Stuart Woods - Kisser

“I don’t know about that,” Stone said, watching her go.

The phone rang, and Mitzi picked it up. “Send him up,” she said, then hung up. “It’s Sharpe. He’s half an hour early.”

“Rita,” Stone said, “get that money into the safe and make sure that Mitzi knows how to open it-then get to your room.” The two women ran out of the kitchen.

Emma came back wearing a more prosaic maid’s uniform.

“Emma,” Stone said, “as soon as Rita is back in her room, let Sharpe in, show him to the study, and get back here. You, Tom, and I will be drinking coffee together, should he decide to have a look around.”

“Got it,” Emma said.

“Okay!” Rita yelled from down the hall just as the doorbell rang.

“You’re on,” Stone said to Emma, and she started down the hall.

MITZI SAT DOWN at the desk in the study and began writing a letter to her father on Rita’s creamy stationery. She heard Emma go to the front door, and a moment later there was a knock on the study door. “Come in,” Mitzi said.

Emma opened the door and stepped inside. “Miss Reynolds, Mr. Sharpe is here.” She let him in, backed out, and closed the door.

Sharpe stood by the door holding a large briefcase and looking nervous. “You didn’t tell me the maid would be here.”

“She’s here every day,” Mitzi said.

“Who else is in the apartment?”

“Just the maid and Stone. He’s down the hall in the kitchen having breakfast.”

“I don’t think you understand how sensitive this transaction is,” Sharpe said.

“I don’t think you understand that nobody in the kitchen cares what you and I are doing in here,” Mitzi said. She stood, slid back a shelf of fake book spines, and started opening the safe. “I’m glad you’re early,” she said. “I’ve got things to do this morning. Did you bring the drugs?”

“Do you have the money?”

Mitzi opened the safe, removed a brown envelope, and took out several bundles of bills. “There you are,” she said. “Count it, and let’s get this done.” She left the safe open and kept the desk between them.

Sharpe set his briefcase on the desk, picked up some bills, and began counting them. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he said, “but my supplier would take offense if I didn’t show up with the correct amount.”

“I understand,” Mitzi said, sitting down again.

Sharpe continued to count. “So you and Stone are an item, huh?”

“You’ve seen us together before. I like him a lot.”

“Didn’t he used to be a cop?”

“He retired years ago, I believe; now he’s a lawyer.”

“So he’s not going to come in here and bust me?”

Mitzi laughed. “No, he is not.”

Sharpe finished counting the money. He opened his briefcase and put the bills inside, then closed it.

“And where are the goods?” Mitzi asked.

“You’ll get them as soon as I deliver the money,” Sharpe said.

“Our deal was cash on delivery,” Mitzi said. “You’ve got the cash, now deliver.”

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

“I won’t be here in an hour,” Mitzi said. “The deal’s off; leave the money on the desk and go.”

“Now you listen to me…” Sharpe began.

The phone rang, and Mitzi picked it up. “Hello?”

“Everything all right?” Stone asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Send him up, please.” She hung up. “My driver is on the way up,” she said to Sharpe. “And you’re not leaving here with my money.”

Sharpe opened the briefcase again and extracted two packages wrapped in opaque plastic and sealed with tape. “I was only joking,” he said. “Here are your goods. I’ll be going.”

“Just a minute,” Mitzi said, picking up the large pair of brass scissors on the desk. She began working on the tape of the larger package.

“I thought you were in a hurry,” Sharpe said nervously.

“I am, but I just want to see this stuff.” She got the package open and smelled it. “That smells like marijuana,” she said.

“The finest stuff, I promise you,” Sharpe said.

Mitzi began working on the other package.

There was a knock on the door. “Ms. Reynolds?”

Sharpe looked like a trapped rabbit.

“Tom, please wait in the kitchen,” Mitzi called back. “I’ll be ready in a minute.” She continued to work on the smaller package and finally got it open. “You’re supposed to taste this, aren’t you?”

“Lick your finger, dip it in, and taste.”

Mitzi did so. “What’s it supposed to taste like?”

“Exactly what it tastes like.”

“Is it pure?”

“Of course not. It would take your head off if it were pure. It’s been cut; all cocaine is cut. Don’t worry, your friends will love it.”

“Okay, if you say so,” Mitzi said. She put the two packages in the safe, closed it, and turned the handle. “Thank you very much, Derek,” she said. “I believe that concludes our business.”

“I believe it does,” Sharpe said, still looking as though he might be arrested.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

“Sure, let me know if you want more.”

“I’ll see what my friends think,” she said. “Come, I’ll show you out.” She walked him through the living room and to the front door. “See you soon,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Sharpe seemed too nervous to kiss her back or grope her. “Bye-bye,” he said.

Mitzi closed the door behind him, leaned on it, and heaved a big sigh. Then she walked down the hall to the kitchen, where Tom, Emma, and Stone were waiting.

“He was as nervous as a cat,” she said, “and he tried to hold out on me, but we got it done.”

“He won’t be so nervous next time,” Stone said.

DEREK SHARP STARTED sweating in the elevator, and when he hit the lobby he had to will himself not to run. His car was waiting where he had left it, guarded by the doorman to whom he had given a hundred-dollar bill.

He looked up and down Park Avenue for something that could be an unmarked police car. Across the avenue a garbage truck was loading the trash from another building, and one of the sanitation workers seemed to look at him for a long time. The man wiped his face with his sleeve and seemed to pause for a moment with his wrist to his lips. Was he speaking into a microphone?

Sharpe’s hands were shaking, and he had trouble getting the key into the ignition, but he finally got the Mercedes started. He pulled into traffic, and, looking more into the rearview mirror than ahead, he made it down Park a couple of blocks to where the light was just turning red. He floored the car and, tires squealing, made a hard left turn before the uptown traffic could block his progress. Anybody following him would have to wait for the light to change to make that turn.

He drove across town to Second Avenue and turned downtown just as the light changed, still watching his rearview mirror. It seemed safe, but that was what they wanted him to think, wasn’t it? Now he would have a ten-block head start, chasing green lights, which were set to a thirty-mile-an-hour speed. He was feeling very pleased with himself until he finally had to stop for a light, and a blue Crown Victoria with two men dressed in business suits in the front seat pulled up beside him. It was an unmarked police car, no doubt about it.

Sharpe contemplated making a left and running, but he was frozen with fear. Then the light changed, and the blue car pulled away from him and continued down Second Avenue. He was startled by a horn from behind him and got the car moving again. He cut across three lanes of traffic and made a right. When he got to Lexington Avenue, he turned downtown again. The cops in that car had probably not been looking for him, he thought, then he started looking down Lex for the car, wondering if they were going to drive across town and cut in front of him.