Sex, Lies & Serious Money

by Stuart Woods

  Back in the car, he Googled a London shirtmaker, Turnbull & Asser, used by his stepfather, and discovered that they had a New York shop, just around the corner from his new apartment, on East Fifty-seventh Street. There he was fitted and ordered two dozen shirts to be made, then he bought some pajamas, more neckties, and some pocket squares. That done, he went back to Stone’s house and found his new attorney still at his desk.

  “How did your shopping go?”

  Laurence told him what he had bought.

  “Sounds like you now have everything a man needs.”

  “Not quite. I still have to go car shopping.”

  “For your Porsche?”

  “Yes, and I quite like your Bentley Flying Spur. Today has taught me how nice it is to have a car and driver in the city.”

  “Good. Herb Fisher has found you a prospective secretary. You’ll meet her after the closing tomorrow.” He told Laurence what he knew about the woman. “And would you like to join some friends and me for dinner this evening?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “We’ll leave here a little after seven.”

  “I’ll be ready. I hope you don’t mind if I wear the same suit—it’s my only one, until tomorrow.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’d better go and freshen up, then.”

  —

  FARTHER UPTOWN, Theresa Crane came home from work and found, to her alarm, that the door to her apartment was ajar. She was certain she had locked it securely, and it was not the maid’s day. Her first instinct was to call 911, but she didn’t want to make a fool of herself if there was nothing wrong. She pushed the door open another foot and peeked inside. She could see down the hall and into her living room, and as she watched, she saw a puff of smoke drift across the room. She got out her phone to call the police, and as she did, a man appeared in the hallway.

  “Sis?” he said.

  She stared at him in shock. “Butch?”

  “Give me a hug,” he said, his arms spread wide.

  She moved into the hallway and hugged him briefly. “I thought you had at least another year to go. How did you get out? My God, you didn’t break out, did you?”

  Butch shrugged and steered her into the living room and onto the sofa. “Maybe you’ve read in the papers that there’s a move on, nationwide, to rid the prisons of first-time, nonviolent prisoners? Seems they’ve run out of cell space.”

  Harold F. Crane, her younger brother, had been doing five to seven years in a minimum-security prison upstate for forgery, money laundering, and theft, and those were just the things he had been caught doing; she suspected there were more crimes in his past. “So,” she said, “what are your plans?”

  “My parole officer seems to think I might find some work in New York, given my winning nature and handsome mien. Can you put me up for a while?”

  “Put out that cigarette,” she said. “There’s no smoking here, ever.” He went to the powder room, flushed it down the toilet, and returned. “Sorry about that. I picked up the habit inside. There was nothing else to do, except read.”

  “I don’t want the smell in here. How did you get in?”

  “I knew you always hide a key somewhere, and I found it on the ledge over the door. I didn’t want to call you at work. How’s it going there?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “The apartment is smashing,” he said, looking around.

  “I get a discount at the store, and I’ve been buying floor pieces whenever the designs change. I’ve done a lot of work on the apartment myself.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Perhaps I’ll treat you to a suit tomorrow,” she said. “There’s a sale starting. God knows, you’re not going to get work in that.”

  He plucked at his lapel. “It’s what I was wearing when I went in, and I’ve lost some weight.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “Prison food is lousy, and I worked out a lot, too.”

  “All you need is some sun on your face, and you’ll look like a real person again.”

  “Do you think there might be something for me at the store? Remember, I worked at a men’s store in college.”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll ask at the personnel department. Don’t get your hopes up, they’re very picky about who they hire.”

  “Groton and Yale aren’t good enough?”

  “Well, that’s not all that’s on your résumé, you know, and you can’t lie to them. I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “Nah, I would never do that.”

  “Butch, you’ve been a liar all your life, and I don’t expect that to change. Just don’t foul my nest.”

  “I put my stuff in the spare room,” he said, changing the subject. “I hope that’s all right.”

  “For one week,” she said. “After that, it’s the Y.”

  “So, are you the store manager yet?”

  “No, but I had the biggest sale of my life this morning—over a hundred and sixty thousand.”

  “Wow! How does somebody spend that much in a morning?”

  “He buys a complete wardrobe, half a dozen pairs of alligator shoes, and the most expensive luggage in the store. It adds up.”

  “How about we go out to dinner tonight?”

  “I’ve got some leftover spaghetti sauce in the fridge—how about we eat that?”

  “Sure, that would be great. I’ll do the dishes. Are you off tomorrow? I’ll take you to a movie.”

  “No, I’ve got to deliver everything from today’s big sale and put it away in the customer’s new apartment. If you want to help me, I’ll pay you for your time.”

  “Yeah? How much?”

  “Minimum wage, pal, get used to it.”

  “I guess I’ll have to, if I’m going to be an honest working stiff. You want to buy a guy his first drink in three years?”

  “It’s over there,” she said, pointing to a cabinet. “Get me a scotch on the rocks, too.”

  They settled down to catch up, watched the news, then had dinner. By bedtime, she was feeling more confident about Butch. Maybe she really could get him a job at the store.

  7

  THEY TOOK ADVANTAGE of the lovely weather and walked down to Patroon, Stone’s favorite restaurant since Elaine Kaufman’s death and the subsequent closing of Elaine’s a few months later.

  “With whom are we dining?” Laurence asked.

  “With Dino Bacchetti and his wife, Vivian. Dino and I were partners on the NYPD a long time ago. He is now the police commissioner of New York City. Viv is the chief operating officer of Strategic Services, the second-largest security company in the world.”

  “You were a policeman?”

  “I was. Joined right after law school and stayed until they used a gunshot wound to the knee as an excuse to retire me. Dino stayed on and did well. A friend suggested I cram for the bar exam and join his firm, Woodman & Weld, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Who are your biggest clients there?”

  “Strategic Services, the Steele Insurance group, and the Arrington Hotels Group, on the boards of which I sit. And you.”

  “I’m your fourth biggest client?”

  “You’re my biggest client—personal not business.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Stone.”

  “So am I. Thank you for calling me. I’ll have to send Dicky Chalmers a case of very good wine.”

  “I’ll find him something, too, when I do more shopping.”

  They reached the restaurant and were greeted by the owner, Ken Aretsky, and introductions were made.

  “Take good care of Laurence,” Stone said, sotto voce, as he passed. “He’ll be a good customer.”

  “Certainly,” Ken said.

  Dino and Viv were already seated at the table, and Stone introduc
ed everybody. They ordered drinks, which arrived swiftly.

  “Laurence,” Stone said, “I have a confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve broken my promise to guard your anonymity. I’ve told Dino and Viv all about what’s happened, because they can be of future help to you. At some point you may need the help of Strategic Services, and that’s Viv, and Dino is just somebody who’s good to know.”

  “I’m fine with that,” Laurence said. “You are forgiven.” He made the sign of the cross, and everybody laughed.

  They looked at menus and ended up ordering a platter of beef chateaubriand for the table. Ken brought complimentary canapés.

  “I hear you’ve bought an apartment, Laurence,” Viv said.

  “That’s correct. Moving in tomorrow. Thank you, Stone, for the shelter, but you won’t have to put up with me any longer.”

  “You’re always welcome, Laurence.”

  “Did you bring any furnishings with you?” Viv asked.

  “One small bag of clothes, which I introduced to a dumpster this afternoon. I’m starting from scratch, at least in New York.”

  “Have you had any problems with being recognized and hounded?” Dino asked.

  “Only in West Palm Beach at the lottery office, and then my first New York cabdriver caught me in his mirror. Stone suggested a shave and a haircut, and no one has made me since.”

  “A clean shave is a good disguise these days,” Dino said. “I understand you’ve spent most of your life in England and that you’re a master at Eton.”

  “An assistant master, though I have hope of a promotion. I’m on a leave of absence right now, but I’m going to have to give a lot of thought to whether I’ll stay there after what’s happened.”

  “Do you still have a home there?”

  “Yes, I live in a small cottage on a lovely little estate in Berkshire owned by my stepfather. It’s a short drive to Eton, where the college offered me only a room. Masters get flats or houses. My parents have a house in London, too, and I have a room there.”

  “Sounds like you’re well stocked with real estate.”

  “Yes. Also, I inherited my father’s house in Palm Beach. I had planned to sell it, but there’s no need to now.”

  “Tell me, Laurence,” Dino said, “has Stone given you the lecture yet?”

  “You mean, ‘don’t spend it all in one place’?”

  Dino smiled. “No. Let me put it this way—you seem like a bright fellow, but do you have any street smarts?”

  “London and Berkshire street smarts, yes, New York City street smarts, no—sadly deficient there.”

  “New York is a tough town, and I don’t mean the muggers, which we keep under control. I mean predators of a different sort.”

  “What sort?”

  “All sorts. For instance, though you’re not aware of it yet, there are people around town who are already looking for you.”

  Laurence looked alarmed. “What sort of people?”

  “They like to call themselves journalists these days, but they’re the same gossipmongers that have been around since newspapers came along. It goes like this—the cabdriver who recognized you probably has such a connection, and he’s made himself fifty or a hundred bucks by telling that connection that the Powerball zillionaire is in town. It would not surprise me if someone offered a reward for news of your whereabouts. You could very well soon be the subject of a manhunt.”

  “What an awful thought,” Laurence said. “The London papers are like that, too.”

  “In what name did you win the lottery?”

  “L. B. Hayward.”

  “That won’t throw them off the scent for long,” Dino said. “Is anyone living in your father’s house?”

  “No, a cleaning lady comes every day.”

  “Prepare to get a call saying the house has been broken into.”

  “You think it will be burgled because there’s nobody living there?”

  “No, I think some private eye, working for a tabloid, will break in and start looking for evidence of your whereabouts.”

  “What sort of evidence?”

  “Anything with your name on it—checkbook, your father’s checkbook, family photos, address books—anything. My point is, you’re not going to be anonymous in New York for very long.”

  “There’s nothing in the house that would locate me,” Laurence said. “When I left I didn’t have another residence in this country.”

  “Might they track you to England with what they find in the house?”

  Laurence thought about it. “Yes,” he said. “There are letters from me to my father with my return address on them.”

  “We bought the apartments in a corporate name,” Stone said.

  Viv spoke up. “That will help. Do you think the real estate agent twigged?”

  “No,” Stone said, “but if she starts reading about Laurence in the tabloids, her discretion might be taxed.”

  “There’s another kind of predator you have to worry about, too,” Dino said. “The financial kind. These people won’t need to read about you in the papers, they’ll see you going in and out of the Fairleigh, in and out of your car, in and out of restaurants, and, the way you look and dress, you might as well have the word ‘mark’ tattooed on your forehead.”

  “What do you suggest I do?” Laurence asked.

  “Get out of town.”

  “Back to Palm Beach?”

  “Oh, no, somewhere you’re not known, maybe someplace abroad you’ve always wanted to go.”

  Laurence said, “A place comes to mind. Stone, I haven’t had a chance to tell you about this yet, but I’ve been talking with the Florida sales director of Cessna, a Mr. Hayes, and he tells me that he’s had the cancellation of a sale, due to a death, of a CJ 3 Plus. It’s loaded with equipment and has a nice paint scheme.”

  “When would it be delivered?”

  “In three weeks, and I’ll need sixteen days of training to get a 525 type rating—in Wichita, Kansas. Is that far enough away, Dino?”

  “Wichita is as far as you can get from everywhere,” Dino said, smiling.

  “And you’ll be in the classroom and simulator eight or ten hours a day,” Stone pointed out. “You’ll be too exhausted to go out at night.”

  “Then I think I’ll kill two birds with one stone,” Laurence said.

  “Let me negotiate the sale for you. I know David Hayes from past dealings.”

  “That’s his name.”

  “I’ll call him tomorrow. You book your training slot at Flight Safety. You’re going to need a mentor pilot for a while, too.”

  “How long?”

  “Thirty to fifty hours, depending on how precocious you are. I have a friend named Pat Frank who started an aircraft management business a couple of years ago. She’ll find you just the right mentor. Also, she’ll manage the airplane for you. There’s quite a lot of paperwork and maintenance records. She can make it painless.”

  “Does she manage your airplane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’s good enough for me.” He looked a little embarrassed. “There’s something else you’ll need to negotiate with David Hayes.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to buy a Citation Latitude, too.”

  “That’s a big jump up in airplanes from the CJ 3 Plus.”

  “It is, but I can fly nonstop transatlantic in it.”

  “Ah, yes. Do you plan to train in that, too?”

  “Eventually, but it’s going to be nine months before I can take delivery, so I can build time in the CJ 3 Plus while I’m waiting for it, and Hayes said it might be possible to work out a deal where I trade in the CJ for the Latitude.”

  “That should improve your deal,” Stone said. “I’ll call him tomorrow. And you
should probably schedule time, after delivery, at Flight Safety for the Latitude training. Since the Latitude is not a single-pilot airplane, you’re going to need to hire another pilot or two, as well, but Pat Frank can find those people for you.”

  “Good.”

  “Laurence,” Viv said, “I understand that you can become very English at the drop of a hat.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then you have another disguise at your disposal—become English in America for a while.”

  “Jolly good idea,” Laurence said, in his best, broad Eton/Oxford accent.

  8

  LAURENCE HAD BREAKFAST with Stone the following morning, then he took a cab to the far West Side, where the automobile dealers lived. He found one that had everything he wanted, since they dealt in both Porsche and Bentley.

  He found a beautiful Flying Spur on the showroom floor and had lost himself in the window sticker information when a salesman materialized at his side and introduced himself. “I’m Paul Dumont.”

  “I’m Laurence Hayward,” he said.

  “Would you like to drive it?”

  “Of course, but first, is the equipment list pretty complete?”

  “We order our cars loaded,” the man said. “It’s how our customers like them. We also have one in black, with magnolia upholstery.”

  “I like these colors. What are they called?”

  “Aspen metallic green and the upholstery is saffron.”

  “Let’s drive it.”

  It took ten minutes to remove the car from the showroom, then Laurence spent ten minutes throwing the car around on the streets.

  “Good,” he said, as he parked the car in front of the dealership. “Now let’s look at Porsches.”

  “Right this way,” the man said, and led him to the showroom adjacent to the Bentley one. “Turbo, perhaps?”

  “No, it’s a little too splashy-looking, what with the spoiler. I like the Carrera 4S.”

  “I don’t have one in stock, but I can do a dealer search. Let’s find a computer.” They sat down at a desk. “Color?”