by Stuart Woods
“I don’t buy that.”
“Neither do I, entirely, but I don’t see how it affects what I’m doing for Barton.”
“Everything affects everything,” Dino said.
25
Stone left Dino at Elaine’s and took a cab to the Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue at Seventy-sixth Street. As he entered the Madison entrance, the Café Carlyle, former home of the late, great singer/pianist Bobby Short, was on his right, but he turned left, into the Bemelmens Bar.
The place was, maybe, three-quarters full, and the grand piano, in the middle of the room, was unoccupied. A maître d’ appeared. “I’d like that table there,” he said to the man, pointing at a tiny table with an unobstructed view no more than eight feet from the piano.
“You’re alone, sir?” the man asked, as if he were asking for a king-size bed.
Stone passed him a twenty and was seated immediately. He ordered a cognac and a small bottle of San Pellegrino and waited for Carla to finish her break.
Five minutes later, she arrived, along with her bass player, who picked up his instrument and did a little tuning. Carla was a tall, Scandinavian-type blonde, clad in a long, slinky black dress set off by a diamond necklace that was either a fake or supplied by Harlan Deal, because she could never have afforded it on a singer/pianist’s income. She played a few chords, then swung into a medium-tempo version of “Day In, Day Out,” then followed that with songs by Rodgers and Hart, Cole Porter and Jerome Kern.
The music suited Stone to his core; it was what his parents had listened to, and he had grown up dancing to it in their home and at school dances. Then Carla did something that riveted him to his seat. She sang a Gershwin tune called “Do It Again” slow and sexy, and she sang it directly to him. Suddenly, beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead.
When she finished he smiled and applauded enthusiastically. She ignored him for the next three songs, then announced a break and stood up.
Stone stood, too, and she seemed to see him again. He walked the few steps between them and said, “My name is Stone Barrington. Would you join me for a few minutes?”
She said nothing but walked to his table and sat in the chair he held for her.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“This will do,” she said, taking his glass of Pellegrino.
“That was a wonderful set,” he said. “Especially the Gershwin tune.”
She leveled her gaze at him. “I don’t sing it often.”
“Then I’m all the more grateful for hearing it.”
“Who are you, Mr. Barrington?”
“I’m an attorney, and I’m here on business as well as pleasure.”
“Oh?” she said. “Are you suing me?”
“Far from it,” he said. “I’m here to see that you never have to work another day in your life, unless you want to.”
“Fortunately, I enjoy my work,” she said.
“That’s apparent from the way you do it.”
“Does this have something to do with Harlan Deal?”
“It does, and I’ll be brief, so that we can talk like two human beings again.” He took an envelope containing two copies of the prenuptial agreement and put it on the table. “I had a meeting with Mr. Deal this morning, and with his approval, I’ve made some substantial changes to this document. My advice to you, which is confidential, since it represents a conflict of interest, is to read it, consult a good attorney, then make a few more demands. He handed her his card. Have your attorney call me directly, and I’ll see if I can help with Mr. Deal.”
She tossed her head in a way that flipped her long, nearly white blonde hair over her shoulder. “Well, Mr. Barrington, you’re taking a risk; I could get you disbarred for that advice.”
“Not unless you’re wearing a recording device,” he said, looking her up and down, “and frankly, I don’t know how you could conceal one in that dress.”
She gave him a small smile, then picked up the envelope, opened it and carefully read the prenup. “Do you have a pen?” she said.
Stone held up his pen. “I do, but, again, I think you should consult an attorney.”
“I believe I just have,” she said, then took the pen from his hand and signed both copies of the agreement. “I think it’s generous as it is.”
“We’ll need a witness,” Stone said.
She beckoned her bass player, a very large and handsome African-American man who was sitting nearby. He came over, witnessed the documents and returned to his seat.
She handed Stone a copy, then folded the other and tucked it into her tiny purse. “Now, perhaps we can talk, as you said, like human beings.”
“By all means. Tell me, what is your surname?”
“I don’t have one,” she said. “I never liked my name much, so I stopped using it when I got out of college, which was fifteen years ago, and I had it legally changed ten years ago. Since then, I’ve managed to forget it.”
“I see,” Stone said. “Of what national extraction are you, or have you forgotten that, too?”
“My father was Italian; my mother, Swedish.”
“You seem to have taken on more Swedish characteristics than Italian ones,” he said.
“Don’t count on it,” she replied. “I still know how to use a stiletto on a dark night. Figuratively speaking.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“I have one more set to do,” she said. “I live in the hotel; perhaps when I’m finished, you’ll come up for a drink.”
She had managed to say that without sounding in the least like Mae West, but Stone still gulped. This was really a conflict of interest. “I’d like that,” he said, tucking away his legal ethics.
She played and sang another dozen songs, then thanked her audience, got up and walked past Stone’s table. She shook his hand, and her palm contained a card. “Give me ten minutes to freshen up,” she said.
Stone finished his drink, paid his check and stopped by the men’s room for a little freshening of his own, then he walked out onto Madison Avenue and hailed a cab. “Drive over to Park, then turn right on Seventy-sixth and let me out at the hotel entrance there.”
“Big spender,” the driver said.
“I’ll make it worth your while.” Stone didn’t know if anyone was watching Carla or him, but he wouldn’t put it past Harlan Deal, not to mention Bill Eggers. He got out at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance, checked Carla’s card for the room number and took the elevator to a high floor.
The door was cracked, held just open by the plastic DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging on the doorknob. He pushed it open and entered, finding himself in a nicely furnished living room with a spectacular southern view of the city. “Hello?” he called.
“I’ll be with you in just a minute,” she called back. “Fix us both a cognac.”
Stone went to the wet bar/kitchenette and found glasses and a bottle of Rémy Martin, then went back into the living room and set them on the coffee table. She came out of the bedroom wearing a flowing silk dressing gown that looked like something out of a 1950s movie, costumes by Edith Head. He had little doubt that she had nothing on under it.
She took the brandy, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips. “I wanted to do that all evening,” she said.
“So did I,” Stone said. Sadly, he remembered the conflict of interest present here. “But I am prevented from doing what I really want to do.”
“I’m glad to know you have at least some ethics, Mr. Barrington, but I believe I can relieve your conscience.”
“How would you do that?” he asked.
“It’s quite simple,” she replied. “I have no intention whatever of marrying Harlan Deal.”
“In that case,” Stone said, taking her in his arms, “I am entirely unconflicted.”
A moment later, he found he had been right about what she was not wearing under the dressing gown.
26
Stone woke up early, a little after six. Ca
rla was inert beside him, the sheet failing to cover one breast. He slipped out of bed, went into the bathroom, showered, then dressed. He debated whether to wake her, then decided not to; he would phone her later.
The morning was crisp, and he walked downtown to his house and let himself in by the office door. He left the signed prenup on Joan’s desk with a note telling her to messenger it to Eggers ASAP, then went into the kitchen, where Helene was bustling about.
“You are up very early,” she said in her Greek-accented English, “and you are dressed, which means you slept somewhere else.”
“Stop being a detective and scramble me some eggs, please, Helene.” The Times was on the kitchen counter, and he read it while Helene cooked. The headline story on the first business page was of an acquisition by Harlan Deal of an aircraft-leasing company. He wished he’d known the day before; he wasn’t above a little insider trading. Too late, now.
The acquisition and the prenup were Deal’s good news for the day, he thought. The bad would follow when Carla broke her news.
He was at his desk when Joan arrived.
“Slept somewhere else, huh?”
“Joan…”
“You’re wearing yesterday’s suit.”
“I like the suit; why can’t I wear it two days in a row?”
“Okay, stick with that story.”
“There’s something on your desk for immediate action.”
Joan left, and he heard her calling the messenger service.
Stone finished reading the Times and had started the crossword when Joan buzzed.
“Bill Eggers on line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning, Bill.”
“How the hell did you do it?” Eggers asked. “How did you get her to sign?”
“I simply asked her nicely,” Stone replied. “Apparently, no one had bothered to do that.”
“I’ve already talked to Harlan, and he’s thrilled. He announced a new acquisition this morning, too.”
“I saw it in the Times. I guess you knew about this yesterday, Bill.”
“Sure. We did the legal work.”
“You might have dropped a hint.”
“Yeah, sure, and have the SEC all over us both like a case of the flu. Don’t worry; Harlan is sending you a check. I told him to pay you directly.”
“And I get to keep it all? Gee, whiz!”
“Don’t worry, the aircraft-leasing deal left us flush.”
“I never worry about you, Bill. Thanks.” He hung up, and Joan buzzed again.
“Yes?”
“A messenger just delivered a check from Harlan Deal for twenty-five thousand dollars! What the hell did you do for Harlan Deal? I didn’t even know you knew him!”
“Met him yesterday, did some work for him last evening.”
“Now I can pay the rest of the bills!”
“See how good I am to you?”
Bob Cantor met his old service buddy at “ 21.” He hadn’t been there in years, but Crow had, judging from the way they were greeted and seated. They were at a corner table on the ground floor, away from the hubbub of the horseshoe-shaped seating areas.
“So, Bob,” Crow said, “how you been?” Charlie was dressed in a five-thousand-dollar suit, a five-hundred-dollar shirt and a two-hundred-dollar necktie with a matching one-hundred-dollar pocket square. He still managed to look like a real estate tycoon who sold used cars on the side.
“I been good, Charlie, and from what I read about you in the papers, so have you.”
“Oh yeah. Boy, it’s been sweet.” He ordered martinis for both of them.
Cantor took a small sip of his drink. “I was kind of surprised to hear from you, Charlie, after that blood oath we all took.”
“Come on, Bob, it’s been thirty years; we can talk now without any problems.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“How have you spent the last thirty?”
“Well, I joined the NYPD when I got back from ’Nam and did twenty-five years there, fifteen of them as a detective, then I retired.”
“How do you spend your time now?”
“Oh, I dabble in photography,” Cantor said, not mentioning that he sometimes kicked in a bedroom door before dabbling. “And you’re in the real estate game?”
“I am.”
“Married?”
“Third time lucky, I hope. How about you?”
“Nah, I stayed a bachelor. I got a couple girls I see from time to time.”
They ordered lunch and chatted amiably, as if they were dear old friends. Cantor finally popped the question. “Seen any of the other guys?”
“You know,” Crow replied, “I was thinking we should have a reunion of the old band of thieves.”
“You in touch with them?”
“I could probably track them down,” Crow said.
“Any idea what they’re doing?”
“Well, Ab Kramer is a big deal in the stock market, filthy rich, too. He’s in The Wall Street Journal pretty often, does the odd appearance on CNBC, too. I’ve heard a rumor he might be the next secretary of the Treasury, if the Democrats hang on to the White House.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the business news stuff about him; I didn’t know he had political connections, though.”
“Big fund-raiser for the Democrats, the bastard,” Crow said.
“I take it you’re a Republican, Charlie.”
“You bet your sweet ass; that’s where the money is, boy. You give, you get; that’s my policy.”
“What about Harry Collins, you seen him?”
“Funny, I saw him at the track not long ago, and at the hundred-dollar window, too.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Nah.”
“Just like you didn’t speak to me at P. J. Clarke’s the other day.”
“Well, I just happened to be there for a drink; given our previous arrangement, I didn’t know if you’d want to talk.”
“Well, like you say, it’s been a long time. You ever see Ab?”
“Funny you should mention that; he kibitzed on a deal another guy at his firm did for us. He’s an investment banker, you know.”
“How about the Colonel, you ever hear anything about him?”
“Ab says he’s in the antiques business up in Connecticut. Ab has a place up there and said he ran into him.”
“Antiques? The Colonel? That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Well, you and him did okay in the gold coin business, remember? That’s antiques, sort of.”
“You still pissed off about not being in on that, Charlie?”
“Of course not,” Crow said, clapping Cantor on the forearm. “I’ve done real good; why should I care? Say, how did you spend your cut?”
“I bought a car and some clothes, bought a little apartment and put the rest in the stock market and left it there.”
“Good for you, Bobby! I guess you’re a rich man now, huh?”
“I’ve done okay. At least I don’t have to live on my pension.”
They had coffee, and the waiter brought the check. Crow paid it with a black American Express card.
“Well, Bob,” Crow said, “do I have your permission to arrange a class reunion?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, maybe some good steaks and a few bottles of fine wine. You up for that?”
“Sure. I guess so.”
“They’ve got some private rooms here; maybe we’ll do that.”
“Fine by me.”
They got up and walked to the front door; there was a silver Rolls-Royce, the new one built by BMW, waiting at the curb, a uniformed chauffeur braced with the door open.
“Drop you someplace, Bob?”
“Nah, it’s a nice day; I think I’ll walk for a while.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Crow said, shaking his hand.
“Might be nice to see the old crowd at that,” Cantor said, waving good-bye and turning up Fifty-second Street, toward
Fifth Avenue, while Crow’s Rolls glided toward Sixth.
Cantor had no doubt that Charlie wasn’t going to arrange a class reunion. “I wonder what that guy is up to,” he said aloud to himself. He looked back toward Sixth Avenue and saw the Rolls turn the corner, so he crossed the street and went into a parking garage. He checked the recorder in his van and found that it had worked perfectly.
27
Stone waited until after lunch to call Carla.
“Hello?” She didn’t sound sleepy.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been awake for all of ten minutes.”
“Well, you worked late.”
“So I did. Why did you sneak out without waking me?”
“Because you worked late. Anyway, I kissed you before I left, but you didn’t notice.”
“Liar. I would have noticed.”
“Before we go on with this, when are you going to break your news to Harlan?”
“I’m having a drink with him early this evening, before I go on. Don’t worry, he’ll take it like a man.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’ll look shocked and hurt, then he’ll go out and get laid.”
“Oh. In that case, do you ever get an evening off from your gig?”
“Three of them. I only work four days a week.”
“Want to drive up to Connecticut on Sunday and stay for a night or two?”
“As long as we don’t leave before three o’clock.”
“Three it is. I’ll call you when I’m five minutes from the hotel. I’ll be in an evil-looking black Mercedes, at the Seventy-sixth Street entrance.”
“What clothes shall I bring?”
“Tweeds.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Country clothes, then.”
“If you say so.”
“You were a wonderful surprise last night,” he said.
“So were you.”
“Are you taking me to Connecticut so Harlan won’t find out?”
“I think it might be politic to avoid being seen together in the city for a little while, don’t you?”
