Dirt

by Stuart Woods

  “What, fifteen years after he retired? I can’t buy that.”

  The pay phone on the wall rang, and they both stopped eating and watched a waiter answer it. He waved Dino over.

  The conversation lasted less than a minute, and Dino’s expression never changed. He came back and sat down.

  “What’s the news?”

  “Like I thought, two shots, small caliber – a twenty-five automatic.”

  “Don’t see many of those anymore.”

  “Yeah, these days every punk on the street has a Glock or something better. There was an abrasion on Arnie’s left knee, too, like he fell down, but no marks to show that somebody hit him first.”

  “Where’d he take the bullets?”

  “Left temple and back of the head.”

  “An execution, then. Well, I suppose it could have been some junkie with some trash piece he’d copped in a burglary. He sees Arnie, an old guy, easy mark, and he’s desperate enough to pop him, even for just a few bucks.”

  “He didn’t take your check,” Dino said.

  “Where was it, in the wallet?”

  Dino shook his head. “Left inside jacket pocket. The guy went for the cash, didn’t worry about the rest. Arnie was wearing a Rolex we chipped in for when he put in his papers.”

  “I remember that,” Stone said. “I bought a piece of that watch. The guy didn’t take that?”

  Dino shook his head. “This doesn’t look good for clearing.”

  “Pull in your snitches, put the word out on the street. The twenty-five handgun is something, at least. Not a lot of them on the street, I’ll bet.”

  “Oh, we’ll treat it as a cop killing, which means all the stops out,” Dino said. “I’m just not optimistic.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “Funny,” Dino said, playing with his food. “I don’t feel lucky today.”

  Chapter 22

  Stone said good-bye to Dino on the sidewalk, declined a lift home, and walked up Second Avenue. He turned right in the low Nineties and found the building. There was nothing in particular to distinguish it from any of the other houses on the street. Most of them looked better now than they had when he was working out of the 19th; gentrification had had its way with the block.

  The alley was dark, and he used a pocket flashlight that had been part of his wardrobe since his first day as a detective nearly twenty years before. There didn’t seem to be much reason for the alley – it was a dead-ender, and neither of the adjacent buildings had a door opening onto it. At the back, after the buildings ended, there was a wall on either side of the alley, affording some privacy to the gardens at the rear of the houses. Stone’s light fell on a garbage can and a wooden box.

  It was a funny place for a garbage can, not near a back door, where it might be used, or the street, where it might be emptied. He turned and looked back toward the street. Half a dozen other cans rested there. Why was this one at the opposite end of the alley? Certainly, no New York City garbage collector was going to walk the few extra yards to pick it up.

  Stone stepped onto the box, then onto the garbage can, and looked over the wall. Small garden, untended, dark windows at the back of the building. Could Arnie have been interested in those windows? He remembered that the old detective had used a cup microphone on one of the other two surveillances. He looked up and saw a fire escape disappearing upward into the darkness. If he stood on top of the wall and jumped, he could make the fire escape. Was Arnie contemplating that? The idea seemed preposterous for a man of his years; his even going over the wall seemed unlikely.

  Stone hopped down, then remembered that the Medical Examiner had said that Arnie’s body had had an abrasion on a knee. Could he have gotten that jumping or falling from the garbage can? He played the light around once more, hoping for something that the cops had overlooked, but there was nothing.

  He walked back to the front of the building and put his light on the mailboxes; none of the names sounded at all familiar. He wrote them down for future reference, then walked back down the steps to the street. He looked over the iron railing at the basement apartment; a dim light glowed behind the windows. That apartment would own the garden out back. He walked down the stairs and rang the bell, waited, then rang it again.

  The door opened the length of the security chain and a young man, half in silhouette, looked back at him. Six feet, a hundred and eighty, hair on the short side, wearing only a pair of faded jeans; Stone registered all this automatically. He checked his notebook for the name. “Mr. Dryer?” he asked, flashing his badge. His ID had RETIRED stamped on it, but the badge didn’t.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mind if I come in? It’s about what happened here tonight.”

  “I’ve already answered all the questions I’m going to,” the young man said. “What is this, anyway? It’s after eleven.”

  “Sorry to inconvenience you; there are just a few more questions. I don’t have to come in; you can answer them right here.”

  “Look, I’ve cooperated, answered everything you people asked me, now I’m going to get some sleep. Don’t bother me again.” He slammed the door shut.

  Stone heard the lock work. He played his light around the front door, saw nothing, and walked back up to the street. He didn’t think much about Dryer’s refusal to talk to him. Lots of people didn’t like talking to cops, especially twice in one evening. Unwilling to leave yet, he walked around to the alley and looked in the garbage cans. They were all empty but one; that had a paper grocery bag filled with the usual kitchen detritus, an empty champagne bottle on top. He moved the bottle, and his light fell on the lid from a caviar tin underneath it. Whoopee, he thought; somebody had had a big night; he wondered if it were Mr. Dryer. Stone walked down to First Avenue and got a cab home.

  As he approached his house, Stone saw somebody sitting on his doorstep. He readied himself to send the usual vagrant on his way, but as he got nearer, he saw that the vagrant had shoulder-length dark hair and was very beautiful. “Hello, Arrington,” he said.

  “I camped on your doorstep,” she said, sounding just a little drunk.

  “I’m flattered. Come camp inside awhile.”

  She got to her feet and followed him into the house, back to his study.

  He hung their coats in a closet and showed her to a sofa. “How about some coffee?”

  “How about a drink?” she said.

  “You’ve already had a drink or two,” he said. “I like my company reasonably sober.”

  “Oh, all right, coffee then,” she said wearily, and began to cry softly.

  He sat down next to her. “Want to talk about it?”

  “You make the coffee, and I’ll stop crying, I promise.”

  He went downstairs to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and came back upstairs with a tray. He set it on the coffee table and poured some for her.

  “Black will do,” she said, picking up the cup.

  Stone poured himself a cup. “So, how have you spent your evening?”

  “Getting rid of Tarzan,” she said.

  “I thought there wasn’t a Tarzan.”

  “There isn’t anymore; I was a bit previous the other day, that’s all.”

  “Having regrets about cutting the vine?”

  She shrugged. “There was a time when I thought it might go somewhere. I’ve known for a while that it wouldn’t; I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Did all this take place in the neighborhood? Is that why you stopped by here?”

  “It took place way uptown,” she said, sipping her coffee. “You weren’t on the way to anywhere. I just wanted to see you.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “I behaved stupidly tonight. I went over to his place to tell him it was all off, and quite to my humiliation, there was somebody else there with him.”

  “Oh. So you didn’t have that final satisfaction of telling him where to get off.”

  “Exactly. You see, I wasn’t cryi
ng because I’m sad, but because I’m angry. I set myself up for that, and it annoys the hell out of me.”

  “I get the picture. I’ve had pretty much the same experience in my time. It gets funny later.”

  She giggled. “It’s already funny,” she said. “Listen, I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. Can I stay here with you?”

  “Sure you can.”

  “I don’t want to make love or anything; I just want somebody next to me. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “Delighted to have you – I mean, to be your host.”

  “Have you got something I can sleep in?”

  “Sure.”

  He gave her one of his nightshirts. She went to the bathroom, washed her face, and came back wearing the nightshirt, the sleeves rolled up.

  Stone was already in bed. He lifted the covers for her, and she crawled in next to him, snuggling on his shoulder. He reached over to turn off the light, and when he turned back, she was sleeping like a child. He extracted his arm from under her so it wouldn’t go numb, put a pillow under her head, and tried to go to sleep himself. He shouldn’t have had that coffee so late, he reflected.

  It took at least two hours of staring at the ceiling and thinking about the girl next to him, but he finally dozed off.

  Chapter 23

  When Stone awoke, Arrington was in the shower. He put an extra pillow under his head and waited, hoping; a moment later, he was rewarded with the sight of her stepping out of the stall, water running down her tall body, not bothering with a towel. She stood before the mirror, squeezing water out of her hair, then reached for the towel, disappointing Stone. But his luck was holding; she wrapped it around her head and began brushing her teeth, her long back arched over the sink, her breasts dangling, her trim buttocks protruding. Stone began to get an erection.

  His first impulse was to get up and take her from behind, but he stopped himself. He wanted this to go well; if it did, no doubt he would have the opportunity of jumping her on some other occasion.

  She came out of the bathroom rubbing her hair with the towel, apparently not conscious of her nudity. “You’re awake,” she said. “I’ve been awake since six.”

  Stone looked at the bedside clock; it was after nine. “I got to sleep later than you did,” he said.

  “How much later?”

  “A couple of hours. The coffee, I expect.”

  “Poor Stone.” Her hair as dry as she could get it, she began toweling her body.

  “Just for the record,” he said, “you’re a beautiful girl.”

  “Woman. Thank you.”

  “I know you’re too accustomed to being told that, but I thought you ought to know how I felt about it.”

  “Coming from you, I consider it a great compliment.” She held the towel between her legs, rubbing thoughtfully for a moment, staring into the middle distance.

  Stone breathed more deeply, to keep from breathing faster; he shifted some covers to hide his rising interest. “Would you like a hair dryer?” He wanted to keep her naked for as long as possible.

  “No thanks; it’ll dry soon.”

  “Will it look the way it looked the first time I saw you?”

  “Pretty much; it behaves well. I get it cut every couple of months; that’s about it.”

  “Amazing,” he said.

  She laughed. “You’re exhibiting an awful lot of control for a man who’s in the same room as a naked woman he finds beautiful, Or is it disinterest?”

  “It’s an awful lot of control,” he said, honesty.

  She laughed again. “I’m impressed.”

  “So am I.”

  There was just a moment’s hesitation; then, before he could decide what to do, she picked up her jeans and slipped them on, not bothering with underwear. “I’m sorry if I was maudlin last night,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Stone replied.

  She followed the jeans with her black turtleneck sweater, then she picked up her underwear and stuffed it into a large handbag.

  “How about some breakfast?” he managed to say, sorry to see her breasts disappear and anxious to hold onto her a little longer.

  “Thanks, but I’m expecting a call from an editor this morning, and I don’t want to miss it. How about dinner instead?”

  “Gee, I’ll have to check my calendar.”

  She laughed aloud. “Seven, at my place; Ten-Eleven Fifth Avenue, dress sloppy.”

  “Seven it is.”

  “Dare I kiss you good-bye?”

  “Not unless you want to spend the day here.”

  “I’m gone,” she said, running for the door.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Dino; the funeral’s at two o’clock, in Brooklyn; you want to ride with me?”

  “Two o’clock? That’s quick.”

  “Jews have to be buried within twenty-four hours, or something terrible happens, I forget what.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, pick me up.”

  “One-thirty,” Dino said, and hung up.

  By noon a steady drizzle had enveloped the city, and by the time they left the synagogue a hard rain was falling. Stone sat in the back of the big Ford police car with Dino, while two young detectives took the front. The drive to Brooklyn was painfully slow.

  “Traffic always goes to hell in this city when it rains,” Dino said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure this business can’t be connected somehow with what you’re working on?” Dino asked.

  “I’ve thought about it again and again,” Stone replied, “and I don’t see how it could be. Arnie had finished the job with me.”

  “Arnie’s wife said he went to the movies yesterday afternoon, and he was planning to eat out; it was her bridge night.”

  “Does that sound like he was working for me?”

  “I guess not. I’m sorry to harp on this, Stone, it’s just that I don’t have anywhere else to go with it.”

  “Maybe it really was some stupid junkie.”

  “Maybe it was, but it just doesn’t sit right.”

  “I know; it doesn’t sit right with me, either.”

  “You know if Arnie was working for somebody else? Some other PI?”

  Stone shook his head. “He didn’t say anything about it if he was.”

  They drove on in the rain. As they crossed the bridge, the sky suddenly began to clear. They buried Arnie Millman in bright sunshine, under a cloudless sky.

  Stone stood at the graveside with fifty other cops and looked up to see Amanda Dart standing on the other side, at the rear of the crowd. When the service was over, Stone said to Dino, “I won’t need a ride home.” He hurried after Amanda, who was walking quickly toward her waiting car.

  “Hi,” he said, catching up to her. “Can I catch a lift back to Manhattan?”

  “Hello, Stone. Sorry, I’m not going back to Manhattan for a while; I have some business on this side of the river.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “Did you know Arnie Millman?”

  She nodded. “He was an occasional source for me.”

  “Arnie?”

  “Yes, and I liked him. Why are you so surprised?”

  “Somehow, he didn’t seem the type to be hobnobbing with newspaper columnists.”

  “Stone, Arnie didn’t hobnob with me; he called me on the phone when we had to talk. I really only met the man face-to-face on one occasion. Anyway, you would be amazed to know who some of my sources are.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run, darling. Want to get together later this week?”

  He knew what that meant, and he thought of Arrington. “Ah… I’ll call you, if that’s okay.”

  “That’s okay.” She got into the back of her car, and the driver closed the door.

  Stone sprinted toward Dino’s departing cruiser, barely catching it in time.

  “Ride didn’t work out?” Dino asked.

  “Nah, she wasn’t going back to Manhattan.”
r />   “You know a woman who gets chauffeured around in a Mercedes?”

  “That was Amanda Dart.”

  “What the hell was she doing here?”

  Stone nodded toward the two young detectives in front. “I’ll tell you later.”

  They drove back to Manhattan in silence. When they reached Stone’s house, Dino got out of the car with him.

  “So, what was Amanda Dart doing at Arnie Millman’s funeral? She his ex-wife or something?”

  “Funny. She said Arnie used to be a source for her.”

  “For a gossip columnist? I don’t believe it.”

  “She apparently has some fairly unbelievable sources.”

  “That don’t add up,” Dino said flatly.

  “She’s probably got a source or two in every station house in Manhattan,” Stone said. “How do you think these people get the story so fast when somebody of note gets arrested? It makes sense: it’s just funny that Arnie was one of them.”

  “Well, I guess he liked a few extra bucks as well as the next guy.”

  “I guess so. I gotta run. See you.”

  Dino waved good-bye and got back into his car.

  Stone put Arnie and Amanda out of his mind and started thinking about his dinner date.

  Chapter 24

  Stone arrived at Arrington’s building on time and was announced by the lobby man. On the way up he reflected on the fact that he had once known another woman who had lived in this building, and the memory of that experience made him uneasy.

  She came to the door wearing an apron over white pants and a white turtleneck sweater, seeming a negative image of the girl in black he had last seen that morning. There was a glass of wine in her hand. “Hi, come on in.”

  He followed her into a small apartment, especially small for such a posh building. There seemed to be only a living room and, through an open door, a bedroom. A counter divided the larger room into living and kitchen areas. She waved him to a stool at the counter and poured him a glass of red wine from an open bottle that was already nearly half empty. “Or would you prefer booze?” she asked belatedly.