on the bar, and walked past the jazz group. A man was leaning against the wall beside the door, snapping his fingers to the rhythm of the group, and he gave her a good once-over. She left the hotel and threw herself in front of a passing taxi.
“Lady, you want to watch it,” the driver said. “I nearly clipped you.”
“I know, my fault. Go up to Seventy-ninth, then left on Fifth, then down to Seventy-sixth and take another left.”
The driver stepped on it. “That’s a complete circle,” he said.
“I know, but on Seventy-sixth, cross Madison and let me out at the other hotel entrance on Seventy-sixth.”
“It’s your fare,” he said.
“And let me know if anyone seems to be following us.” She didn’t want to look back herself, exposing her face.
“Jealous lover?” the driver asked.
“Jealous ex-husband,” she said.
“Yeah, I got an ex like that.” He turned left on Seventy-ninth, then again on Fifth Avenue and started downtown, then he made the left on Seventy-sixth, crossed Madison, and stopped at the hotel’s side entrance.
“Here you go,” he said. “Would you like some company tonight?” He turned and looked at her.
He wasn’t bad, she thought: young, good haircut. “You ever been shot by an ex-husband?” she asked.
“Not so far.”
“Let’s not start tonight.” She handed him a ten, got out of the cab, and ran into the hotel, making for the elevator bank. She pressed the button and waited nervously for the car to arrive, forcing herself to look neither to the left nor to the right. Finally, it arrived, and she got in and pressed the button two floors above her room, then she got off and took the fire stairs down two floors and let herself in.
She leaned against the door, breathing hard. Two FBI agents in one evening was too much to take. She hoped to God neither of them had noticed her in the bar. Maybe the hair color would be enough to throw them off.
She undressed, then removed her makeup and checked out her face in the bathroom mirror. She had never liked her nose much; maybe this was the moment to do something about it.
She sat on the bed and picked up a copy of New York magazine, remembering an ad she had seen in the back pages. She found it and read it carefully, looking at the before-and-after photos of a woman who had had cosmetic surgery. There was an 800 number and a notation that it was manned at all hours.
“Doctor’s office,” an answering service operator said.
“I’d like to make an appointment for a consultation,” Shelley said. “The sooner, the better.”
“I can give you ten tomorrow morning,” the woman said.
“Perfect.” She gave her traveling name and her cell number.
“Please, how did you hear about the doctor?”
“His ad in New York magazine.” She hung up and got ready for bed, calming herself the whole time.
SHELLEY PRESENTED herself on time at the doctor’s office, which was only a couple of blocks from the Carlyle. It was in a brownstone, and the reception room was nicely decorated. A nurse came and took her to the doctor’s office.
“Good morning,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Dr. Charles.”
He looked awfully young, she thought.
“I’m thirty-four,” he said, laughing. “That’s always the first question. I’ve been in practice for six years, and I’m board-certified. How can I help you?”
“Well,” she said, tapping her nose with a finger, “I’ve finally decided to do something about this.”
He motioned for her to turn her head. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Let’s photograph you, and then I can give you a very good idea of what changes we might make.” He sat her in front of a camera and took shots of her from ahead and both sides, then he tapped a few computer keys, and her image, in right profile, appeared twice on the screen.
“Now,” he said, using a laser pointer, “my guess is you’d like this bump to go away.”
“Yes,” she said.
He tapped a few more keys, and the bump went away on the right-hand photo.
“Wonderful!” Shelley said. “I’d like my nose to be a bit shorter, too.” She watched as her nose changed. “That’s very good,” she said.
“Perhaps, since we’re shortening your nose, we should make your nostrils slightly smaller, in scale with the new length.” He tapped a few more keys.
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
“One more suggestion,” the doctor said. “We can turn your nose up just a bit. That can be very attractive.” He made the change.
“I like it,” she said. The upturned nose made her look very different from her old self.
“Now, let’s take a look from the left profile and the front.”
Two more shots appeared on the screen.
“I think it looks great from every angle,” Shelley said. “And I’m very impressed with your equipment.”
“Eliminates guesswork, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly does.”
“How quickly would you like to proceed?”
“As soon as possible,” she said.
He opened his diary and flipped through it. “Tomorrow is a surgery day,” he said. “How about two p.m. tomorrow?”
“Very good. How long will I be in the hospital?”
“The hospital won’t be necessary,” he said. “I have a complete operating suite upstairs, and a recovery room where you can spend the night. After that, you can go home, then come back to see me in a week. We’ll remove any stitches at that time, and any swelling will have gone down by then, and you’ll be able to go without the bandage, using makeup to cover any temporary redness or bruising. A month from tomorrow no one will be able to guess that you’ve had the procedure.”
He told her the price. “That includes your recovery and all follow-up visits. The entire fee is payable today.”
She agreed.
“Just give your check or credit card to the receptionist,” he said, “and we’ll expect you at one o’clock tomorrow for prep for the two o’clock surgery.”
She thanked him, then gave her credit card to the receptionist. Twenty minutes later she was back in her room, watching a movie on TV and ordering lunch from room service.
26
HERBIE FISHER was sitting in his Eames lounge chair with the plans of Mark Hayes’s renovation in his lap. James Rutledge sat in a chair across the Mies van der Rohe Barcelona table.
“I wanted you to have a look at these, Herb, before I get final approval from Mark,” James said.
Herbie looked at the floor plan of Mark’s projected duplex penthouse, which had four bedrooms, as many baths, living room, dining room, kitchen, a large study with a utility room to one side, to hold unsightly equipment that Mark would need to work at home. “This looks wonderful, but I don’t understa
nd how Mark gets to his apartment,” he said.
“Via a spiral staircase from his offices one floor below.”
“It’s going to be a bitch getting his furniture up a spiral staircase,” Herbie pointed out.
“Oh, we’re going to extend the freight elevator shaft up a floor, so he’ll be able to get anything, up to and including a concert grand piano, in that way.”
“So, let’s say he’s throwing a dinner party for a dozen friends. Are they going to take the freight elevator up to the executive floor, then walk up a flight? That’s awkward. What I think you should do is make a street entrance that opens into a private lobby with an elevator going straight up to both floors of the apartment. You can build a new shaft inside the building. There’s plenty of square footage for that without crowding the space, isn’t there?”
“Great idea!” James said. “And he can lock the elevator electronically, if he’s not expecting guests.” He took the floor plan and drew in the lobby and elevator shaft. “And he’ll still have the freight elevator for bringing up furniture.”
“Just make the private elevator big enough for that,” Herbie suggested. “That way, you won’t have to extend the freight elevator shaft, and it will be in use all during the renovation.”
“Herb, you should have been an architect,” James said.
“I know, I know,” Herbie said. “I’m such a fucking design genius!” They both laughed.
“How long to do the whole job?” Herbie asked.
“We’ll be done with the main building in a month,” James said. “Because of the recession in the building business, I’ve got three shifts working on it, with a foreman for each shift. We’ll be done with the executive floor next week. Right now, Mark and his people are working one floor down. When they move upstairs we can start construction on the penthouse. The lower floors will be finished, but without interior walls, until they’re needed for new staff. The garage is being plastered and painted and is going to look great, and the outside will be stuccoed. Mark has some big paintings that he can hang in the garage. I’ll make an entrance from the garage to the private lobby, so that his guests can park there before going upstairs.” James was sketching very quickly now.
