Worst Fears Realized

by Stuart Woods

  “Why don’t we order lunch now, and then we can close while they’re preparing it?” Stone suggested. “Joan, will you join us?”

  “Thanks, but I have a lunch date; my mother is in town.”

  They found a menu, and Stone and Eggers ordered, then they got down to business. Eggers handed Stone a series of documents, Stone signed them, and Joan notarized them. The whole business took three-quarters of an hour. Finally, Eggers handed Stone a completed document. “Here’s your deed; you want us to file it for you?”

  “Please, and put it in your safety deposit box for the time being,” Stone replied.

  “Congratulations, you now own a house in the country. I’ll get the completed documents and the check to the seller this afternoon.”

  The doorbell rang, and a waiter wheeled in a cart bearing their lunch.

  “I must run,” Joan said. “I’ll deliver the documents to the seller’s law firm on the way to lunch, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Joan,” Stone said, “and when all this is over, I’ll take you up on your offer of help.”

  She left, and Stone and Eggers sat down to lunch. “I want her, Bill,” Stone said.

  “Don’t you have enough women?”

  “I want her for a secretary; I’m giving you fair warning.”

  “Then you’ll have to make her an offer she can’t refuse.”

  “I’ll do that. By the way, I hear you have a client who makes offers like that, from time to time.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You never told me you represented Eduardo Bianchi.”

  Eggers stopped buttering his bread. “And where did you hear that?”

  “From the horse’s mouth.”

  “Which horse?”

  “Bianchi, himself.”

  “You know Bianchi?”

  “I know lots of people.”

  “You know Bianchi, personally?”

  “I had dinner with him the night before last.” Stone was enjoying this.

  “Bianchi doesn’t go out since his wife died.”

  “I had dinner at his home.”

  “Let’s get this straight; we do not represent Eduardo Bianchi; we represent his charitable foundation.”

  “Ah, that keeps the hands clean, does it?”

  “It’s perfectly legal. We do it pro bono.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Stone said, slipping the needle in a little deeper. “You represent a Mafia chieftain pro bono?”

  “It’s not only legal, it’s downright noble.”

  Stone laughed aloud.

  “And how did you come to be acquainted with Bianchi?” Eggers asked.

  “Why? Have you never met him?”

  “Many times, since he came to us about the foundation. Well, he sort of came to us. I got a call from somebody who’d gotten a call from somebody who’d gotten a call. Apparently, Bianchi is very sensitive about being rebuffed because of his family’s reputation. He always feels out situations before presenting himself. Saves embarrassment on both sides, I guess.”

  “Yes, he does seem to be a cautious fellow.”

  “Finally, he came into the office, and we set up the foundation for him, with his daughter as its president. Tell you the truth, I was very impressed with him. With his daughter, too,” Eggers said, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “Yes, she’s quite something, isn’t she?”

  “We’ve got a couple of associates down at the firm who would do Mob hits on the side just to sniff her underwear.”

  “She comes into the office a lot?”

  “The foundation’s offices are one floor up from us. We got them the space.”

  “And what sort of giving does the foundation do?”

  Eggers put down his fork. “This goes no further, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I mean, Bianchi is a bear about discretion, and he’s not the sort of guy you want to cross.”

  “I will be the soul of discretion.”

  “They do arts grants. He’s supporting a dozen young painters. Also, the foundation owns his art collection, and they lend to museums. Mostly old masters.”

  “What’s the organization’s name?”

  “The Briarwood Foundation.”

  “I’ve seen that name on public television, as a sponsor of various stuff.”

  “They do that, too. Basically, they give to whatever interests the old man. Okay, your turn. How did you meet Bianchi?”

  “He’s Dino Bacchetti’s father-in-law.”

  “What?”

  “I kid you not. The older daughter; they’ve been married, seven, eight years.”

  Eggers shook his head. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “And that goes no further.”

  “As you wish.”

  They finished their coffee, and Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a deposition; gotta go.”

  “Thanks for coming over here.”

  “Not at all. When do we get to see the Connecticut place?”

  “Give me some time to get it sorted out. By the way…” Stone wrote some numbers on his card and handed it to Eggers. “Here are the phone and fax numbers. They should be working by tomorrow night, but keep them to yourself for the time being.”

  “Okay, see you soon.” They shook hands, and Eggers left.

  Stone pushed the tray into the hall, then sat down and picked up the Times. He read the paper thoroughly, as he always did, and in the Arts section a theater listing caught his eye. It read, “Judson Palmer presents A Poke in the Eye with a Sharp Stick, a revue.”

  The name registered, and it brought Stone back to the problem at hand. What the hell, he thought, I’m not getting anywhere on my own. He fished Eduardo Bianchi’s card from his wallet and dialed a phone number. The ringing stopped, and he heard a beep, no message.

  “This is Stone Barrington,” he said. “I can be reached at the Carlyle Hotel, 744-1600. I’m registered as Elijah Stone, Room 1550.” He hung up. Was this the first step on the road to perdition?

  36

  N OW STONE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH his day. He couldn’t go home safely, and the Connecticut house still had no furniture. He’d already read the Times; the Wall Street Journal bored him; he wasn’t about to watch soap operas; and there, were no good movies on TV. He got up and walked around; he was stiff and sore from his experience of the night before. He picked up the phone and dialed the concierge.

  “Yes, Mr. Stone?”

  “I wonder if you could arrange a massage for me in my suite?”

  “Of course; what time?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  “Swedish or Japanese?”

  “Swedish.”

  “Please hold for a moment; I’ll check availability.” He came back after a moment. “Sheila will be with you in an hour.”

  “Thank you.” Stone hung up, watched two episodes of This Old House on television, then went to the bedroom, got undressed, and put on a robe. Shortly, there was a knock on the door, and a pretty girl came into the suite and set up a massage table in the bedroom.

  “Let’s start you facedown,” she said.

  Stone slipped out of the robe and lay on the table; she draped a small towel over his buttocks.

  “Oh, you’ve got some cuts on your back,” she said.

  “An accident; can you work around them?”

  “Sure; let me know if I hurt you.”

  She began kneading his back, and Stone gave himself to the experience. Soon, he was in a light sleep. Then the doorbell rang. “Would you get that, please?” he asked. “It’s probably the maid; I forgot to put out the DO NOT DISTURB Sign.”

  “Sure; I’ll be right back.” She left the bedroom.

  Stone heard the door open and some whispering; then the door closed, and she came back. “Did you put out the sign?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, then began rubbing his back.

  He fe
ll back into a doze, waking only long enough to turn over at her request. She put some sort of bean bag over his eyes as he turned, then he resettled the towel in the appropriate place and began to doze again. She rubbed his neck and his face, then began working her way down his body. She lingered over his nipples, which he thought was a little odd, but he was too comfortable to protest. Then he felt her remove the towel. Oh, well, he thought, if she doesn’t mind, I don’t.

  She rubbed his belly, then his upper thighs, and, occasionally, her hand would touch his penis, as if by accident. Then it began to be clear that it was no accident. What kind of service is the hotel running? He heard her squirt some lotion on her hands and rub them vigorously together, then she touched him in a very deliberate way. In a moment, she was massaging more than he had counted on.

  He opened his eyes, but the bean bag still covered them, and he closed them again. She went at her work gently, but firmly, and in seconds he was fully erect. His instinct was to reach out for her; he resisted that, but nothing else. Within a couple of minutes she brought him to a climax, then caressed him gently as his breathing returned to normal. Then she wiped him dry and kissed him gently on the lips.

  “I’m going to wash my hands,” she whispered. “You relax, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He heard her close the bathroom door. He sat up and slipped into his robe. What was going on here? He’d never experienced anything quite like this. He supposed she would expect a very generous tip, and it seemed the least he could do. He got down from the table to get his wallet; then the bathroom door opened, and she came out.

  His jaw dropped, and he was unable to say anything. Dolce Bianchi stood there, smiling at him.

  “Did you enjoy your massage, sir?” she asked.

  “I…I…”

  “Oh, I believe you did,” she said. “I’d like a drink; may I fix you something?”

  “In the kitchenette,” he said. “Whatever you’re having.”

  She walked back into the living room as he tried to get his brain in gear, and he followed her. She returned with half a bottle of champagne and two flutes.

  “Sit down and relax,” she said, setting down the glasses and drawing the cork from the bottle. “You shouldn’t exert yourself too soon after a massage.”

  Stone sat down, and she handed him a flute of champagne. “How did you…?”

  “I got your message, and I came right over,” she said. “I didn’t bother with the desk, just came right up, and when the masseuse came to the door, a couple of hundred persuaded her to leave early.”

  He was recovering, now, and he raised his glass. “To unexpected pleasures,” he said.

  She laughed. “Those are the best kinds.” She sipped the champagne.

  “You are certainly full of surprises,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Oh, I am,” she agreed. “You must always remember that about me. I’m very forward, too. I don’t hesitate when I want something.”

  “I don’t have any trouble believing that,” he said. “But how did you know I wouldn’t jump up from the table, shocked?”

  “I’m psychic about these things,” she said.

  “I’m a little psychic, myself,” he said. “Would you like a reading?”

  “Why not?”

  He set down their glasses, then took both her hands and held them palm up, gazing at the lines. “I can see that you have very talented hands,” he said.

  She laughed aloud. “That’s not very psychic,” she said.

  “You were foolish when you were young, but you’re smarter, now.”

  “Dino told you about my marriage, no doubt.”

  “I see that you do useful work,” he said. “That you are a giving person. That you give in your work.”

  She looked at him oddly. “Go on.”

  “Your work is somehow connected with the arts,” he said. “But you are not an artist, exactly. No, but you help an artist—more than one, I see. Money is involved, to allow them to do their work.”

  Her black eyes narrowed; she seemed puzzled. “Dino couldn’t have told you that,” she said.

  “There are paintings, many paintings; they are displayed in different settings—museums, perhaps. And there is a connection with television, perhaps art on television.”

  She tried to pull her hands away, but he held on to them. “I get an impression of thorns,” he said. “A name that has something to do with thorns or briars.”

  She snatched her hands away. “Stop it, this is spooky.”

  Stone shrugged. “Merely a gift. Nothing to be superstitious about.”

  “How did you know all that?”

  “I sensed it,” he said.

  She laughed. “For a moment, you had me believing you.” She sipped her champagne again, leaned toward him, and kissed him. “I believe you are in my debt,” she said.

  “I suppose I am, at that,” he replied.

  “I am not accustomed to waiting to be paid; and I always insist on interest.”

  “That seems only fair.”

  She stood up, reached behind her, and unzipped her dress. It fell at her feet, and she stepped out of it. She was wearing no bra, only stockings and a garter belt, with panties over them. She shucked off the panties and walked toward him.

  He began to get up, but she pushed him back into a sitting position and straddled him. She pulled his head forward, and her scent filled his nostrils.

  “First installment,” she said huskily.

  Stone paid up. For a moment, he wondered what he was getting himself into. Then he stopped worrying about it.

  37

  T HE ROOM-SERVICE WAITER SET UP THE table, opened the two bottles of wine, and left. “Dinner’s ready,” Stone called toward the bathroom, where Dolce was repairing her makeup.

  She came out of the bathroom, still having not dressed, and sat down at the table.

  Stone tasted the wine, then poured it. “I believe,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve ever dined with a woman who was wearing only stockings, a garter belt, and high heels.”

  She raised her glass to him. “To the first of many new experiences to come.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Stone replied, raising his glass. They began their dinner with a first course of pasta with a lobster sauce. “You are an extraordinarily beautiful woman,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but I’ve been told that often enough to know that it’s true. Perhaps it won’ always be, but…”

  “Yes, it will,” Stone said. “When you finally get around to aging, many years from now, you will do it well.”

  “Why don’t you take off the robe?” she asked. “I enjoy seeing you naked.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll spill the pasta sauce,” he said. “It’s hot.”

  “Coward.”

  “Absolutely, where hot food and tender areas are concerned.”

  “I suppose you’re right; I wouldn’t want you wounded.”

  “Why do you want me any way at all?” he asked. “I’m not fishing for compliments; I’m just curious.”

  “To begin with,” she said, “you are as beautiful as I am, in your way. Beautiful men are not exactly scarce, but beautiful, interesting men are. Why did you want me?”

  “I didn’t know I had a choice.”

  She laughed, a pleasant sound. “I suppose you didn’t. Are you put off by my assertiveness?”

  “Did I seem put off?”

  She laughed again. “No, not in the least. To continue, I liked what I’ve heard about you from Mary Ann over the years. Dino wouldn’t talk much, and he definitely wouldn’t introduce us.”

  “I think Dino wanted to avoid complications.”

  “It is un-Italian to avoid complications,” she said. “No, he just likes to keep his life, and his friends, as far from my father and me as possible. He disapproves of us.”

  “A difference in philosophies, as your father put it.”<
br />
  “Papa liked you,” she said.

  “He made me believe he did. I liked him, too.”

  “It is impossible not to like Papa, if he wants you to.”

  “A family trait.”

  “What are your ethnic origins?” she asked.

  “English on both sides, if you can call that ethnic.”

  “Ah, yes, Barrington sounds very English.” She cocked her head. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever a cop.”

  “The NYPD found it difficult to believe, too. I didn’t exactly fit in. Dino once told me that the NYPD was a fraternal lodge, and I never joined.”

  “Tell me about your family history.”

  “Both sides of my family, the Barringtons and the Stones, came from English Midlands to Massachusetts in the early eighteenth century and established themselves in the weaving trade. In the nineteenth century, that grew into the textiles business. They were quite prosperous. My father had no wish to enter the family business; he loved woodworking, and it was all he wanted to do. His father, however, insisted that he go to Yale. My mother was sent to Mount Holyoke, to study art. When the stock market crash came, in twenty-nine, both families pretty well crashed with it. My father left Yale and moved to New York, where he met my mother, who was living in Greenwich Village, painting.

  “They had known each other as children, and when they met again, they fell in love. My father began going house to house with his tools, looking for handyman’s work. Eventually, he was able to open a small woodworking shop, and over the years he established a reputation as a maker of fine furniture. They had many left-wing friends, and my father actually joined the Communist Party during the Depression.”

  “I’m doing the math; they must have been quite late in life when you were born.”

  “Yes; I came as something of a surprise.”

  “Whatever happened to the family in Massachusetts?”

  “It petered out, I suppose. My father was disowned for being a Communist; my mother was disowned for marrying my father. The only family member I ever had any real contact with was a great-aunt, on my mother’s side, who, when she died, was kind enough to leave me her house in Turtle Bay.”