by Stuart Woods
“It was you who brought up arithmetic.”
“You are an exhausting man.”
“Then why aren’t you exhausted?”
“Okay, I surrender.”
“I was going to wait until after dinner to ask you to surrender, but if you’re impatient . . .”
She turned to Dino. “Is he always like this?”
“No, he’s usually much worse, but wait until he’s had another drink.”
“Waiter, another drink,” Stone said, and the man came running. “Never mind the drink, just some menus, please.”
“What’s good here?” Gloria asked.
“What interests you?” Stone asked.
“The beef.”
“That’s good. Want to share a Chateaubriand?”
“Why not?”
“I can’t think of a reason.”
They ordered.
8
Dino offered them a ride uptown in his official SUV.
“Does it have a siren?” Gloria asked.
“You bet your sweet ass,” Dino replied.
“Thank you. May we turn it on?”
“Nope, we might get arrested.”
“I should have thought we were immune to that,” she said.
“The only time I’ve turned it on for a civilian was when Stone and I were at dinner and he got a phone call telling him that he had to be in Rome for a board meeting the following morning, and he had fifty minutes to get the last plane at JFK.”
“It worked, too,” Stone said. “I made the plane and the meeting.”
“Now I’m hurt,” Gloria said. “You’d turn it on for Stone, but not for me?”
“Do you have a plane to catch?”
“Usually, but not now.”
“Not good enough.”
“Dino, you are as exasperating as your friend Stone.”
“I hope I’m more exasperating than that.”
Stone tapped her on the shoulder. “We’re almost at my house. Would you like to surrender?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Then come in for a drink, and we’ll discuss it.”
“Okay.”
The car stopped in front of Stone’s house; they thanked Dino and got out.
Stone let them in and took her to the elevator.
“Where are we going?” Gloria asked.
Stone pressed the button. “Up.”
“Are there any other choices?”
“Down, but there are no lights on down there.” The elevator stopped, and Stone led her toward the master suite.
“Now where are we going?” she asked.
“Down the garden path,” he replied, showing her in.
He stopped, faced her, and kissed her lightly.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“Take a big step forward,” he replied.
She did so, bringing her pelvis against his.
“Does that answer your question?”
“I suppose it does,” she said, kissing him and pressing herself against his crotch. “Emphatically.”
“Would you like me to undress you, or would you rather self-strip?”
“I think I’d like you to do it.”
Stone obliged, and she stepped out of her panties. “Now what?”
“Now you can undress me,” Stone said. “That’ll give you time to think about what comes next.”
She had a little trouble with the three buttons on his cuffs, but she managed. “Now what?”
“That will require a demonstration,” he said, leading her to the bed and kissing her again.
“Demonstrate away,” she replied.
He did so.
—
They lay on their backs, panting. “I didn’t quite get it,” Gloria said. “I’ll give you a couple of minutes, then I will require another demonstration.”
“I admire optimism in a woman,” he said.
“Maybe you could use a little help?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
She put her face in his lap for a minute or so, then looked up. “My optimism was not misplaced,” she said.
Stone demonstrated again, this time with variations, and they managed to reach the end of the demonstration simultaneously.
“Now I get it,” Gloria said, throwing a leg over him and nestling against him. “It’s a lot like fucking, isn’t it?”
“When you’re right, you’re right,” Stone replied.
—
Stone stirred at his usual time, and he woke her with his tongue.
Ten minutes later, they were both fully awake.
“What’s for breakfast?” she asked.
“You name it.”
“Well, I’ve had the first and second courses, could I have a plain omelet, please?”
Stone rang downstairs and placed their order.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly seven.”
“I’ve got a noon deadline for my interview with you.”
“Do you have any further questions?” he asked.
“I think you answered them last night, unless I dreamed all those orgasms.”
“If you did, then we had the same dream.”
“I didn’t know that was possible.”
“It is, if you work at it.”
“I like your work,” she said.
—
Breakfast came, and Stone pressed the button that raised the head of the bed. “So,” he said, “my turn for a question.”
“Fire away.”
“What is your relationship to this guy at Fishkill?”
“We were on our way to a pretty good relationship when he got arrested.”
“What was the charge?”
“He was a little vague about that. He said he had sold an apartment for a friend, and it turned out that the friend didn’t own it.”
“That would attract the attention of the law,” Stone observed.
“It did, and as it turned out, it wasn’t the first time.”
“How did he and his friend get past the closing attorney for the buyer? They wouldn’t have had the proper paperwork, would they?”
“As it turned out, the friend had some expertise at closing a sale, until he got disbarred, anyway. He was also pretty good at filling out blank documents and printing others on his computer, and he was also very good at converting cashier’s checks to cash in record time.”
“How many apartments did they sell?”
“A dozen or so, I believe, mostly between half a million and a million each.” She sipped her juice. “This is delicious orange juice.”
“It’s freshly squoze, like your convict’s clients,” Stone said.
“I feel freshly squoze myself,” she replied.
“Would you like to be squozed again?”
“I would, but not on this occasion. I have to go write up your interview and get it to my editor in time for approval.” She gave him a kiss and ran for the shower.
9
Stone was curious. Once at his desk he went to NYT.com and typed in “selling real estate you don’t own,” and got a long story with pictures. The two culprits on trial were Spike Luton, the brains behind the operation, and Danny Blaine, a would-be fashion designer who did the selling. The story was spelled out pretty much as Gloria had told it but included an account of the childhood friendship between the two defendants, including their time done in a juvenile facility for stealing cars and small-time scams.
Danny had actually attended the Fashion Institute of Technology, if only for a couple of semesters, and there had picked up enough credentials to lie about it to prospective employers and unfortunate clients. Although the more willowy of the two, he had exhibited a bent for violence in
his teens, carrying a switchblade as a matter of routine. The photograph of him showed a sly, clean-shaven face that reminded Stone of a fox. His original name had been Borgman, before he’d had it legally changed.
He Googled Blaine and came up with a few mentions in gossip columns and photographs at fashion industry parties, one with Gloria Parsons.
He Googled Gloria and found pieces by her for various magazines, the sort of things he would have expected, nothing unusual. The question was, how did she get mixed up with a sleazebag like Blaine? He wasn’t sure he wanted to ask her. It had been quite a night, and he found himself already wanting a repeat.
Joan buzzed him. “Dino on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Good morning.”
“How was your night?” Dino asked.
“You shared most of it.”
“Not your evening, dummy, your night.”
“Oh, that. Not exactly disappointing.”
Dino laughed. “I thought not. I liked her, she was funny.”
“Me, too.”
“So you’ll see more of her?”
“That would be difficult, but I’m sure we’ll enjoy each other’s company again.”
“I looked up that friend of hers at Fishkill.”
“You mean Danny Blaine?”
“You did a little research yourself. What did you think?”
“I thought it was weird that she even knew him.”
“You didn’t dig deep enough—they were in high school together, and she was briefly implicated in some sort of scam Danny pulled off with his buddy Spike. They were at FIT together, too.”
“You’re right, I didn’t dig deep enough.”
Joan buzzed again. “Gloria on two.”
“I’ll call you back,” Stone said to Dino, then pressed two. “Good morning.”
“It certainly is,” Gloria said. “I wish I were still there.”
“Soon enough.”
“I’ve finished my story on you. I’ll send you an early copy in a day or two.”
“I hope you treated me kindly.”
“How could I not, after the way you treated me?”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“‘Enjoy’ isn’t a strong enough word.”
“Same here.”
“I’ve gotta run, my editor is screaming for me.”
“Then run.”
She hung up, and Stone called Dino back.
“Let me guess,” Dino said, “she was thanking you for the ride last night.”
“More or less.”
“Did you ask her about Danny?”
“I think I’ll wait and let her bring it up. She’s pretty talkative.”
“Let me know if you need any more research on Danny Blaine.”
“I’ll do that.” They said goodbye and hung up.
Joan buzzed again. “The secretary of state on line one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Well, good morning,” he said, with warmth.
The response was businesslike. “Will you accept a call from Secretary Barker?”
“Of course,” Stone said.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Madam Secretary, haven’t I seen you on a TV show?”
“Not yet, but stick around.”
“How’s the state of the world today?”
“Have you got a couple of weeks? I’ll brief you.”
“As bad as that?”
“Nearly as bad. I’ve had half a dozen texts from people who saw our photo op in the Debater yesterday, mostly those who were at our party.”
“And what was the response?”
“Uniformly favorable. Maybe being in the papers wasn’t a bad idea—it saves a lot of explaining about who you are.”
“When I got home yesterday I had a stack of calls waiting from the media.”
“And how did you handle that?”
“Somebody advised me to pick one and tell the rest I’d given them an exclusive.”
“Who did you pick?”
“Just Folks, a name which I interpreted as being an ironic take on People.”
“You could have done worse. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing they couldn’t have learned by Googling you.”
“All the way back to Orchid Beach?”
“Briefly. Look at it this way—it will be good publicity for your upcoming autobiographical work.”
“Oh, we’re starting that far ahead, are we?”
“Remember what P. T. Barnum said, ‘. . . as long as they spell your name right.’”
“I suppose so, and I suppose I’ll get used to it. CIA would have frowned upon it, in the old days.”
“Those days are gone forever.”
“Well, I have to stop a war somewhere. Let’s talk now and then, huh?”
“As often as you like. You call me—you’re busier than I am.”
“You can say that again. Bye.” She hung up.
Joan buzzed again. “You’re still getting a lot of calls from media types, which I haven’t put through. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them to go away, I’m not talking.”
“You talked to Just Folks.”
“That was so I could tell the others I had given the magazine an exclusive. Try that and see if it works.”
“You betcha.”
10
Stone had a sandwich for lunch at his desk and was still picking his teeth when Joan buzzed. “There’s a Mr. Alphonse Teppi to see you on a legal matter. You don’t know him.”
In the second before he spoke Stone recalled that some interesting turns in his life had arisen from seeing unknown walk-ins, and anyway, he was bored. “Send him in.”
Alphonse Teppi was tall and slim, dressed in a beautifully cut Italian suit and an outrageous necktie. “Al Teppi,” he said, offering his hand.
Stone shook it. “Have a seat, Mr. Teppi.”
Teppi did. “Since we don’t know each other, I’d better introduce myself.”
“Go right ahead.”
“I have a number of clients who call on my services to help select advisors for them.”
“What sort of advisors?”
“Agents, publicists, tax accountants, and, sometimes, attorneys.”
“Are you an attorney, Mr. Teppi?”
“Sadly, no, though I would have made a good one.”
In Stone’s experience people had an assortment of strange ideas when it came to judging the qualities of an attorney. “Why do you think that, Mr. Teppi?”
“A reasonable question,” Teppi replied. “Because all too often, in dealing with attorneys, it is my own ideas rather than theirs that turn out to be the better way to resolve situations.”
“Do you take that view with, say, surgeons?”
“Negativo,” Teppi replied, with a small smile.
Stone wondered if that was an Italian word, or if Teppi had just made it up. “Well, let’s start with your telling me the problem, and then I’ll render an opinion on whether you should consult an attorney or just save the fees and handle it yourself.”
“Very well. I have a client who is, for reasons not entirely of his own doing, in an institution upstate.”
“Medical? Mental?”
“Penal.”
“Ah. And you wish me to get him a new trial?”
“Oh, nothing as long and drawn out as that, I hope. I just want you to get him out.”
“Well, if you want fast action, there are, generally speaking, two ways to go—a pardon or a jailbreak. I expect this is where you begin to offer suggestions, is it not?”
“Normally, yes, but I confess I have come up short in that regard. I suppose I was thinking in terms of, ah, influence.”
&
nbsp; “Influence of whom?”
“Oh, judges, politicians—like that.”
“Well, with judges it’s considered de rigueur in the legal game to bribe them before the verdict comes in, not later. As for politicians, their role in these things is usually to bribe a judge before the fact, or a governor, afterward.”
“I’m not explaining myself very clearly, am I, Mr. Barrington?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Teppi, not only have you been clear but admirably economical and direct in your choice of words. Attorneys appreciate that sort of thing when hearing from prospective clients. It saves so much time.”
“Let me rephrase. I had hoped that you might know someone, who knows someone, who knows an official who might be in a position, as a favor, to end my client’s confinement or, if not, then to ease the terms under which he is confined.”
“Well, as regards ending his confinement, I believe I’ve already covered the two most commonly employed methods. But if you want your client to have a job in the prison library, a single-occupancy cell, and a bodyguard in the yard, then I think you should think inside the box rather than out.”
“Inside the box?”
“The box being the one your client is in.”
“Oh. You mean someone who works in the prison?”
“Those are the people inside the box and in charge of the distribution of comforts your client wishes to acquire.”
Teppi appeared to be giving this idea considerable thought. “Perhaps, Mr. Barrington, you might describe for me, hypothetically, of course, how this might be achieved.”
“Well, hypothetically, of course, one might travel to the municipality in which the box is located and look for a tavern nearby that is frequented by employees of the institution, then spend a few nights drinking there and buying rounds for the other patrons, until a likely candidate emerges from the fog of unfamiliarity, then seek his advice, taking care, of course, to avoid any speech that might be interpreted as suborning a public official, which could lead to one joining one’s client inside the box.”
“Is that really all you can suggest, Mr. Barrington?”
“Or,” Stone said, “your client could adapt himself to his environment, allow the staff to find him earnest and cooperative, and let good behavior work its magic on the length of his sentence. Otherwise, I would advise him to avoid fights and bending over in the shower, unless he wishes to invite the attentions that that sort of behavior elicits.”
