by Stuart Woods
“It was the only way I could earn two hundred dollars an hour without turning tricks. And I’m too smart to be a Las Vegas showgirl.”
“Perfect answer,” Stone said.
“The truth is, I lived in Santa Fe for a while, and they have a lot of massage schools. I had to find something more financially rewarding than waiting tables, so I took the training.”
“And the training took.”
“So you’re a lawyer? Why?”
“It was the only way I could earn five hundred dollars an hour without turning tricks. And I’m too smart to be a cop, which is what I used to be before I got so smart. Dino was my partner in those days.”
“Did you ever hear anything from Marilyn?”
“No, but I had lunch with Bernard Finger today, if you can call watching him slurp down a dozen oysters and hearing a stupid proposal for a settlement lunch.”
“He’s kind of gross, isn’t he?”
“I think that sums him up very well.”
“I met him once when he came to pick up Marilyn at the day spa. He’s been very generous, though; he bought her that apartment. You know the skinny modern building on Park Avenue in the sixties?”
“The one with one apartment per floor?”
“Yes. He bought her the penthouse in that building.”
“What do you want to bet the deed is in Bernie’s name?”
“I wouldn’t take that bet, and Marilyn isn’t smart enough to insist on having it in her name. He tells her they’re going to be married as soon as he can get a divorce.”
“I’ll bet he tells her that.”
She laughed. “Marilyn says he loves to make love out on their terrace.”
“Right out in the open?”
“Yes, and there are taller buildings all around them.”
“Then they must enjoy exhibitionism.”
“I guess. I’m hungry.”
“What would you like?”
“You made me think of oysters,” she said.
“It’ll be more fun watching you eat them than watching Bernie.” They ordered.
Two hours later they stood on the curb, looking for a taxi.
“Can I tempt you back to my house?”
“I’ve already seen your etchings,” she said, “along with everything else. It’ll have to wait until next time.”
“Is tomorrow too soon for next time?”
“Yes. Call me and we’ll figure it out.” A cab stopped.
“I’ll drop you at home,” Stone said.
“That would be inconvenient,” she said, getting into the cab.
“Where do you live?” Stone asked, but she had already closed the door, and the cab was moving.
Stone watched her drive away, regretting her reluctance to come home with him. He’d have to work on that.
14
The next morning, Joan buzzed Stone. “It’s Herbert Fisher,” she said.
“Tell him to get lost.”
“He insists on talking to you. Says it’s urgent; his life is in danger.”
“God, I hope so,” Stone said, punching at the flashing light. “I told you not to call me, Herbie.”
“Stone, you gotta help me,” Herbie panted. “They’re trying to kill me.”
Stone sighed. “Okay, Herbie, who’s trying to kill you?”
“My bookie, I think. Last night when I came home there were two guys in a black Lincoln waiting for me. I had to run like hell for nearly a mile before I lost them in an alley.”
“Where did you spend the night?”
“At my girlfriend’s.”
“You have a girlfriend, Herbie?”
“Sure, doesn’t everybody?”
“Then what were you doing with those two hookers at Elaine’s?”
“Oh, that was a celebration.”
That did not compute. “Are you at your girlfriend’s now, Herbie?”
“No, I’m in a candy store. She made me leave when she left for work.”
“She’s afraid to leave you in her apartment?”
“Well, we had this little problem once, with some money.”
“You stole money from her?”
“I borrowed it, but she noticed before I could pay her back.”
“I’m surprised she let you in the door last night.”
“Well, she won’t tonight, and I need someplace to hide from those guys.”
“Try one of your hookers.”
“Stone, can I stay at your house? You’ve got a lot of room.”
Stone thought fast. If he merely said no, Herbie would be on his doorstep in half an hour. “My house is the first place they’d look for you, Herbie; you wouldn’t be safe.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right. So where can I go?”
“Call your Uncle Bob.”
“Well, there’s kind of a problem there, too.”
“It seems there’s a problem with everybody who knows you, Herbie. Think of somebody who doesn’t know you well, and go there.”
“There isn’t anybody like that, Stone. You’ve gotta help me; I’m homeless!”
“That’s it, Herbie! Go to a homeless shelter! And don’t call me again.” Stone hung up.
Joan came into his office and laid a newspaper on his desk. “You’d better take a look at Page Six,” she said.
Stone picked up the Post. “Is this the thing you got in the paper?”
“Nope.” She tapped a finger on a boxed part of the page.
TWO LAWYERS IN BROUHAHA AT FOUR SEASONS
Well-known attorneys Bernard Finger and Stone Barrington had a not-too-pleasant lunch in the Grill Room yesterday. According to Finger, Barrington invited him to lunch and proposed some unethical conduct. When Finger refused and walked out in a huff, Barrington then told the management to charge the very expensive meal to Finger.
Barrington says it’s all a lie. (Not really. We were unable to contact him, but that’s what he would have said.)
Stone was speechless for a moment. When he recovered himself he told Joan to take some dictation. “The only true statement in your blurb about Bernie Finger and me is that it’s all a lie. Even if I didn’t say so.”
“That’s it?”
“Fax it to them now.”
“You think they’ll print it?”
“I don’t know; what else can I do?”
“I know somebody who’ll kill Bernie Finger for five thousand dollars.”
“No you don’t.”
“I would kill him for five thousand dollars.”
“I can’t afford it. Just fax the statement to Page Six, will you?”
Joan left, and Stone called Bob Cantor. Cantor was an ex-cop who was expert in all things technical, especially surveillance, and who often did work for Stone.
“Cantor.”
“Bob, it’s Stone.”
“Hey, Stone, what’s up?”
“First of all, your insane nephew says people are trying to kill him, and he wants to come and stay at my house.”
“I wouldn’t advise that. Last time I put him up I had to get my 500 mm Hasselblad lens out of hock.”
“Don’t worry.”
“The kid is kind of rich, you know.”
“What?”
“Kind of. His mother died and left him the house in Brooklyn, free and clear. He rents four apartments, which gives him a nice income, and he lives in the super’s apartment.”
“That little shit. He owes a bookie twenty-four grand and won’t pay. He could have borrowed from a bank on the house.”
“No, he couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m his trustee, and I won’t let him do that, and he knows it. Did you want to talk about something besides Herbie? I’m getting nauseous.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a job for you.”
“Shoot.”
“There’s a building on Park Avenue in the sixties, new, very skinny, one apartment to a floor.”
“I know the one.”
“Good. Here’s what I want you to do.” He gave Cantor full instructions, then hung up.
Joan came into his office, grinning. “That’s wonderful!” she said. “I love it.”
“You were listening to my phone conversation?”
“You betcha.”
“Didn’t you ever hear of the Constitution of the United States?”
“Vaguely.”
“It says you can’t do that; I have a right to privacy.”
“Not from me, you don’t; I know everything about you.”
“Not everything.”
“What I don’t know isn’t worth knowing,” she said, and sauntered back to her office.
Stone dug out Celia’s number and called her.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Thank you for last evening,” she said. “I enjoyed myself.”
“So did I. Let’s do it again.”
“When?”
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Great. Where do you want to meet?”
“Does your house have a kitchen?”
“Of course, a very nice one.”
“Let’s meet there; I’ll cook dinner for you.”
“You talked me into it.”
“Seven?”
“Perfect. Can I shop for anything for you?”
“I’ll bring everything but the wine.”
“I’ve already got that.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.” Stone hung up feeling better.
15
Bob Cantor packed his car and left his Brooklyn apartment.
Stone Barrington, he reflected, was his favorite client, not because he gave him the most work but because the work was always interesting. Cantor had kicked open his share of bedroom doors, but this was a new wrinkle, and he was looking forward to it.
He drove into Manhattan and up the FDR Drive, then got off at Sixty-third Street and drove toward Park Avenue. He parked in a very expensive garage just off Park, took his large equipment case, the one with the wheels, and his tripod from the trunk, then walked down Park until he reached the building in question. It was a steel-and-glass tower of around fifteen stories, very slim and elegant, and he could only guess at what the apartments cost. He stood to one side of the building and looked up.
What he saw was an array of tall buildings, but the one that interested him most was directly across the street, a prewar co-op with a limestone facade and the usual awning. A doorman stood out front, rocking on his heels, waiting to open a taxi door for somebody. Cantor crossed the street and approached the doorman.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning, sir,” the doorman, a paunchy man in his fifties, replied. “Can I be of service?”
“Is the super around?”
“No, he’s in the hospital; had his tonsils out. Ain’t that something, a guy his age having his tonsils out?” He laughed in a way that made Cantor think the guy didn’t like his boss much.
“That’s a good one,” Cantor chuckled. “How would you like to make five hundred bucks?”
The doorman stopped rocking on his heels and eyed him warily. “We’re not allowed to murder the building’s occupants.”
“No violence involved. I just want to take some photographs up and down Park Avenue from the top of your building. There’s probably part of the roof devoted to equipment, that’s separate from the penthouse property, isn’t there? You know, air conditioning, satellite dishes, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Good view of Park from that spot?”
The doorman nodded. “A very good view.” He looked at Cantor for a moment, then took a deep breath.
Cantor cut him off. “Five hundred is the max. I’ll need to be up there until dark, probably, and if I don’t get what I need, I’ll have to come back tomorrow, and in that case, it’s another two hundred.”
“You’re not a cat burglar?”
“I’m a retired cop.” Cantor flashed his badge.
“Name?”
“That’s all you need to know.”
Another doorman appeared from inside. “I’ll take the outside for a while, Tim.”
“Okay,” the doorman replied. “I’ve got to run this guy up to the utility area, anyway.” He took a clump of keys from the doorman’s station in the lobby and motioned with his head for Cantor to follow. They rode up in the elevator to the sixteenth floor in silence, then got off. “I don’t want to know what this is about, do I?”
Cantor shook his head. “Why would you? It doesn’t involve any of the people who live in your building.”
The doorman led him to a door marked “Staff Only,” unlocked it, then led him up a flight of stairs to another door, marked “Utilities.” He unlocked that and held it open for Cantor. “This what you’re looking for?”
Cantor walked through a forest of antennae and steel boxes to the parapet and looked up and down Park Avenue, noting especially his view of the building across the street and the angle to the penthouse terrace. “This will do,” he said.
The doorman made a motion with his fingers, and Cantor took five folded hundred-dollar bills from a pocket and handed them to him.
“The doors will lock themselves when you come downstairs,” the doorman said, “and the elevator won’t stop until it gets to the ground floor. If you need to piss, there’s a drainpipe over there.” He nodded at the corner. “Don’t leave no trash, and if you see any of the building tenants, try not to look like a criminal.”
“Got it,” Cantor said. “And thanks very much.” The two men shook hands, and the doorman left. Cantor walked back to the parapet and surveyed the penthouse apartment across the street and two stories below him. “Fucking perfect,” he said aloud. He set up his tripod and began unpacking equipment.
He affixed a very long lens to the electronic camera and sighted the terrace, then he screwed on a Polaroid filter, in case he wanted to shoot through the sliding glass doors. When he was satisfied that he was ready for anything, he set a portable radio beside him, already tuned to a classical station, then he opened a folding camp stool, sat down and took a sandwich and a Diet Coke from his case. It was a nice day, and an al fresco lunch was just the thing. He stayed there all afternoon, occasionally stretching his legs but always with an eye on the penthouse across the street.
At five-thirty sharp, Bernard Finger left his office in the Seagram Building on Park Avenue at Fifty-second Street and stepped into his waiting limo. The driver closed the door and got in while Finger settled himself in the custom leather backseat. He pressed a button, and the window between himself and the driver lowered a foot. “You know where,” he said, then he raised the window and picked up the telephone beside him, pressing a speed-dial number.
“Hello?” She sounded cheerful.
“Hello, dearest,” Finger said. “How was your day?”
“It was okay; I did a little shopping.”
This was not the time to call her on her shopping addiction. “Dearest, I’m headed to a client meeting out of the office, and then I’m going to have to take him to dinner, so you’ll have to count me out for this evening. I’m sorry.”
There was a long, deadly silence. “Bernie,” she said, finally, “you’re fucking somebody.” It wasn’t a question.
“You’re absolutely right, dearest; I’m fucking the guy who’s suing my client. It’s what I do.”
“You’re out three or four nights a week, Bernie, and I know you too well not to think that you’re following your dick somewhere.”
“I’m just following the money, dearest, which is what keeps you in such style, isn’t it? If I were home for dinner every night, you’d have to close half a dozen charge accounts.” She thought in shopping terms; she’d understand that.
She sighed. “All right, but you remember that we have the theater tomorrow night. It’s a benefit performance for Beatrice’s charity, and there’s dinner to follow.
That means black tie and in the car at seven thirty.”
“I’ve already cleared the decks for that, dearest; I won’t disappoint you.” He certainly wouldn’t; that would create a marital nuclear event, whose shock wave would break windows in New Jersey. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come home.”
“You do that.” She hung up without saying good-bye.
He replaced the phone in its cradle, poured himself a short single-malt Scotch and tossed it down. He wanted his blood flowing freely by the time the elevator reached the penthouse and the lovely Marilyn.
16
Bob Cantor snapped to attention. He had been half dozing, but a movement on the terrace below had caught his eye.
One of the sliding glass doors had opened, and now a tall blonde, wearing a floor-length robe that appeared to be silk, swept onto the terrace. He recognized her immediately. It was Marilyn, the masseuse.
Marilyn set down a drink on a little table next to a double-width chaise longue, made a motion with her shoulders and the robe fell in a puddle at her feet, revealing a lithe, naked body with high-hung breasts. She pulled something from her hair and shook it loose.
Cantor grabbed the camera and sighted through the long lens. The low afternoon sunlight washed over her pale body, turning it gold, as he focused and fired off a couple of shots. He checked the screen on the back of the camera to be sure he had it right. He had it right. The girl was now rubbing some sort of lotion on her body, and Cantor was getting an erection.
Suddenly, Cantor’s erection wilted. Bernard Finger stepped out onto the terrace with a drink in his hand. He was stark naked, and it was not a pretty sight. Marilyn did not leap up to meet him but patted the other side of the chaise. Finger sat down, they clinked glasses and began to chat.
Marilyn was doing more than chatting. She had her hand in Finger’s lap and was kneading his genitals. Cantor clicked away. The lens was the perfect length; he might as well have been sitting next to them.
Marilyn rolled over and buried her face in Finger’s crotch, and his face took on an ecstatic grimace, which Cantor preserved in digital code. Then they changed positions, and Finger was doing the work in her lap. He was on his knees, his buttocks pointing to the sky. Cantor was almost as ecstatic as Finger. He continued photographing until both Marilyn and Finger had collapsed in a tangle of love.
