by Stuart Woods
“He sure was. He looked like that guy with the Three Stooges.”
“I didn’t notice.”
—
BUTCH TOOK HIS LUNCH HOUR and ambled over to the Central Park entrance at Fifth and Seventy-second, as if he were taking lunch in the park. He saw Curly on a park bench, just across the street; he crossed and sat down at the other end of the bench, taking the Times from his pocket and opening it. “What the hell do you mean, coming into the store?” he asked without turning his head.
“I go where the fuck I like,” Curly replied. “Last night I was in Stone Barrington’s house.”
“Hayward’s lawyer? Are you nuts? The guy’s an ex-cop and best friends with the police commissioner. Theresa told me about him.”
“And I had to read about him in a tabloid piece about Hayward. I couldn’t count on my old buddy Butch to clue me in.”
“Clue you in about what?”
“The guy’s rich—not as rich as Hayward, but he’s got a house full of stuff. I found myself a fence who knows the high-end market, so I’m branching out.”
A police car pulled up across the road, and Butch and Curly both fell silent.
“Relax,” Curly said, “they’re just eating their donuts.”
Butch said nothing; he found the Arts section of the paper and folded it to show the crossword puzzle, then started to work on it. “Curly,” he said, trying not to move his lips, “listen to me. I’m done with you—no more money, no robberies or burglaries, no anything. If I hear from you again for any reason, I’ll kill you.”
“Kill me, you little piece of shit?”
“It’s a promise,” Butch said, “a guarantee.” He heard a car door slam.
“Oh, shit,” Curly said, then he got up and sprinted away from the bench.
Butch looked up from the crossword in time to see a cop chasing him, while the other started the police car and drove farther into the park. Butch went back to the crossword.
—
FIVE MINUTES LATER two cops walked up to him, both of them sweating and panting a little. “Excuse me, sir,” one of them said, “do you know the man who was sitting next to you?”
Butch looked at the empty bench. “What man?”
“The one who was sitting there until we started chasing him.”
Butch shook his head. “There was somebody there when I sat down, but I didn’t really take any notice of him.”
“What brings you to the park today?”
“Lunch hour,” Butch replied. “I work over at Ralph Lauren, on Madison.”
“Do you have an employer’s ID?”
“Sure.” Butch fished out the card from his pocket and handed it to him. “Who was the guy you were chasing?”
“Somebody on the wanted list.” The cop returned his card. “Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Crane.”
“Not a problem,” Butch said, then went back to his crossword. He waited five minutes, then took a cab home. He let himself into the apartment and went to the kitchen drawer where Theresa’s little .25 automatic lived. He unloaded it, field-stripped it, and wiped every surface with an oily rag, then reassembled it, wiped every round clean, reloaded the magazine, shoved it home, and put it into his pocket after wiping the exterior.
He left the apartment with a new feeling of confidence, rimmed with anxiety. He’d shoot the bastard if he saw him again, he swore to himself.
He was back in the Purple Label room in time to serve a customer who bought two suits, then was coaxed by Butch into a third. This day would end better than it started, he thought, as he took fitting notes from the tailor, then rang up the client’s purchases, which came to nearly $10,000.
—
LAURENCE AND THERESA were met at Teterboro by Oliver, his driver, who put their luggage and Theresa’s Santa Fe purchases into the Bentley.
“Laurence,” Theresa said, “do you think we could invite my brother, Butch, to the Strategic Services party? I’d like you to get to know him better.”
“Well, since it’s at our apartment, I’m sure that would be all right. I’ll mention it to Mike Freeman when I get the chance.”
—
THEY LET THEMSELVES into the apartment, and Marge was there to greet them. “Welcome home,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Marge,” Laurence replied. “Any significant mail or calls?”
“Both are mostly begging letters and calls, but one from the police commissioner.” She handed him a slip with the number.
Laurence tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll call him later.”
“Call him now,” Theresa said, “and I’ll unpack for you. Who knows your dressing room better than I?”
“Okay.” Laurence went into the study, picked up the phone and called Dino.
“Commissioner’s office,” a crisp, female voice said.
“Laurence Hayward, returning the commissioner’s call.”
“One moment.”
Dino came on the line. “Welcome home, Laurence.”
“Thank you, Dino. It’s good to hear from you.”
“I hear on the grapevine that you bought a place in Santa Fe.”
“You pick your grapes well.”
“Have you met Ed Eagle and his wife, Susannah?”
“We traded dinners. Your grapevine was there, too, with a very fetching woman.”
“Met her last night, and you’re right. Listen, I’ve had some news of the intruder in your apartment.”
“Wonderful. What news?”
“Two of my uniformed park patrol spotted him sitting on a bench at the Seventy-second Street entrance earlier today.”
“Did they grab him?”
“It turned into a footrace, and the guy, big as he is, got the better of them. The good news is, they made him from your security camera shots, so there’ll be other opportunities.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Laurence said. “I’d better let you get back to keeping the city safe.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Dino said, and they both hung up.
40
SOFIA BUCKSTEIN got off a train at Grand Central and made her way toward the main hall, towing her carry-on suitcase that contained four days’ of clothing, all of it with the labels removed, in case she had to abandon it. Her shoes were good for sprinting, if necessary, and the big bag slung over her shoulder contained the stuff of her work: cash, credit cards, and wristwatches she had taken off marks; three wallets, each stuffed with a different passport, a driver’s license, a couple of credit cards, and some useful fluff like insurance cards. Her iPhone was tucked into a silk holster, clipped to a bra that supported her ample breasts. She didn’t carry a gun, but there was a very sharp little switchblade tucked into a garter. She had had to use it only once, but it was always there. Then she looked up and saw the guy.
He was clearly rough trade, and she liked that. He was heavy, in a muscular way, had a shaved head tucked under a tweed cap—very different from the men in handmade suits on the train that she could think of only as marks.
She walked straight up to him. “Where can a girl get a drink around here?” she asked him, straight-out. “And are you buying?”
He gazed down at her. She was only five-three, but very well built. “Right this way, sweetheart,” he said, taking the handle of her roll-on and starting down the platform. “You gotta name?”
“One for every occasion,” she said. “Let’s start with Maria.”
“That’s classy, I like it. I’m Curly, for obvious reasons,” he said, lifting his cap. He led her into a restaurant in the station, parked her case in the cloakroom, and steered her to a bar stool.
“So,” she said, “how’s business?”
“Slow,” he replied, “but not too slow.” He beckoned a bartender. “What’ll you have, Maria?”
&n
bsp; “Macallan 12 will do me.”
“Two of those,” he said to the bartender, and laid a fifty down, “and make them doubles.”
“You work the platforms regular, Curly?”
“When I don’t have anything better to do.”
“What’s your pitch?”
“A judo chop to the back of the neck,” he said. “If you do it just right, you can catch them before they hit the pavement.”
“How do you get away with that in a place like this?”
“I start yelling for somebody to call nine-one-one, and I give the bum chest compressions while I pick his pocket. Then I get somebody to spell me and I disappear. Anybody stops me, I tell ’em I’m going for a cop.”
“Well, it’s simple, I’ll give you that, and you save a lot of time not having to work the guy.”
“That’s me, simple and direct. Charm has never been my strong suit.”
“I like that in a man. You ever get picked up for that dodge?”
“I have another talent—I run like a deer, and nobody, but nobody, catches me.”
“Where’d you get in such good shape?” She poked him in the belly. “Hard as a rock.”
“In a prison gym. There wasn’t anything else to do. How ’bout you, babe? What’s your game?”
“Whatever works. I like trains, ’cause you can always get off before somebody tumbles and misses his stuff. I’ve done it on the run a couple of times and walked a few miles to get another ride. Mostly, though, I leave ’em on the platform, having made a dinner date—one I never keep. By dinnertime, he’s changed his pants and missed his wallet.”
“Where are you based?”
“Down South, where the sun always shines.”
“And where do you lay your head, here in the Apple?”
“Is that an offer?”
“Could be. Are you always so hot to trot, Maria?”
“Could be. What’d you have in mind?”
“You name it, I love it.”
“A man after my own heart. You got a place in town?”
“I do. It’s a fifteen-minute cab ride this time of day.”
She tossed off her scotch. “What’re we waiting for?”
He knocked back his own drink, left another ten on the bar, grabbed her case, and led her to a cab. She gave him half a blow job on the way uptown. Best not to wear him out too soon, leave him wanting more.
—
SOFIA/MARIA EASED OUT of the bed and used the john, then she grabbed a robe off a hook, rolled up the sleeves, and had a look around. A one-bedroom with a king-sized bed, a kitchenette, a sleeper sofa with a biggish TV across the room—the basics, but not bad. Curly was pretty much in that category, too; she had only to test his stamina. This place was good for three or four days before she dumped him and took a train somewhere. She hadn’t done a Chicago run for a while, and she usually had good luck going west. A hundred in the pocket of a conductor kept him sweet and dumb, when the cops questioned him. She watched the evening news and read the Daily News, which was on the coffee table, then she went back to the bedroom, dropped the robe, got into bed, and took his balls in her hand.
Curly stirred. “What’s that I feel?” he mumbled.
“Your balls in my hand,” she said. “You up for another run?”
“You read my mind,” he said.
“Oh, are these where you keep your mind?” She gave them a little squeeze and got the correct response.
He rolled over on her. “Put it wherever you like,” he said.
And she did.
—
CURLY MADE A GOOD BREAKFAST, the mark of a man alone. He made soft, scrambled eggs, microwave bacon, an English muffin, fresh orange juice, and very strong coffee. “Getcha anything else?”
“Anything else, and I’d explode,” she said. “You mind a strictly professional observation?”
“As long as it doesn’t hurt too much.”
“Why do you work so hard looking like an ex-con?”
“’Cause that’s who I am.”
“Then try being somebody else for a while, you’ll do better, make more money.”
“Be specific.”
“You’ve got a full head of hair hidden in your skull—grow some of it, and get it cut nice.”
“It’s a lot of trouble.”
“Looking good already is. And get a couple of suits made.”
“Too expensive.”
“If you read something besides the tabloids you’d see ads for tailors. They ain’t Savile Row, but they’d look a lot better on you than that low-end mall stuff you wear. They’d fit, for one thing.”
“It’s a thought.”
“Something else—you keep your weight up to intimidate people.”
“It’s a good thing when you want their money.”
“Lose thirty pounds and talk ’em out of it. If you keep hitting people in the back of the neck you’re going to paralyze somebody or worse, kill ’em.”
“So what?”
“So the cops want you a lot worse when it’s a serious crime. I mean, a guy gets rolled in a train station, a cop can dust him off and send him home with a few words of friendly advice, but when the cop has to ride in the ambulance with him to the ER and watch some intern try to bring him around and fail, and his wife and kids show up and scream, that makes the cop want to put you away, or worse, shoot you.”
“You have a point.”
“And that tattoo on your neck really sets you up for a lineup in a precinct, you know?”
“It’s permanent.”
“It’s a couple of hours in a doc’s office and a grand out of pocket. Ditch it, grow some hair, get some clothes.”
“Then I’d look like everybody else.”
“That’s kind of the point, Curly. That’s how you stay out of lineups. Nine out of ten people the cops question are going to say you looked like the guy on the Three Stooges, don’t you know that?”
“I always kind of liked it.”
“It’s fine in prison, not so good on the street. Do you have a real name?”
“Marvin Jones.”
“Well, Marv, that’s nice and anonymous. A girl could like a name like that.”
“Okay,” Curly said, “my hair is already growing, I’ll skip lunch, and you can pick out a tailor for me and walk me through the experience.”
“And when I get back in a week or two, you can take me to a nice restaurant and buy me a steak.”
“Back from where?”
“A girl’s gotta keep moving, if she wants to make any money.”
41
HEAVENLY PEACE SHOWED UP with two men carrying toolboxes; she was dressed in a nicely tailored boiler suit with a Strategic Services emblem embroidered above her left breast and carrying a small suitcase. “May I leave my case here somewhere, Stone? It’s got my civvies in it, for later.”
“Of course,” Stone said, “just leave it in my closet over there.” He pointed across his office.
“Now, you’ve seen the plans, can we start in here? We’ll make as little noise as possible, then we’ll drift upstairs.”
“As you wish,” Stone said. “I’ve got to read some documents. I’ll take them up to my study while you work in here.”
“See you later,” she said, tossing her long blond hair out of her way, then quickly pinning it up.
Stone took his briefcase upstairs and settled into a comfortable chair. His phone rang. “Yes?”
“Dino on one,” Joan said.
Stone punched the button. “Morning.”
“Yeah, and a nice one, too. I hear you have an unusual security tech wandering around your house. Quite a dish, huh?”
“Yeah, I think this is Mike Freeman’s idea of a joke.”
“You’re taking it all wrong—he’s
heard you’re lonely, and he just wants to make you feel better.”
“Nah, he just wants me to walk around the house with a bulge in my trousers all day.”
Dino laughed loudly. “First step in feeling better.”
“I thought Jinx was the first step in feeling better.”
“She’s nice, but she heads off downtown every day to her studio, and you only see her at night.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, but she’s a professional woman with a lot of work on her hands, so she can’t devote herself fully to you.”
“That describes just about every woman I’ve met since Arrington died, even Heavenly Peace.”
“Nice name, huh? It’s how you’ll feel when she’s through with you. And she’s not the type to take her work to bed with her.”
“You have a point. Jinx has a bad habit of sketching ideas while I’m trying to get to sleep. Her painters are supposed to be out of her place today, though, so I should be able to get some rest.”
“Tell you what, if she abandons you, bring Hev to dinner.”
“Where’d you have in mind?”
“How about Rotisserie Georgette, on Sixtieth? I’ll book.”
“Let’s see how the day goes.”
“Talk to you later.”
There was a knock on the study door, and Jinx came in. “Joan said you were up here.”
“I’ve got workmen in my office installing security cameras, the result of our little incident the other night. What brings you uptown this time of day?”
“I came to get my stuff.”
“Abandoning me?”
“Not entirely, but I’ve got a show opening in Philadelphia in a couple of days that needs some fine-tuning, and maybe even a new set, so I’m out of town for a week, at least.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Not so much. We’ve had some nice times, but I think I’m too much of a working girl for you.”
“Call me when you get back?”
“Would you like to come to Philadelphia for a couple of days?”
“Probably not—too much going on here.”
“Okay, see you when I see you.” She came over, pecked him on the forehead, and left the room.
