by Stuart Woods
Stone had taken only one accounting course in college, and he thanked God that he had not slept through it. Soon he could read a balance sheet with the best of them.
He had a sandwich at his desk, anticipating the arrival of Arrington Calder and her son, Peter. He buzzed his secretary, Joan Robertson.
“Yes, master?”
“I’m going to have this little boy on my hands for the better part of two weeks,” Stone said. “What the hell am I going to do with him? Children’s theater? Museum of Natural History? Boats on the pond in Central Park?”
“How old is the boy?” she asked.
“Twelve, I think.”
“Well, that lets out girls; he’ll still hate them. How about South Street Seaport? Boys love sailing vessels.”
“Good one,” Stone said, making a note. “More.”
“Ummm . . . Central Park Zoo?”
“Another good one. More.”
“The Lion King?”
“Oh, God, I’ve been avoiding that for years.”
“You’ll love it, believe me. And that’s enough for three or four days. I’ll do some research. What are you doing for dinner tonight? Not Elaine’s, I hope.”
“Why not Elaine’s? He might see a movie star, or something. Anyway, Dino is bringing Ben, who’s just home from school for Christmas.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about what to do with him. After all, Arrington will be here, too, and she, at least, is accustomed to acting as a parent.”
“Don’t say ‘parent,’ ” he said. “Hearing it gives me the willies. I’ll be his host.”
“You’ll survive,” she said, then hung up.
Stone finished his sandwich, frequently checking his watch. Arrington’s Gulfstream III was due into Teterboro at noon, or so, and he had hired a driver and sent his car to meet them. So, he reckoned, they should be here about ... the upstairs doorbell rang . . . now. He took a deep breath, got into his jacket, and ran up the stairs to the front hall. One more deep breath, a big smile slapped on his face, and he opened the door.
A handsome young man stood there, wearing a tweed jacket and a necktie and holding a briefcase, the driver behind him with two more cases. What the hell?
“Uncle Stone?” the young man said.
“Peter? I wouldn’t have recognized you! Come in! Is your mother still in the car?”
Peter stepped in and shucked off his overcoat. “No, sir,” he said.
“Just put the cases on the elevator,” Stone said to the driver. “Then put the car in the garage, and you’re done.” He pressed a fifty into the man’s hand and closed the door.
“Now,” he said to Peter. “What did you just say?”
Peter handed him a sealed envelope, the back of which was emblazoned with the words “Calder Hall.”
“Come in, come in,” Stone said to the boy. “Have a seat while I read this.” He took a chair himself and tore open the envelope.
Stone, I’m sorry to tell you this at the last minute, but I had a bad day yesterday, and my doctor has put me into the hospital, where they’re running some tests. I hope this is not a recurrence of the cancer, but I’ll know soon. In the meantime, take good care of our boy, and remember, don’t tell him anything. I’ll be in touch.
Fondly,
Arrington
“I think mostly she’s just tired, Uncle Stone,” Peter said. “She said she’d call tomorrow.”
Stone stuffed the envelope back into his pocket. “Well, I guess it’s just you and me, then, Peter. And by the way, just call me Stone, okay? I’m not your uncle anyway.”
Peter managed a smile. “All right, Stone.”
“How old are you now?”
“Fifteen,” Peter said.
“My God, I somehow thought you were twelve.” He handed the boy the photograph of him.
“I was twelve when this was taken,” he said.
“When did you turn fifteen?”
“Nearly a year ago. I’ll be sixteen next month.”
“Sixteen!” My God, he thought. Has it been that long?
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t call me sir, either. Let’s just be friends. How tall are you?”
“Five feet eleven and a half inches, si—Stone.”
“That’s tall for fifteen—er, sixteen—isn’t it?”
“I think so. The doctor told me I’ll be well over six feet.”
“I expect you will. And your voice has already changed; you’re a baritone.”
“It happens, I guess. I sounded pretty funny for a while there.”
“I expect you did. Did your mother tell you I have a friend who’s a policeman, Dino Bacchetti?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Dino has a son who’s . . . about your age, and we’re having dinner with them tonight.”
“At Elaine’s?”
“Your mother told you about Elaine’s?”
“She told me a lot about it. She said it was her favorite place in New York.”
“Is this your first visit to New York?”
“Yes, it is. My folks always left me at home when they came here.”
“I think you’re going to like it,” Stone said. “Come on, let’s go find your room.”
They got onto the elevator, rode up two floors, and entered the smallest guest room, adjacent to Stone’s master suite. He hadn’t wanted the boy to feel lost in one of the bigger rooms.
“Have you had lunch?”
“Yes, they fed me on the airplane,” he replied.
“What do you think of your mother’s new Gulfstream?”
“Wow!” Peter said.
“Exactly. Now, I have to go to a meeting with the new head of Centurion Studios in a few minutes. Why don’t you get unpacked and watch some TV?”
“You’re seeing Mr. Goldman? Stone, I’d like very much to meet him. May I come with you? I’m a film student.”
Stone was taken aback, but what the hell? Goldman couldn’t object to meeting the son of Vance Calder, his studio’s greatest star. “Of course, Peter. I’ll be glad to have you come along. Go ahead and get settled, then come down to my office, on the bottom floor. We’re due at Centurion’s New York office in forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll be down in fifteen,” Peter said, unsnapping a suitcase and starting to hang up jackets and suits.
Stone went back to his office, shaking his head. What a shock! The kid was nearly a man in both appearance and manner!
4
Stone and Peter arrived at Centurion’s Fifth Avenue offices on time. Peter was carrying a slim leather envelope-style briefcase, and Stone wondered what was in it. They were asked to wait for a moment while Leo Goldman finished a conference call to the coast.
“You’re a film student?” Stone asked Peter. “In high school?”
“We have only one film class at school, so perhaps I should have said, ‘student of film.’ ”
“I see. What part of film most interests you?”
“I want to direct,” Peter replied.
Of course, Stone thought. Everybody wants to direct. “Good,” he said.
“Mr. Goldman will see you now,” the secretary said, just as Mike Freeman walked in.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, shaking hands with Stone.
“We had a short wait anyway,” Stone replied. “Mike, this is Peter, Arrington’s son.”
“Of course,” Mike said, shaking the boy’s hand. “I heard a lot about you from your mother on a flight across the country in her new airplane.”
“Yes, she told me you helped her find and buy it,” Peter said.
They walked into a large square room, which was decorated with abstract paintings. Leo Goldman, Jr., rose from his chair and pumped everybody’s hand. He was short, stocky, and balding, and he waved an unlit cigar when he talked.
“And this is my friend Peter,” Stone said. For some reason, he didn’t mention Peter’s last name. He wasn’t sure why.
“Good to see you, Stone
, Mike. And Peter, I’m very glad to know you.”
Peter nodded and managed a shy smile.
“Peter is a student of film,” Stone said, “and he wanted to meet you.”
“Yes, Mr. Goldman,” Peter said, “I’m an admirer of your work as a producer, particularly Chain Letter.”
Goldman looked surprised. “Well, Peter, you have an eye for quality, but perhaps not for commercial success. That one was my worst turkey.”
“Oh, I liked Blast, too,” Peter said. “And I liked your father’s work when he was running Centurion.”
Goldman roared. “That’s more like it. Let’s sit.” He waved them to a round conference table in a corner, and after a few pleasantries, Goldman launched into a description of his first year at the helm, covering grosses and expenses along the way. He talked nonstop for forty minutes, also covering his production plans for the coming year and a number of TV pilots that were currently in production. “Any questions?” he asked when he was done.
“Not from me,” Stone said. “I think you’ve covered everything I could have asked.”
“That goes for me, too,” Mike Freeman replied.
“May I ask a question?” Peter said, half raising his hand.
The three men stared at him.
“Of course, Peter,” Goldman said.
“I noticed that three of the new productions that you’ve mentioned are budgeted at between seventy and eighty million dollars, whereas in the past Centurion has always kept its budgets in the fifty-million-dollar range. Why the increase?”
Goldman blinked. “You’ve been reading the annual reports, haven’t you?”
“I read everything about Centurion,” Peter said. “It interests me.”
“Well, there are three things that have increased these budgets: creeping rises in general costs, which are inevitable; increased salaries for the stars of those films, who are all hot young actors; and the fact that all three of those pictures are action-based and shot on location, instead of just ordinary in-studio productions.”
“Do you think the grosses will justify the increases in budgets?” Peter asked.
“I think the grosses will more than justify the increases,” Goldman said, “and if I’m wrong, I’ll be answering to Stone, Mike, and the other directors this time next year.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
“Anything else, gentlemen? Peter?”
All three shook their heads. “We’ll let you get back to work, Leo,” Stone said, rising.
As they took their leave, pausing at the office door to shake hands, Peter spoke up again. “Mr. Goldman, I hope this isn’t an imposition, but I wonder if I could ask your opinion about something I’m working on.”
“Sure, Peter. What are you working on?”
Peter opened his leather envelope and handed Goldman a bound sheaf of papers and a DVD. “I’m making a film at school, and this is the script and a recording of the seventy minutes I’ve already shot. I’d appreciate it very much if you could find time to take a look at it and let me know what you think. I could use some expert advice.”
Goldman received the script and the disc. “Where can I get in touch with you?”
“At Stone’s, for the next two weeks,” Peter replied.
“I’ll be in touch,” Goldman said.
The three left the building, and Peter did some window-shopping while Stone and Mike talked.
“How old is that kid?” Mike asked.
“Fifteen, going on sixteen.”
“Going on forty,” Mike said. “He certainly knows how to take advantage of an opportunity, and he has charm, too. Have you looked at his script or the recording?”
Stone shook his head. “I knew nothing about it. He asked if he could come to our meeting, said he was a student of film, but no more than that.”
Mike shook his head and laughed. “He’s got enough chutzpah for the film business.”
“He certainly does,” Stone said. “And I’m still getting over the fact that he’s not the twelve-year-old I was expecting.”
“He took in every word of Leo’s briefing, too, and asked good questions that neither you nor I thought of.”
“Embarrassing, wasn’t it?” They both laughed, then said good-bye and departed in opposite directions.
Stone and Peter strolled down Fifth Avenue together through the throngs of shoppers. They passed the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza.
“That’s nice,” Peter said. “I’ve seen it on TV.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I hope I didn’t speak out of turn at the meeting,” Peter said.
“Not at all, Peter. Mike and I were impressed with your understanding of what Leo was saying. We both completely missed the budget increases, which I’m sure is what Leo intended.”
Peter laughed aloud. “I’ll bet he did, too.”
“What grade are you in now?”
“Well,” Peter said, “that’s kind of problematical.”
“Oh? You aren’t about to get booted out, are you?”
“Oh, no!” Peter said, looking shocked.
“Only joking,” Stone said.
Peter looked relieved. “It’s just that I’ve been on sort of a special program of courses,” he said. “And it looks like I’ll be graduating in June.”
Stone blinked. “At fifteen?”
“I’ll be sixteen. I know it’s unusual, but the school said they thought the accelerated program was the best way to keep me interested.”
“Were they right?”
“Oh, yes; it’s been great!”
Stone wondered how he was going to keep this kid interested for two weeks.
When they arrived back at the house Stone took Peter in through the office entrance and introduced him to Joan.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Peter,” she said. “Funny, I was expecting someone younger.” She shot a glance at Stone, who rolled his eyes.
“Stone, your client Herbert Fisher is waiting to see you,” she said.
Stone sighed. “Come on, Peter,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to a New York character.” He led the way to his office.
5
Stone introduced Peter to Herbie Fisher. “Peter, I have some business to discuss with Herbie. Why don’t you go upstairs and get unpacked? We’ll leave for dinner at eight-fifteen.”
“All right,” Peter said, and ran up the stairs.
Stone turned and looked at Herbie. “What’s going on, Herbie?” he asked. “You look kind of soggy.”
“That’s because I went for a swim in New York Harbor.”
“In December?”
“It wasn’t exactly my choice.”
Stone went into the little bathroom off his office, got a towel, returned and handed it to Herbie. “Have a seat and tell me about it.”
Herbie took off his sodden overcoat, draped it over a chair, and sat down, running the towel over his hair. “Well, I went on a singles lunchtime cruise,” he said.
“They do cruises in December?”
“Singles don’t care if it’s cold; it’s warm inside the yacht.”
“Yacht?”
“These are expensive cruises. They use a seventy-foot yacht, and they serve a good lunch and wine. It’s two hundred fifty a head.”
“Sounds profitable. Any likely women?”
“Yes, a number.”
“So why did you decide to get off before the yacht reached the dock?”
“There was an altercation,” Herbie said.
“What started it?”
“There were these two guys, dressed well, but kind of beefy. They had knives.”
“For this they charge two-fifty a head?” Stone asked.
“I don’t know what they were doing there. Well, no, that’s wrong; I have a very good idea what they were doing there.”
“Which was?”
“Stephanie.”
Stephanie was Herbie’s sort of ex-wife. She and her brother had, according to news reports, stolen ne
arly a billion dollars from their father’s asset management firm and skipped to a Pacific island nation with no extradition treaty.
“She sent me some divorce papers a couple of times, but I just threw them away,” Herbie said.
“Never a good idea to throw away legal documents,” Stone pointed out. “Then what?”
“I was standing near the rear of the yacht’s saloon, talking to a girl, and these two guys appeared and said they needed to talk to me. They shoved me out on the afterdeck, and one of them said, ‘You should have signed the papers.’ Then both of them produced switchblades.”
“And how did you handle that?” Stone asked, fascinated now.
“I thought about it for about a nanosecond,” Herbie said, “and then I decided that there was no way to handle it that didn’t involve a lot of spilled blood, and it was my blood in question, so I ran for the rail. I jumped on a rear cockpit seat running, then just took a long leap.”
“And where was the yacht at this time?”
“Out near the Statue of Liberty,” Herbie replied.
“I suppose the two guys didn’t follow you into the water?”
“No, it was really, really cold. I made for Lady Liberty.”
“Wearing an overcoat?”
“I thought it would get even colder if I took it off. I swam like hell, and I was beginning to get pretty tired when my feet touched bottom. I waded the rest of the way. There was a dock with a ladder, so I climbed up that. I found a men’s room and turned on the heated hand-dryer thing, you know?”
“Yes, I’ve met many of them.”
“I dried my clothes a little and got warm, then I went back outside and mingled with the tourists, who were boarding the ferry for the return trip. Nobody asked me for a ticket.”
“I guess they’re unaccustomed to selling tickets to patrons who arrived at the statue under their own steam.”
