Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“I shall look forward to it. Goodbye, Stone.”

“Goodbye, Eduardo.”

Stone hung up and watched as Joan wheeled in a little folding cart, holding three legal boxes. “What’s that?”

“Mrs. Coulter has sent these over.”

“I hope she doesn’t expect me to read them before her arrival.”

“No, I don’t think so. And I hear someone at the front door.”

“That would be Mike Freeman and his merry men.”

He shook Mike’s hand and excused himself for a moment. He went to the wine cellar, unlocked it, and rolled out the first suitcase, then returned for the second. “There you are, Mike. Mr. Crockwell is expecting your men. Have them tell him the load is ten percent lighter than when he last saw it.”

When the men had gone, Stone poured Mike some coffee and gave him the white envelope. “I was asked to see that this reached the appropriate hands as soon as possible. Those would be yours, then his.”

Mike opened the envelope and looked at the pardon. “How on earth did you do this?”

“I asked, God help me, and it was delivered in secret and sealed from the eyes of all. You may tell the gentleman that his name and any record have been expunged from all law enforcement and intelligence files, at his benefactor’s order. He is, today, a new man. Tell him to wear it well and that I am grateful to him for my son’s life and mine.”

“I’ll do that,” Mike said. “I’m flying to L.A. this afternoon, and I’ll deliver it personally.” He drank the last of his coffee. “Joan tells me you have an eleven o’clock, so I’ll run. Dinner?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Done.” Mike left.

Joan buzzed him. “Mr. and Mrs. Coulter are here.”

“Please send them in.”

She came in first, and Stone saw an attractive, stylish woman in her late forties, then he saw her husband, who was very tall, slim, and wore a mustache and thick, salt-and-pepper hair, and a very good suit. He didn’t know the man, and when he spoke that didn’t help either. But why was he familiar?

“Mr. Barrington, I am Jack Coulter, and this is my wife, Hillary, until last week, Hillary Foote.”

“How do you do, Mr. Barrington,” she said.

They arranged themselves in the chairs provided, and Stone took one, too. “Please tell me how I may help you,” he said.

Coulter spoke up. “We dined last evening with Eduardo Bianci, who, I understand, is your old friend, as well as Hillary’s. Hillary feels the need for new representation.”

“Yes, Eduardo called this morning, and I have just received the records of your old representation.” Stone nodded at the legal boxes.

“That is everything I have in the way of records, Mr. Barrington,” Hillary said, “and they go back some years before my late husband’s death. I hope you will find the time to go through them, and afterward, that we may meet again to discuss my needs.”

“Of course, Mrs. Coulter.”

“Hillary, please.”

“Hillary, I and Woodman & Weld will be very happy to represent you and your husband. If you will write a letter to the head of your old firm, announcing your having obtained new representation, and asking him to turn over his firm’s records of your account to me, that would be very helpful. When I have received everything, I and my associates will go through everything, then send you a letter outlining our firm’s services and fees, and if you will be so kind, sign a copy and return it to me. When we have done that, I will phone you and arrange another meeting.”

“You are very brisk, Mr. Barrington, and I appreciate that. By the way, I knew your late wife, Arrington. We were quite good friends, to the extent that people who live on different coasts can be good friends.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know you when she was still alive,” Stone said. “One evening soon, perhaps you and Jack will come to dinner and we can get to know each other better.”

Hillary stood, and Stone and Jack stood with her.

As he walked them to the door he took Jack’s elbow. “Jack, have we met before?”

“Yes, but only briefly,” Jack replied. “When I next see you I’ll tell you more.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Stone waved them out.

Joan came into his office. “Do you know who that is?”

“Which one?”

“The woman. She’s Hillary Foote! Very wealthy, very high-society.”

“I guess I don’t read those magazines,” Stone said. “Tell me, was her husband familiar to you?”

“No, not at all.”

“He said we’d met briefly, but I can’t place him.” Stone pointed to the legal boxes. “Bring the first one over to my desk, and let’s start going through them and separating the wheat from the chaff.”

She did so, and Stone began to learn about Hillary Foote Coulter. Later, he would make a point of learning about her husband.

• • •

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