Стюарт Вудс - Contraband

“Does he sleep in the next bed?”

“No, he sleeps at another address.”

“Is the address one of your rental apartments?”

“No.”

“Then we’re making progress here. It would be very helpful if he sleeps in another city — even more so, in another country.”

“He has his own apartment in New York.”

“That qualifies, under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“Does he have a key to your apartment?”

“Well, yes. That’s part of the problem.”

“I should think so. He might decide to visit you at an inopportune moment.”

“That’s where you come in,” she said.

“No, that’s where he comes in. That’s why I’m not going to be there when he does.”

“You misunderstand. The advice I seek from you is... How do I get rid of him?”

“When did you buy the townhouse, in relation to your wedding date?”

“Long before.”

“Do you have any other substantial property that is marital in nature? That is, that you acquired together after you were married?”

“A few wedding gifts,” she said. “China, silverware, like that.”

“Do you have a joint bank account or brokerage account?”

“No.”

“Is he richer than you?”

“Sometimes. It depends on how he’s doing at the track.”

“How’s he doing right now?”

“Probably pretty well, since he isn’t asking me for money.”

“Okay, here’s what you do: you go home, pack up anything he might want to claim as his, then call a moving company and have everything sent to a storage unit. Then you call a locksmith and have every lock in your apartment changed, then send him the key for the storage locker, along with a letter informing him that you are divorcing him, that he is unwelcome at your home or workshop, and that you will neither give nor loan him any further funds. Then, on the same day, you file for divorce and have him served. Oh, and you change your will, if you have one, specifically excluding him.”

“And you think that’s the end of the problem?”

“Not necessarily, but it’s the beginning of the end. Is he a violent person?”

“Sometimes.”

“Has he behaved violently toward you in the past?”

“Yes.”

“Then, simultaneously with filing for divorce, you get a temporary restraining order, known briefly as a TRO, requiring him not to approach you within the distance of a city block. Then if he does so, I’ll see that he goes to jail.”

“What if he takes exception to these actions and kills me?”

“Then you won’t need a divorce.”

Robbie rolled her eyes. “That’s very helpful.”

“I, however, will do everything in my power to see that, if he kills you, he never draws a free breath again, so you’ll have your revenge.”

“Yes, but a little late.”

“You have a point. If you’re worried about physical violence, I can arrange to have a couple of people spend a lot of time with you. They can dissuade him from violating the TRO.”

“Are we talking thugs?”

“We are talking licensed security agents, employed by the second-largest security company in the world.”

“So, they’re legal thugs?”

“Certainly not. Tell me, does your soon-to-be ex-husband ever carry firearms or sharp instruments, legally or illegally?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Then that might require a degree of thuggishness, depending on the threat at hand.”

“If I follow your advice and do all these things, will I have to wait until I’m divorced before you consider me not to be adultery bait?”

“What a quaint way to put it! The answer is, if you initiate those steps, that instantly frees you from that condition.”

“All right, I’ll take your advice,” she said. “Does that mean I can take you home with me after lunch and have my way with you?”

“Only when the steps I have outlined are completed. I think I can have your way cleared by this time tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said, “get started, and I’ll try to contain myself until then.”

“Oh, good,” he replied, and they clinked cups.

Max cleared out her mailbox in front of her new home and took an armful of envelopes inside, depositing them on the desk in Aunt Maxine’s study. Going through them, she realized that every piece of the mail, save one, was a plea for funds from either charities, politicians, con artists, pet shelters, or those with sorrowful stories to tell. It was as if she had won the lottery and was forced to appear on TV to accept a six-foot-long check with her name and address on it in large letters. Who says people don’t read the obits? she asked herself.

The final envelope, postmarked Opa Locka, contained a handwritten note with the engine and fuselage serial numbers of a Cessna 206 aircraft. There were no sentiments expressed, and it was unsigned. She started making phone calls.

In the middle of all this, Tommy Scully rapped on the screen door, yelled her name, let himself into the house, and found her in the study.

“Fan mail?” he asked, indicating the pile of paper on the desk.

“In a manner of speaking,” Max replied. “They all want money.”

“It’s the human condition,” Tommy said sadly. “Everybody wants money — and not just money, but somebody else’s money.”

Max found an envelope in the desk drawer and handed it to Tommy. “There you are,” she said, “a lifetime lease for your new house with no rent — that’s yours and your wife’s lifetimes, not mine. You get to pay the taxes.”

“I thank you,” Tommy said, stuffing the envelope into an inside pocket. “My wife thanks you and my current neighbors, who will be glad to see us go, thank you.”

“All of you are welcome.” She handed him the aircraft information. “This arrived from Opa Locka, no signature.”

“I guess ol’ Burt really does crave your body,” Tommy said.

A dozen phone calls later, Max hung up. “The aircraft’s owner is South Florida Import & Export, a Delaware corporation. The address of record is the name of an attorney at a P.O. box in Wilmington, Delaware.”

“Well, that takes care of that. I can tell you from experience that no phone calls will be returned and no mail forwarded or replied to.

“The only thing left to do is to persuade our captain to post a twenty-four-hour guard on the hangar until somebody shows up, but I don’t think he will be able to find it in his budget to do that, unless sex is involved.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Max said. “Why don’t you offer to fuck him?”

“I’m not his type,” Tommy said, “but you sure are.”

“It appears I’m everybody’s type,” Max said. “All I can think to do is to wait for Al Dix to surface.”

“Funny, that’s all I can think to do, too,” Tommy said. “Why don’t I just call the office and see if there are reports of any stolen bicycles?”

“Why don’t we just go to lunch,” Max said.

Another lunch, more than a thousand miles away, was just concluding. After a few mimosas over their steaks, Stone said, “Robbie, I believe I have misjudged your intentions about taking the needed steps to permanently separate yourself from your husband. I believe you are sincere and will take those steps immediately after we remove your name from the adultery-bait list.”

“And how do we do that?”

“We go to my house, instead of yours.”

“Never mind dessert,” she said, picking up her handbag.

“You are dessert,” he replied.

The shadows were growing long in Stone’s bedroom when Robbie gently shook him awake.

“Give me a few minutes,” Stone muttered, yawning.

“You can go back to sleep, sweetie,” she said. “I just want to know where my underwear is.”