Stuart Woods: Son of Stone

“When are they going to release the film?” Peter asked.

“That’s still to be determined by the studio, but don’t expect it to be the Christmas movie at Radio City Music Hall.”

“Why did they pay so much?” Peter asked. “I was hoping for maybe half a million.”

“Three reasons: first, because they like it and they know it would have cost them twice that to produce it themselves; second, because they think they will make a lot of money on it; and third, because you have a very good agent.”

Peter and Hattie were hugging.

Tim Rutledge stood outside the house in Turtle Bay and watched the two large men hustle Peter Barrington and a young girl into the downstairs law office. A couple of minutes later, the men put the car into the garage, then left, walking toward Third Avenue. Rutledge took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled in a rush. Now was the time; it wouldn’t get any better. He would be in Mexico tomorrow.

He unbuttoned his coat to access the shotgun, which hung by a strap from his right shoulder. The weapon was loaded and racked; all he had to do was release the safety and fire, after he had had a few words with Mr. Barrington. He wouldn’t kill Barrington, just his son. Then the man could live the rest of his life with his grief. He started across the street toward the downstairs door of the house.

Inside, the doorbell chimed, and Joan reached for the button that released the door. She was expecting Herbie Fisher, who had requested a meeting with Stone. She pressed the button.

She heard the door open, and a man she had never seen walked in, pulled back his coat, and pointed a shotgun at her. “Be quiet,” he said. He walked to her desk, unplugged her telephone, and took it with him. “If you leave this office, I’ll kill you, too,” he said, then he disappeared down the hall toward Stone’s office. Now Joan knew exactly who he was, and there wasn’t time to dig out her cell phone and call the police.

Stone looked up and saw a man coming down the hall, carrying a shotgun in a firing position. He stood up as he recognized Tim Rutledge-bearded, but himself, nevertheless.

Peter and Hattie jumped to their feet, too.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” Rutledge said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge,” Stone replied. “How much time would you like to do?”

Rutledge looked confused. “What?”

“One to five for assault, five to twenty for manslaughter, or life without parole for first-degree murder?” Stone was playing for time; he didn’t know what else to do. “Also, New York State has the death penalty.”

Rutledge took a moment to sort that out, and Stone saw Joan come out of her office and begin to creep silently down the hall.

“I’m going to kill your son,” Rutledge said.

“And why would you want to do that?” Stone asked, edging toward Peter.

Hattie reflexively stepped between Peter and the shotgun.

“Get out of the way, young lady,” Rutledge said, “or I’ll kill you, too.”

“No, you won’t,” Joan said from the hallway, and before Rutledge could turn and look at her there was the roar of a gunshot, and he lurched forward and fell on Stone’s desk, splashing blood and gore over the desktop.

Stone reached over the desk and plucked the shotgun from his hands, then unhooked the strap and racked it until it was empty.

Joan walked into the room, still pointing her. 45 semiautomatic ahead of her, ready to fire again, but Rutledge slid slowly to the floor, taking Stone’s business papers with him.

“What the hell is going on here?” a man’s voice said.

Stone looked up to see Herbie Fisher standing in the doorway. Allison was standing next to him.

Stone stepped over Rutledge’s body and took the. 45 from Joan. “Sweetheart,” he said, “would you call Dino and ask him to send some people and an ambulance over here? And would you tell him to order them not to clog up the whole block with their vehicles? It would upset the neighbors.” He took a couple of deep breaths and worked on getting his heart rate down.

Joan picked up her phone from the floor, where Rutledge had set it, and walked quickly back to her office.

Peter spoke up. “I guess we won’t need the security guys tomorrow,” he said.

Stone sat in his office with Herbie and Joan. The police and the body had departed, and the special cleaning crew had done its work with the bloodstains. Peter and Hattie were upstairs in his room. Stone pressed a large scotch on Joan, then poured one for Herbie and a bourbon for himself.

“You look okay,” Stone said to Joan.

“Strangely enough, I am okay,” she said. “I’m glad I didn’t have too long to think about whether I should do it.”

“You saved all our lives,” Stone said, “and in appreciation, I’m going to make a very large contribution to your pension fund. I’m counting on you never to retire, though, because then I’d have to shoot myself.”

Herbie laughed aloud and took another sip of his scotch. “Maybe this isn’t the best time,” Herbie said, “but I came here to apply for a job as an associate.”

Stone smiled. “I think you must have passed the bar.”

“Top of the list,” Herbie said. “I didn’t tell you, but my law degree was with honors.”

“That’s better than mine,” Stone said. “As for the job, we’re jam up full here, what with Allison helping, but I’ll recommend you to Bill Eggers at Woodman amp; Weld, without reservation. Anyway, you need to work in a bigger firm, not just in my office.”

Herbie beamed. “Thank you, Stone.”

“Joan, take a letter to Eggers as soon as Herbie leaves. I don’t want to embarrass him with praise.”

“You mind if I ask who the guy was that Joan offed?” Herbie asked.

Joan choked on her scotch a little.

Stone explained.

“Well, I’m glad he’s off the streets,” Herbie said.

“So am I,” Stone said.

When Herbie had left, Stone dictated a fulsome letter of recommendation to Bill Eggers, then signed it. “Messenger it over, and write Herbie a check for the unused portion of his retainer. What is it, half a million?”

“Give or take,” Joan said. “I take it you’ve changed your mind about your inheritance.”

“I have,” Stone said, “and being out of debt to Herbie is a good cause.”

Two weeks later, Stone took Peter up Park Avenue to Janklow amp; Nesbit and introduced him to Mort Janklow and his principal associate, Anne Sibbald. Kind words were spoken about Peter’s film, and he blushed. Then Leo Goldman arrived with Peter’s contract. A little signing ceremony took place, and Leo handed a check for $20,000,000 to Mort.

Mort will deduct his commission, then wire transfer the remainder of your funds to your bank account,” Stone said to his son. “And as soon as you get home, you have to write a check for five million nine hundred and fifty thousand to the Internal Revenue Service.”

“Ouch!” Peter said.

“Get used to it, Peter,” Mort said. “You’re going to be writing a lot of checks to the IRS.”

“And, Peter,” Leo said, “I have a surprise for you: your film has been accepted for the Sundance Film Festival.”

Somebody found a bottle of champagne, and Peter’s success was toasted.

On the way home Peter said, “What do you want me to do with the money?”

“I think you should open a brokerage account with the Chase Private Bank and let them recommend how to invest it, then buy yourself a nice gift.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Peter said.

“I’m not going to have anything to do with the money you earn,” Stone said. “I want to see what you do with it.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Peter said.