by Stuart Woods
“Business now or later?” Stone asked.
“Oh, let’s finish lunch first, Stone,” Dolce said, “then we can hear what you have to say.”
“As you wish. How’s the painting going, Dolce?”
“Surprisingly well,” she replied. “I’m working faster than I usually do.”
They finished the soup, and Pietro reset the table, this time with large steak knives. Stone didn’t like the look of them.
Next he brought plates containing slabs of prime rib, a heavier lunch than Stone thought he could handle, but he tried. The knives were razor sharp, and they sliced through the thick meat as though it were warm butter. Pietro brought a decanter and poured a stout red that couldn’t be seen through. Everyone busied himself with eating; no one spoke until Mary Ann put down her knife. “I can’t eat any more,” she said.
Stone put down his knife, too, even though half his beef remained. “That was delicious,” he said.
“I’ll have Pietro wrap it up, so you can take it home,” Dolce said. “I notice your driver is still in the car. Can we give him some lunch in the kitchen?”
“He brought a sandwich,” Stone lied. “There’s a radio program he likes to listen to at this time of day.”
“What program?”
“One of those British game shows on Public Radio. Fred’s a Brit.”
“Oh, yes, he is, isn’t he?”
Pietro took their plates, then came back and asked if anyone would like dessert. “It’s zuppa inglese,” he said.
Stone shook his head. “Just coffee, please.”
Mary Ann asked for the same.
When coffee had come, Dolce put down her cup and said, “Now to business. What do you have for us, Stone?”
Stone set his briefcase on the table, opened it, and took out the new codicil that Eduardo had left. He left the case unlatched. “I have some news,” he said, “and I hope you won’t think it unpleasant. Mary Ann, Dolce, you have a sister.”
“What?” Mary Ann spat, sitting up straight.
“I know who you mean,” Dolce said. “It’s that little girl who used to come to lunch with her mother. What was her name?” She thought for a moment. “Carla!”
“That is correct,” Stone said, amazed that she had figured it out so quickly.
“What are you two talking about?” Mary Ann demanded.
“Many years ago, after your mother died, Eduardo had an affair for some years with a woman named Anna de Carlo Fontana. Together, they made a child, Carla.”
“You’re out of your mind!” Mary Ann said.
“No, he isn’t,” Dolce said. “I think I figured it out at the time, but I didn’t say anything. I kept waiting for Papa to say something, but he never did.”
Stone was surprised; for some reason, he had expected Dolce to refuse to accept the news, but it was Mary Ann who was resisting it. He held up the paper in his hand. “This is written in Eduardo’s own hand and properly witnessed.” He read it aloud to them. “So you see, Carla will have the same inheritance as you two and Ben.”
“You mean we have to give part of our inheritance to this girl?” Mary Ann asked, horrified.
“No, Eduardo’s will explicitly said that all bequests would be made after taxes were paid, and that the residue would go to the foundation. This just means that the foundation will get a smaller residue, but it will still have more than sufficient funds to operate as Eduardo wished.”
“Well, then,” Dolce said, “all is well, isn’t it?”
“Do we have to meet her?” Mary Ann asked.
“Only if you wish to.”
“Is she some penniless waif who will now be rich?”
“No, she is the New York Times’s bureau chief in Washington—a very substantial person.”
“I think it’s funny,” Dolce said.
Then there was a loud crash from the kitchen, and men were shouting.
Dolce reflexively picked up her steak knife, stood, and faced the door.
“Dolce, it’s all right,” Stone said.
“Shut up!” Dolce commanded, holding the knife in a defensive manner.
Oh, shit, Stone thought, it’s now or never.
Stone reached into his briefcase, opened the small plastic box, and removed the syringe. He uncapped it, squirted out a little of the liquid to get rid of the air bubbles, and moved quickly toward Dolce, who still stood, facing the kitchen door, the knife out in front of her.
Stone reached around her shoulders and held her still. “Relax, Dolce, just relax.” He stabbed the syringe into her upper thigh and emptied it into her. At the same moment, he felt a searing pain in his upper left arm. Dolce pulled away from him; Stone looked and found his left arm gushing blood down his sleeve and onto the floor. She had cut right through his suit.
“Holy mother of God!” Mary Ann shouted.
Dolce looked dazed and swayed on her feet.
Mary Ann ran to Stone, grabbed his necktie, and in one motion, tore it off him. She wrapped it twice around his upper arm and pulled it tight. “Hold this in place,” she said. “She’s cut a major artery. If you don’t keep the tourniquet tight, you’ll bleed out in no time.”
Stone kept the necktie tight. Dolce started for him with the knife, but she was unsteady on her feet. Then she stopped, her eyes wide, and fell forward like a tree onto her face.
“What was that?” Mary Ann asked.
“Thorazine,” Stone replied. “The gift of a friend.” He sat down heavily on a chair, dizzy.
Then Pietro burst into the room, a knife in his hand, and ran toward the hallway doors at a dead run, with two SWAT officers in hot pursuit. Stone heard the front door slam and looked out the windows toward the front lawn. Pietro disappeared into the heavy rainstorm, running like a deer, with the cops hard on his heels.
Mary Ann ran into the kitchen. “Dino!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.
An officer came to her. “The commissioner isn’t here. What is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Barrington needs an ambulance right away—he’s had an artery severed.”
“We have a medical team on the way,” the man said, and he spoke into a handheld radio. “They’ll be here in one minute.”
“Tell them they’re going to need two gurneys,” Mary Ann said.
Stone was impressed with the way she had taken charge, saving his life into the bargain. “How’d you know about the artery?” he asked.
“I was a Girl Scout—we took a first-aid course.”
Four people in hospital scrubs burst into the room, one of them pushing a gurney.
“Treat him first,” Mary Ann said, pointing at Stone. “He’s got a severed artery in his arm.”
Two of them went to work on Stone, cutting off his sleeve and tending to the wound. “We’ve got to get him to a hospital,” one of them said. “He’ll need surgery to repair the artery.” He turned back to Stone. “Do you know your blood type?”
“O positive,” Stone said. The two men helped Stone onto a gurney.
Two more people appeared with another gurney and lifted Dolce, now semiconscious, onto it. They made a little procession toward the front door. When they opened it the rain was still pouring. They grabbed Stone’s two umbrellas from the stand and sheltered the two gurneys as they got them both into a large ambulance. Mary Ann and an EMT got in with them, and the doors were closed.
“Let’s get this guy to the hospital first,” the man shouted at his driver.
“No!” Stone said. “Get to Floyd Bennett first. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t feel fine, but he wanted Dolce on her way.
“I guess it’s okay,” the nurse said. “It’s on the way to the hospital, and he’s stable.” In minutes they were at Floyd Bennett Naval Air Station, a former base in Brooklyn that was little used these days. The Strategic Se
rvices G-650 waited on the tarmac with one engine running.
“How long is the flight?” Mary Ann asked.
“Nine or ten hours—it’s a good forty-five hundred miles. The mother superior will meet you with an ambulance and her own medical team, and these guys will be with you all the way.
“Once there, you’ll have a few words with the mother superior, so that she will have an official request from a family member of Dolce’s, then you’ll take off for Rome, where the aircraft will pick up some passengers for the trip back. That way, you only have to pay for the leg to Palermo.”
“Thank God for that,” she said.
The doors to the ambulance opened, and they made to remove Dolce and her gurney. But Dolce was hanging on to Stone’s remaining coat sleeve.
“You!” she managed to say. “You!”
“Somebody had to do it, Dolce,” Stone said. “You are a danger to yourself and others.”
“You!” she said again, then the gurney was out of the ambulance. Mary Ann ran alongside it toward the big jet. The rain had let up considerably, and there was no more thunder.
Stone sat up, braced on his good elbow, and watched through the open ambulance doors as the EMTs loaded Dolce’s gurney onto the airplane. They already had her strapped down and an IV running as she disappeared into the aircraft. The door was closed, and the second engine began to spool up with a loud whine. In a moment the airplane was taxiing.
“Now you can get me to a hospital,” Stone said, then he fainted.
He was out until the following morning, and sun was streaming through the windows of his room as his eyelids fluttered. A nurse sat by his bed, and Carla sat on the other side.
“Just take it easy,” the nurse said. “You’ve been sedated. The doctor will be here in a moment.”
“Dino called me,” Carla said, looking at her watch. “I’ve got to be at a meeting in my publisher’s office in forty-five minutes. There are rumors that the executive editor is retiring, and I expect it’s about that.”
“You’re going to get it,” Stone said.
“There’s stiff competition from Ed Rodgers, the editorial page editor.”
“Nevertheless. You’re going to get a Pulitzer and the job. You’d better get going, you don’t want to be late for this one.”
“I’ll call you later,” she said. She kissed him and fled.
A young man in scrubs and a white coat strode into the room. “Good morning. I see you’re awake,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Dr. Lefkowitz, your surgeon.”
“How old are you?” Stone said.
Lefkowitz laughed. “I get that a lot. Older than you think. You were in surgery for a couple of hours. We repaired the artery and you took three units of blood. We kept you sedated through the night to keep you from moving around. You’ve had a tetanus shot and an IV antibiotic, too.”
“When am I getting out of here?” Stone asked.
“We’ll keep you another night, just to be sure there’s no further bleeding or infection. You should be out of here this time tomorrow. Move your arm as little as possible. I’ll check on you again later today.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
“I need my phone,” Stone said to the nurse. “It should be in my jacket pocket.”
“You’re going to need a new jacket,” she said, going to the closet and finding the phone. “And a new shirt, too. And some pants. Everything was soaked with blood.” She handed him the phone, and he pressed a speed dial button.
“Woodman & Weld,” Joan said. “Stone Barrington’s office.”
“It’s me,” Stone said.
“Thank God. Fred told me they took you away in an ambulance, but he didn’t know where, and I couldn’t get ahold of Dino.”
“In a hospital somewhere in darkest Brooklyn. I had an accident, but I’m fine. I’ll be home tomorrow morning.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m just a little fuzzy around the edges,” he said. “It’s the drugs. I’m going to need a change of clothes—suit, shirt, tie, shoes, socks, and underwear.” He handed the phone to the nurse. “Tell her where I am.”
Dino burst into the room. “You’re awake!” he said. “I was here last night when you came out of surgery, but they said you’d be out for a while.”
“More than awake, I’m alive,” Stone said.
“Mary Ann called. They made it to Palermo okay.”
“And Pietro?”
“Suicide by cop. Did us all a favor.”
“Is Dolce safely in the convent?”
“Yes, the transfer went well.”
“Do you think they can hang on to her for a while?” Stone asked.
“For the rest of her life, I hope.”
“We can hope,” Stone said.
Stone was home before lunch the following day. They got him into bed, and Joan fussed around. He insisted on dictating letters to Carla and her mother and signed the checks.
“That’s it,” Joan said.
“FedEx those,” he said.
“Carla called a couple of times. They wouldn’t put her through at the hospital.” The phone rang, and Joan got it. “It’s Carla.”
Stone took the phone in his good hand. “Hi, there,” he said, more cheerfully than he felt.
“They wouldn’t let me talk to you at the hospital.”
“I just got home.”
“Are you all right?”
“Fine. They’ve told me to stay in bed for a week, then I have to start physical therapy.”
“Take that seriously—it’s important.”
“That’s what my doctor said.”
“I didn’t get the job,” she said. “Rodgers did.”
“I’m sorry. It’s because you’re only a mere slip of a girl.”
“That must be it,” she said, managing a laugh.
“We’ll talk more about this later,” he said, “but I have to get some rest now.”
“Of course you do. Don’t worry about me.”
“Carla, your life is about to change in a big way,” he said. “You’ll be glad you didn’t get the job.”
“What are you talking about.”
“For one thing, you won’t have me on your hands. I’ve decided I can see only one woman in our nation’s capital.”
“Rats,” she said. “And at a time like this.”
“This time tomorrow, you won’t know I’m alive,” he said. “Really. Now goodbye.” He hung up.
He woke up in time for dinner, which was broth. Dino and Viv came and spent an hour with him, then he had to go to sleep again.
“You’re spending Thanksgiving with us,” Dino said. “In a wheelchair, if necessary.”
He had forgotten the upcoming holiday. “I won’t need a wheelchair,” he said.
On Thanksgiving, he needed the wheelchair, and his arm was in a sling, bound firmly to his body, so he couldn’t move it.
“You’re spending Christmas with us, too,” Viv said.
A nurse came every day and changed his bandages. When they took him off the painkillers, it hurt. His physical therapist was a plump, middle-aged woman in her fifties, who was without mercy. She forced him to move his arm, exercise it, lift little weights.
He was more himself at Christmas. They exchanged gifts and ate a lot. The sling was a thing of the past.
“So, what does the New Year hold for you?” Dino asked.
“Flight school for the new airplane,” Stone replied.
“I forgot. When is the delivery?”
“When I finish flight school.”
“Where?”
“Wichita.”
Dino sucked his teeth. “Doesn’t sound like much fun, especially in the dead of winter.”
“What place is fun in the dead of winter?”
/> “Key West.”
“You’re right.”
The next day, Ann called from Washington. “I’m sorry I haven’t called much,” she said.
“It’s okay, I’ve been busy. I’ll see you for New Year’s, though.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Kate’s working you on New Year’s Eve?”
“It’s not that, Stone. I’ve been seeing somebody.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Exactly. I can’t do the inaugural with you, either.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Andy Cardiff. He’s going to be our congressional liaison.”
“Working for you?”
“Reporting directly to Kate. We couldn’t see each other otherwise.”
“I wish you every happiness.”
“Same here for you. You’re all better, aren’t you?”
“All better.”
“Bye-bye, then.”
“Save me a dance at the Inaugural Ball.”
“Sure.” She hung up.
“Damn!” he said aloud. “And I burned my other bridge!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
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