Naked Greed

by Woods, Stuart

  “Born and bred in Greenwich Village, educated at PS 3, NYU, and NYU Law. When time came to practice law I decided to do it on the street, instead of in the courts, so I joined the NYPD, and did that for fourteen years, then I finally passed the bar and became a proper attorney-at-law.”

  “Considering your house and your collection of Matilda Stones, you must have done very well at it.”

  “I inherited the house from my great-aunt—my grandmother’s sister—and the beginnings of my collection from my mother, but I can’t complain about the hand life has dealt me.”

  “Why did you leave the police department?”

  “You aren’t drunk enough for that story. Suffice it to say, it was time I grew up and got a real job, even if it wasn’t as much fun as being a cop.”

  “What kind of cop were you?”

  “I started as a patrolman, like everybody else, and ended up as a homicide detective.”

  “And that was fun?”

  “You’d be surprised how entertaining a corpse can be. And anyway, everybody loves a murder mystery.”

  “Then you should write murder mysteries.”

  “I’ll save that for my golden years.”

  They had another drink, then Fred drove them to the Four Seasons.

  They dined exceedingly well. Stone assumed that, although Caroline Woodhouse was “fond” of the Four Seasons, she didn’t often dine there, so when ordering, he pulled out all the stops.

  Caroline took her food seriously, savoring each bite and making appreciative groans at intervals. When they had finished their appetizers and main courses, then a Grand Marnier soufflé, she sat back, patted her lips demurely with her napkin, and gave him a little smile. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Tell me what you’d like, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I would like to go back to your house, then fuck your brains out.”

  Stone’s heart skipped a beat. He was unaccustomed to being solicited in that fashion.

  “I can’t find anything to object to in that,” he replied finally, signaling the captain for a check. He signed it quickly, and they left. They were shortly back at his house, and in the elevator.

  “Tell me,” she said, “how were you going to get around to seducing me?”

  “I was going to offer to show you four more Matilda Stone paintings,” he said, “which are in my bedroom.”

  “You make me almost sorry I asked you first.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  The elevator disgorged them onto the fifth floor, and Stone led her into the master suite. “There you are,” he said, indicating the wall where the pictures hung.

  Caroline took in each of them while undressing, folding her garments and leaving them on a chair. Since Stone didn’t need to look at the pictures again, he was ahead of her.

  “These are the originals of the prints I bought in the museum shop,” she said. “They are her best work, I think.”

  “I agree,” Stone said, moving behind her and pressing against her buttocks.

  She turned to face him and put an arm around his neck. “Already ready,” she said, taking him in her hand. “And big, but not too big.” She pushed him backward onto the bed and mounted him.

  For the better part of the next hour she entertained him in every way that he could have imagined. Finally, when she was ready to climax, she made him ready, too, and they managed a mutual orgasm. When that was complete she rolled off him and lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling. “This has been a perfect evening,” she said. “So far.”

  “So far?”

  “I didn’t tell you this earlier, because I didn’t want to frighten you, but I am what is known as a sex addict, whatever that means.”

  “What does it mean to you?” Stone asked, rolling onto his side and looking at her.

  “It means that I have to have at least one orgasm a day, sometimes two or three.”

  “Give me a few minutes,” Stone said, “and I’ll help.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Do you ever find your needs inconvenient?”

  “Not really. I can postpone it if necessary or just do it myself. I’m good at that.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Do you know what’s wrong with being a sex addict?” she asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  Stone laughed.

  “My life would be gray and empty without it. Don’t worry, you don’t have to keep up with me. I’ll always be accommodating, but I’ll try not to be demanding.”

  “Thank you. I’d hate to fall short of your expectations.”

  “I’ve never discussed this with a man before,” she said.

  “I’m flattered. How about women?”

  “Oh, women can talk about these things without embarrassment. I’ve even found a few who can admit to being addicted, and without embarrassment.”

  “Are you attracted to women?”

  “Sometimes, but only rarely have I indulged.”

  “Was it satisfying?”

  “In a way, but not as satisfying as with the right man.” She took him in her hand again and moved her fingers. “And you, sir, are the right man.”

  “Thank you.” He rolled over onto her. “My turn to be on top,” he said.

  “Wherever you want to be,” she said. “And whatever you want.”

  “I want this right now,” he said, and showed her what he meant.

  “Oh, yes, that is a good idea.”

  “I’m full of ideas.”

  “Don’t tell me, show me.”

  And he did.

  There was a repeat performance before breakfast, then Caroline showered, dressed, and left for work. Stone was slower to move after such exertion. It was nearly ten when he made it to his desk, and he thanked himself for staying fit. On days like this, fitness got him out of bed.

  Shortly before noon Pepe Perado called.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Very well, thank you. My team is here at Marty Winkle’s, burrowing into things. I wanted you to know that the two cops are still with me.”

  “Is Mike Freeman’s security team still with you, too?”

  “Yes, but I have the feeling those two men are just waiting for an opening.”

  “Your security people won’t give them one. If you think it would help, I can have them spoken to.”

  “What would be said?”

  “Not much. Discouragement can take other forms.”

  “I don’t want them beaten up.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, but you might remember what they were going to do to you. They could very well have put you in the hospital, or worse.”

  “Perhaps I should be armed.”

  “You should not be. The City of New York takes a very dim view of visitors, even citizens, walking around unlicensed, carrying weapons. Being discovered in that condition can radically alter your favorable opinion of our fair city.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m glad. I will take steps to discourage your unwanted entourage.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stone called Mike Freeman at Strategic Services.

  “Good morning, Stone.”

  “Good morning, Mike.”

  “Are my people doing their job?”

  “They are, but a bit more needs to be done.”

  “I’ve heard that your client is still being troubled by unwanted presences.”

  “He is. Could you have these men spoken to?”

  “How forcefully?”

  “Without violence, if at all possible. My client wants it that way.”

  “Stone, I’ve done a little research on the people who employ these ex-cops. Apparently, these two are part of a coterie of enf
orcers retained by the Messrs. Brubeck and Parisi, who are rather old-fashioned in their methods, both arising from criminal stock. They protect their turf by crude methods and enlarge it the same way.”

  “I should have thought that energetic sales would preserve their turf better.”

  “Oh, their sales force is buttressed by energetic fellows, too. They really need to be put out of business.”

  “Dino is taking a look at that. In the meantime, Pepe Perado is trying to make a business deal, and the unwanted attention is, understandably, making him nervous. He will be a good client, I think, and I don’t want him folding his tent and stealing back to San Antonio.”

  “I understand. I employ some men who are artists in the intimidation business. Question is, should they address the two ex-cops or their employers?”

  “Good question.”

  “It might be more efficient to deal with the root, rather than the branch.”

  “You have a point.”

  “Leave it with me, then.”

  “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  They both hung up.

  —

  Later that day, Jerry Brubeck and Gino Parisi left their offices and walked to the garage where their cars were parked. Brubeck lived in New Jersey and Parisi in Corona Park, Queens.

  It was Parisi who noticed first that their cars were blocked by cars parked behind them. “Let’s go, Jerry,” he said, tugging at his partner’s sleeve.

  “Huh? What’s up?”

  “Let’s just go.” Parisi turned and propelled his partner toward the elevator, but their way was blocked by two very large men, both with battered faces and unwelcoming visages.

  They tried to go the other way, but two other men blocked that, too.

  Each of the men held a short black tube in his hand.

  Parisi unbuttoned his jacket and came up with a snub-nosed .38 revolver. As he raised it, something hard came down on his wrist, and the gun clattered to the concrete floor. The short tubes the men held had become longer: steel batons. Parisi swore and clasped his wrist. “If it’s broken I’ll have you taken out,” he said to the man who had struck him.

  “Shut up and listen,” the man said. “You are paying unwanted attention to a gentleman visiting from Texas. This will stop now.”

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Parisi said.

  “We know exactly who we’re dealing with,” the man replied. “You are the ignorant one. You’re in over your head, and if you persist, bad things will happen to you.”

  “To you, not me,” Parisi said.

  The man swung his baton and connected with a knee, and Parisi went down. “Would you like me to use it on your face?”

  “No!” Brubeck said, suddenly coming alive. “We get the message, so back off.”

  “We’ll do that,” the man said. “But just this one time. Don’t make it necessary for us to come back.” The four men got into their two cars and drove down the garage ramp at a leisurely pace.

  Brubeck helped Parisi to his feet. “You want a hospital, Gino?”

  “They’re the ones gonna want a hospital,” Parisi replied, dusting himself off and rubbing his wrist.

  “Gino, we don’t want a war,” Brubeck said. “Wars cost too much.”

  “You think I’m going to let Perado get away with that?”

  “I think it’s best if we forget about Perado.”

  “He’s going to buy out Winkle,” Parisi said.

  “We should have made Winkle a better offer. There’s no chance of a deal now, and we don’t really know who we’re dealing with here.”

  “I’ll find out,” Parisi said.

  “Gino, if you do this, we’ll have to kill somebody. We’re going good, here—don’t fuck it up.”

  “I’m going to fuck them up,” Parisi said. He got into his car and drove toward the ramp.

  “Oh, shit,” Brubeck said aloud to himself.

  As Stone’s day ended Joan came into his office carrying a vase containing two dozen red roses. “Where would you like these?”

  “At a nearby hospital,” Stone said, embarrassed.

  “Be sure and read the card.” Joan left the roses on his desk and went back to her office.

  Stone stood and walked around the desk and the huge bouquet. A card was nestled among the roses. It read: What a nice evening! More, please!

  Stone’s nether regions tingled.

  “Hey, nice!” a voice behind him said.

  Stone whirled to find Dino standing behind him.

  “You sending yourself flowers these days?”

  Stone muscled the heavy vase over to a side table and relieved himself of the load. “A sort of joke,” he said.

  Dino walked over to the vase and plucked the card from the roses. “Sounds like a grateful woman to me.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Stone asked irritably.

  “I was in the neighborhood, and my alarm watch told me it’s the cocktail hour.”

  “Help yourself and make me one,” Stone said, flopping onto the comfortable sofa.

  Dino went to the cabinet that concealed a small bar and an ice machine, poured a Johnnie Walker Black and a Knob Creek, handed Stone his, then sat down. “I hear that Jerry Brubeck and Gino Parisi had an exciting day,” he said.

  “And how did you come by that information?”

  “I happened to have two detectives on the scene. They were going to call on the Bowsprit Beverages management and have a word with them, but as they were getting out of their car they witnessed a little scene.”

  “What sort of scene?”

  “There were four of them, and Gino was frightened enough to pull a gun on them. One of them produced a police baton and appeared to break Gino’s wrist. Words followed, and Gino took another whack to the knee and went down.”

  “Anybody get arrested?”

  “For what? Nobody got shot, and I’m sure Gino must have a license for his .38. He was pretty mad, though.”

  “Parisi the younger and Ryan are still hanging around Pepe Perado, apparently waiting for a chance to get at him.”

  “So the encounter in the garage was just preventative maintenance?”

  “You could put it that way.”

  “My detectives said the four explainers were the biggest, ugliest guys they had ever seen at one time in one place. How is it that you come to know such people?”

  “I don’t know them, they were recommended by a friend.”

  “Ah, a whiff of Mike Freeman is in the air,” Dino said, sounding amused. “I got a call a few minutes ago. Gino Parisi was heard speaking to a cousin of his from Brooklyn, not the nice part. Your name came up.”

  “You’ve got Parisi wired?”

  “Only his home, his office, and his car. We held off on the locker room at his golf club out of simple human decency. My guys don’t like to listen in on naked men.”

  “How long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “What was said about me?”

  “Let’s just say it was uncomplimentary. Apparently, either Ryan or Parisi the younger recognized you, and Gino put two and two together.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’d watch my ass, if I were you.”

  “Parisi will get over it.”

  “On his car phone he said he was having to use speakerphone, because his right hand wasn’t working. I think you’ll be on his mind at least until he can play ‘Chopsticks’ on the piano again. With both hands.” Dino took a swig of his scotch and nodded toward the roses. “Who’s the grateful woman?”

  “Her name is Caroline Woodhouse. She works for Brad and Stan Kelly.”

  “Sounds like you’d better get plenty of rest and exercise.”

  “Exercise shouldn’t be a problem.”

&n
bsp; Dino laughed. “What’s the calorie count on the missionary position these days?”

  “Let’s just say that I lost a couple of pounds.”

  Dino looked at his watch. “C’mon, I’ll buy you an early dinner. Viv’s flight doesn’t get in until later tonight.”

  Stone drained his glass and stood up. “I’m game.”

  —

  They settled into a corner table at P. J. Clarke’s, and somebody brought them another drink.

  “Tell me about Brubeck and Parisi the elder,” Stone said.

  “They’re from the old-time mob tradition,” Dino replied. “Parisi’s father was Carlo Parisi—remember him?”

  “The Butcher of Brooklyn? We were younger then.”

  “Wasn’t everybody? Bowsprit Beverages was the old man’s business,” Dino said, “under another name. He delivered bootleg booze out of there in the twenties, slot machines and jukeboxes in the fifties, drugs in the sixties.”

  “What’s the current Parisi dealing in?”

  “Anything he can think of, apparently. Our organized crime division likes him for a couple of murders, too. Brubeck is the accountant and runs the legit stuff. He has a family connection, too, but he’s the more refined, commuter stiff from New Jersey. Parisi, on the other hand, remains ungentrified.”

  “I guess I’m out of touch,” Stone said. “I didn’t know those guys still existed.”

  “Parisi is doing what he can to uphold the family tradition. Brubeck just wants to make money and give it to his synagogue.”

  “Haven’t you got enough on Parisi to send him up?”

  “Parisi may be crude, but he’s not stupid. The call he made from his car was to a throwaway cell phone. He doesn’t care if we know what he does, as long as we don’t have enough evidence to convict him of it.”

  “What about Ryan and Parisi the younger?”

  “They’re carried on Bowsprit’s books as soft drink salesmen: you don’t need a license for that. They’re the kind of salesmen who walk into a joint and tell the manager he’s taking twenty cases of diet soda this week, whether he needs it or not. If he doesn’t buy, they break a bar mirror, and he signs the order, knowing it’ll be an arm next time and his neck the time after that.”